Monday, August 26, 2013

So long, farewell.

Telling the stories of life is a good thing.  It's the cake & ice cream of sensory thought.  It's a commitment to the collective. It's comprehensive to the timeline of you. It's the not forgetting with fervor for the collected memory of now.  Stories are worth it.  Pictures captured, too. For 5 1/2 years, I have authored my life and the life of my family.  This space has been a place where a whole lotta happy has folded in with a sprinkling of what the heck just happened on any given day. In between the www of this address, my tears and my smiles have made more of me.  

Thank you to all of you who have had this blog bookmarked over the years.  Writing is for me, moreover, for the memoir of my family.  But, my stories exist for you, too.  It is my hope that my journey of words has made you laugh, encouraged you and perhaps, even made you feel like you weren't the only one two-steppin' with a little cray-cray in this life we've all been given to rock out.  

2013 has been my year to {connect}.  I have worked this year on connections quite differently than my 2012 Year of Rhythm.  I am pushing myself in new ways. Priorities are continually assessed as well as my motives for why I do just what I do. To do all of this internal grade-carding, I needed a break from story at least in the public sense.  My words needed space inside my quiet journals; they needed to harvest in my heart where they most belonged.  The hiatus from this space has been so productive.  I have gained so much insight on pace and family and faith, too. It was just what I needed to catapult me into a new space for my cake & ice cream.  Sure hope you have your spoons ready.  

Without further ado, I give you my new place! This newly designed blog is where you can find me from here on out.  It has bells. It has whistles. It has avenues in which I will travel to be more effective in organization.  It has great upgraded user-friendly ways for me to connect with you and for you to connect with me as well.  Simply put, this new blog is a scratch off my 2013 {connect} bucket list.  I do hope you will re-set your k.Mac bookmark to this new address.  If you aren't following my blog in any specific format, there are options to follow me on bloglovin' as well as subscribing to my blog to receive posts via email.  My cake is audaciously iced and I'm all kinds of excited for the fresh scoops of Neapolitan I have ready to share with you.  


.mac :)

Sunday, June 16, 2013

There's a story.

I've waited all day to give life to these words.  Physically, my fingers spent most of my early morning alone with the weight of this image in their possession. Before the rest of my house awoke from their slumber, I spent my minutes magically staring into the end result of Mom behind the lens.  There's not one corner of this photograph that my eyes have not poured over.  Invested in the outcome of then, I have taken such delight in this captured treasure.

Time and schedules have a way of moving.  Don't they though?  And, by mid-morning, my physical presence was procured away in proximity from this image focused onto film.  But, my mind held a steadfast clamp on this scene above.  Today I searched all about him.  Today I remembered and reminded myself of the he who he is.  I settled into my Dad and stayed right by him all day.

There's a story.  And, I want to tell it.  For this story is everything the man my Dad is to me.  This story sits inside this photograph rich and content as if it has no desire to leave this hallowed space & time.  But, telling it is where the beauty of my Dad begins.  

The setting was around Thanksgiving as I am wearing my Indian headdress freshly fashioned from Mrs. Carlton's 1980 Kindergarten class.  {a special thank you to Jason Lemming who secretly cut for me during craft time as I was left handed before the world of Crayola thought of inventing left handed scissors}  My brother and I are standing in chairs.  We always stood in chairs when Dad was in the kitchen cooking.  The brown bucket is the same bucket we used to wash our dogs, Pete and Muffin.  The fresh flowers in the vase were a normalcy in our home.  Dad made sure that Mom had fresh flowers in her kitchen.  They were never the custom ordered flower shop variety, but more the ones found in the local grocery store.  He would arrange them always just for her.  The kitchen.  It used to be  the carport.  My Dad's 2 hands alone transformed it into a more useful space for our family.  He worked tirelessly after long hours at work and school to make this dream a reality for us.  The curtains were sewn by Mom.  They were the same curtains that hung in the Volkswagon bus that brought me home from a Colorado hospital 5 years prior.   His watch.  It hangs on the knob of the cabinet.  Free from pumpkin guts and water spills and cleverly placed for viewing sake; my Dad is adeptly skilled in resourceful maneuvers of the simplest things. 

My brother is to my left.  He's the one manning the wooden spoon with the big metal pot {insert loud banging here}.  I have no doubt music surrounds us in addition to the ad hoc orchestra-of-one to my left.  Possibly Jim Croce or Gordon Lightfoot.  Dan Folgeberg or John Prine.  

