Cracked Open

Our heels crack from weary walkabout. 

Minds crack and shatter wanting to fold. 

Hearts crack without tears. 

Skin cracks and peels from lack of moisture. 

Heads crack against buttresses impenetrable. 

Our bones crack from heavy packs. 

Finally, our very souls crack open 

wetting cracked lips.

 It's the only way to find our voice. 

Take courage my friend. Being cracked open lets your story out. It is still being written. 

Gently Used

Quilts are pieced together with with forethought and love. The more they are used, the softer and more puckered they become. 

I'm sure if they had a say in it, they would choose to be cuddled until the colors blended and wore through. Tight hand stitching keeps it together even when the fabric gives way.

I love scrapbag antique quilts best. Re-purposed fabric from clothes. It seems like they whisper a better traveler's story. 

Someone said, 'we should be completely used up, poured out and worn to a nubbins when we die'. Or something like that. 

I concur. :)  

Finding Rest

This is an old, water damaged lithograph from the turn of the century. It hung with a companion piece in my grandma's house since forever ago. I keep it in our bedroom. If you'll notice, the STALLION has all his anatomy present and is using all that testosterone well. Noble beast. 

Tacked unceremoniously underneath is a simple quote from John Eldredge's Wild at Heart ~ 

There under the shadow of a man's strength, a woman finds rest. 

It reminds both of us what our best roles are. 

Craig's is to initiate and use his strength on my behalf. Mine is to simply respond. 

And when a woman is relaxed, rested, protected, fought for....you never know what else he might initiate that she'll want to respond to.  

All Tangled Up

Love is nice to hold on to.

 Clasp it tightly, without a choke hold. 

It can look messy. Tangled. Meshed. Interwoven. Impossible. 

It's a good way to climb. Nice support for each other. 

It makes a seriously tangled mess.

Beautiful love knots tied to an irrevocable trust. 

Succulent

Tulips are lovely. Delicate creatures. 

This one danced too long, finally succumbing to the wind. 

It blew her down. Apart. Fallen comrade. Bruised.

 Fragile. Short lived. 

She is busy making bulbs down below ground. 

She will bloom again, with her offspring; but it will take a year. 

These are succulents. 

This plant family is rugged. 

If a leaf is plucked off, an entire plant grows from it. 

It doesn't need much water.

 Roots will form without being buried properly.

 In fact it likes the cut places to dry out. Scabs are good. 

They are prolific and need split up regularly. 

Given away. Shared. 

They will live happily in harsh

places, cold winters, bad soil, rocky reaches. 

They squirm into unlikely nooks and crannies. 

Hot sun, rain, shade ~ it's all good. 

They don't need cosseted. 

Succulents stay juicy with life, storing their own moisture. 

They don't need prime living conditions, they adapt anywhere.  

They are an independent, forgiving plant. 

I like tulips, but would rather be succulent. 

Worn Out

Bluest ever sky. Whitest ever cloud. Perhaps a heart shaped one, framing us. Noticed. 

When the seat drops out, decorate it. Whimsey. 

Grandma died a couple of years ago at 106.

 Still wanting to dance. We found this in her things. 

She had saved them, unused. 

Saved for a special day that must have never happened?

 I want to use and enjoy my pretties. 

Wear them completely out. 

Spring Scrabble

Seeing

Simply ask to see?
I did.
I do.
 I will keep asking this one thing.
Help me see.
Grass has little fuzzy hairs along its edges.
 I never knew this until today.
Today, again, I saw.
Thank you, my Love.

My heart also saw beauty in something plain.