Then there's him.  A picture of absolute happiness.  You can feel it before you see it when your eyes take gaze.  He knows it too.  Suited in his white t-shirt and worn Levi jeans sans one pocket, peace & joy radiate from his face.  Pumpkin gutting and with us.  His face sends out signals as if to say everything in the world I need is right here.  In this kitchen.  

This image is so much a part of his DNA to me.  It is work and joy and love and doing and together.  It is cleverness and romance, resourcefulness and simplicity too.  It is laughter and living.  He embodies all that this reflection of light can withstand to hold.  The story of this image has seeped out of this hallowed one dimensional space and run rampant through me all day.  

Today I searched him. Even though physically we were not together on this 24 hour vigil set aside for Fathers, I settled into my Dad and stayed right beside him all day. He is light.  He is hope.  He is stronger than he realizes in the story of me.  

Thank you for your kindness and for making my socks feel just right on my little girl feet.  Thank you for my "apple or orange?" in the morning and for falling asleep on the floor by my bed reading me Cinderella. Thank you for telling me I would die if I ate the center of a donut and for showing me the power of a smile.  

Today I settled into you and stayed right beside you all day.

I love you, 

Wednesday, May 29, 2013


{image captured from our backyard right after a severe thunderstorm}

 In search of the epic, I have failed. The cliche and continual pursuit of the "like" button bereaves me. I am finding the more I pursue my word of the year, the more I find myself obscure.  Perplexed for a spell, I have felt a sadness for the pep rally of empty bleachers and unused megaphones.  I have lamented over the basketfuls of unspoken for party favors and the unclaimed cupcakes of me still freshly made and waiting.

But, then real & good decided to set in. They brought all that was needed to make this yearly commitment to myself worthy.  They offered me the gift freedom. Unaccounted for in all ways that matter not; present in all ways that matter most.  I shied away from the words on screen and dealt with the words of my heart.  I simply unplugged and underachieved in the world of accountability to the stranger who reads.

I've still kept my journals and posts.  I just found myself at peace with but one set of eyes looking them over.  Privacy has been a fit I have most enjoyed wearing.  For climbing inside myself has been beautiful & perplex. My thoughts-turned-words have deemed themselves precious.  My mind took the notion to wind around who I am and why I do.  My time at rest was really what it should be.  The rat race of me is slowly under construction.  And, it feels good.

As I creep slowly back into this space, I do so with hesitation.  Part fear & part fret of giving justice to just what my words mean to me exists within.  Their worth along with the images they are entrusted to hold a validity in my heart.  Their place in this world is not mandatory; their place in my life most definitely is.

So, see through me.
Obtain my image, but not my form.
For the details of each of us really are the real & the good.
My soul seeks it.

.mac :)

Thursday, May 2, 2013


Time weaves stories.  Stories with beginnings so boisterous you simply cannot wait for the middle to get here.  Time weaves people, too.  Intertwined like the threads of friendship bracelets made on the playground at recess.  Little fingers twirling colors as safety pins secure the start.  This precious and most beautiful soul you see here has been woven into the lives of so many. Woven by a Maker who loves her immensely.  I am honored to be counted a thread in the story of my sweet friend, Brooke.  
When I think of Brooke, I think of a strength peaceful & gentle.  My mind rests upon her smile.  She has the ability to listen with a heart fully intent on making yours stronger.  She has a kindness that so many people cannot even begin to muster.  When she loves you, she loves you forever.  
God crafted a woman rock solid in the foundation of Him.  Her storybook tells of a faithful soul in search of realness in people and in the hope of Him.  Her book covers chapters on love and on diligence.  On heartache and hiccups.  On giving and getting on, too.  And today, her life awaits the penmanship of a new chapter.  This chapter is entitled Stella Grace.  
My hands took great delight in writing the fabric prologue to Stella Grace's chapter.  Brooke chose crisp, bright colors for Stella Grace's nursery.  Colors that transcend vibrance and radiate a happy light.  I wanted this quilt to honor this sweet little girl's story of life.  The pursuit of her place in this world has had many twists and turns.  Not all the pieces seemed to fit at times.  The pursuit for her place in Brooke's arms never faltered through it all.  With that same sweet smile, Brooke rested in Him.  She held onto His hand of hope.  And, when that happens, pieces find a way of fitting together.  Even better, they create something spontaneously beautiful and magnificently profound.  In Him, through Him, Brooke and Russ await the birth of their Stella Grace.  
Through a friendship forged on some ferociously good times & unforgettable memories together, we have watched this miracle unfold.  Stella Grace is loved.  She is loved by an entire slew of sisters who have been in prayer and in praise of her makings.  She is loved by a Mama devoutly defined by the hope He provides.  She has a Daddy jonesin' to protect her from now until infinity.  And, she has a Creator who knows just how to weave.  Stories and people make beautiful things. He twirls all us together for a reason.  We cannot wait to meet you, Stella Grace Hardy.

.mac :)

I made cake.

Ineptness frequents me this time of year.  I find myself clinging to the intangible.  I struggle with the ordinary.  I whither within myself, too. Truth sneers into my heart leaving it ramshackled & rummaged to a state entirely out of proportion.  There are years I allow this incessant ineptness to completely break me.   Like a poor choice of a plastic spoon for ice cream thick & dense, I snap.  Popping off right at the base, I leave behind only the rigid white plastic shaft of myself as a reminder I was there.  Last year was one of those years.   Then there are years when the numbness includes me.  Gosh, I love the invite, too.  The numb years may be the best ones of the lot.  No huge shockwaves of memory.  No jigsaw puzzles valiantly assembled only to realize that out of 1,000 pieces, you only have 999.

This year I made cake.  I don't know why.  As best as I can see it, my hands are the vocal cords of my heart.  Gravitationally speaking, I had to.  My body pursued a movement busy & task oriented before my mind could offer up any stamp of approval. I operated with a quasi-level of consciousness.  I drifted in only to find myself so far outside the entire production.  Coconut oil replaced vegetable oil because its healthier for you we were out of vegetable oil. I semi-measured.  I didn't time its baking.  I just assembled with the intentions of completion, yet with little conviction of flavor or finished product.  To beat it all, I made coconut cake.  1 out of 4 members in our household like coconut cake.  

I made it the day before.  Anticipation of the dreaded 24 hour reminder always makes me antsy.  I'm never best at facing a train heading straight on.  Particularly, when I am reminded of how many of us stand on these railroad tracks.  This train will pass faster this year; you make cake.  At least my innards thought this to be a truth worth clinging to.  

The icing. I made homemade buttercream.  I felt the anguish welling wildly within me.  I knew all too well that real butter makes the best buttercream.  I used margarine.  The sugar crystalized pudding was a poignant reminder of my state. Runny.  Fragmented.  Grainy.  The color.  I couldn't remember her favorite.  I wanted to say it was green, but then I remember our home having a lot of blues.  Damnit, what was her favorite color?  I swelled ridiculously with mayhem; I had to leave the dripping concentration for reflection.  Moreover, to avoid the inevitable.  Tomorrow was the day.  And, I knew not her favorite color.  

One hour later, with my composure somewhat regained, I worked to create turquoise.  My over mixed human altered fat source margarine could now claim a color.  I sanctified my ineptness with smears of blue-green onto a cake half heartedly created.  Lumps pooled at its base; cracks of cake rejected its covering.  I am those cracks every year.  Every year.

A loss was before me.  The unwanted, unpopular coconut flavor found itself saturated with soups of the equal parts turquoise mixture.  I couldn't remember her favorite color.  Spontaneously charged with emotion, I bounded out to right this wrong. Grasping at whatever it took to visually create an outside unscathed by the damage already done internally, I would save this cake.  I tried to do this exact same thing 17 years ago.

With new bowlfuls of real butter infused frosting made, I moved to mask the disaster.  I smoothed and rounded the sides with purpose.  Placing the knife aptly so, my tears fell.  Alone in my kitchen, I grieved her.  I charged on with even more tenacity to cover and to conceal the cracks.  

I could do this.  
I could do this.  

I could not.
Tomorrow she would be gone 17 years.  Tomorrow I would grieve her all over again.  I would remember her smell.  I would feel through the hours each & every one.  I would wait for the rain, too.  Numbness did not send me an invitation this year.  Half heartedly this cake became.  Cracks, substitutions and corrections are my reminders.

1,000 999 pieces.
I made cake.


Saturday, April 13, 2013

4.4 = 8

He grows outside of me. Beyond my grasps and above my anticipations.  He is strong.  I can't decide whether it's more on the outside or within.  I like to think it's both.  His intensity continues to manifest in his passions.  And, with this, I smile wide where my cheeks tingle.  He is His.  Decided and appointed to the most glorious place on this day.  He will be home.  They tingle even more.  Eight years I have loved him; eight years he has made more of me.  His attentiveness to detail is precious to my soul.  His obedience and tender heart believe in the good.  He is a worker and a teacher.  He studies and seeks out knowledge.  He sets goals unafraid of the climb.  Loyalty and protection are his mainstays.  This young man will move the world for better.  He will right wrongs, and he will light fires.  A woman will be blessed one day by his devotion, moreover his unbelievable love.  I am his.  Eight years.  He grows outside of me.  

Happy new year of life, Eli Garrett.

Mama :)

{week 45: my 2 in 52}

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

{before the sun}

God speaks to me in colors. Subtle shades share their secrets; intense inks keenly reach into my soul.  I can feel their presence.  Moreover, I can hear the stories they tell. Rich with desires deep.  Pale lying in wait for the potential permeating glow.  Still in solemnity, pastels swirl with ones much like the other melding tranquility and finding center.  My insides are better because of their place in my world.

I woke up to 37 early.  Well before the sun and my alarm clock.  It was a resolute awakening from a slumber on the surface of me. No glitter pops or fancy heels were in my future.  No hoopty-hoops and holla-atchus either.  I woke with a clarity magnified by a sweet peace on my day of me.

His breathes were so sound and serene amid the wee hours.  I took the time to press in against him only to find warmth and my favorite spot for snuggling.  Right underneath his ear lobe and a little before his jaw line.  My nose knows the spot. Deep in a world of dreams, he was unbeknownst and  bothered none by my invasion of him.  I was careful to pull the covers close around his broad shoulders only to slide out from the bounds of the place I share with my husband.

Routine knows the way around a 37 year old.  They have an established history of friendship together you see.  It seems their camaraderie manifested oh about year 33.  Nighttime regimens like lip balm of the specific brand, wrinkle cream slathered, reading before bed, checking the weather and coffee pots programmed all fit right nicely with multi-vitamins, reading glasses, bi-weekly grocery trips, favorite fabric softeners and bill paying day. It was no surprise that I maneuvered with ease into my clothing and perfected my dental hygiene all in a bathroom of darkness.  Thirty-seven has a way of just knowing the proximity and placement of everything.

I sidled into a cold car and was off at an early pace.  On my agenda before full-on day break was a grocery store trip, a 4 gallon Weigel's milk stop along with a gasoline investment and a 3 mile run at that.  My morning was still and in motion.  My mind worked methodically and with a continuous melody too. 

And, behold, there were gifts. For me. Each one wrapped in kindness and given to me by strangers.  A lady dressed head-to-toe in a neon green public works uniform at Weigel's held the door for me as I left laden with 4 gallons of milk with just 2 hands for holding. A man lying flat on the floor still in full pursuit of hefty shelf stocking at Wal-Mart took the time to ask me if I needed any help once he spotted my quizzical look of wherethehellisthewheatgerm.  With a bright gladness, his tired eyes guided me to the next row over only reach to the back of the top shelf for me and place into my hands the desired product.  A multitude of goodmornings and howareyous.  Eye contact and smiles found me head on.  It's as if God was saying, "I love you, dear one.  Welcome into your 37th year on My calendar."  With each face I met, I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the simple goodness spread in a world capsizing all too quickly to hate and hurry.  

She was rushed.  I watched as her eyes met her watch at least 3 times in a matter of 2 minutes. In her son's hand was a carousel of bakery made cupcakes.  In hers, a box of Capri-Suns.  I knew today was just as much his as it was mine.  Beyond the wrinkled forehead and stress filled eyes, this Mama's heart knew that today he deserved to celebrate.  A mother's love will fight time and push around boundaries for their little one.  I knew the check-out line accumulated was not in her budget of minutes.  

It was as if I was outside of myself as I watched them from behind me.  Her foot tapping.  His happy transfixed gaze with pride filled eyes at each hexagon shaped sprinkle scattered atop the tiny cupcakes through the plastic container's view.  Her shift to and fro of the Capri-Sun cardboard box's weight. I operated on His time.  "Happy Birthday, man!"  I said.  His smile exploded from his face as if to say, "How did you know?"  Her smile was there briefly but faded quickly as she loitered on the noted boisterous basket of groceries I had in a procured state in front of them in line.  I reached out to pat him on the shoulder leaving my buggy ahead and abandoned for I, too, was in queue for the next active customer status.  

Today was his 8th birthday.  He loved Legos.  He couldn't wait as this was his last day of school before Spring Break.  They were watching a movie that afternoon in school and he was bringing cupcakes and Capri-Suns to celebrate his birthday with his classmates.  As his excitement filled my ear's space, I watched for an abbreviated moment as his Mama melted into his magical.  Her face forgot about time and for just a tiny bit, she remembered exactly why she was in this line.  For him.  Yes, for Him.

My heart catapulted out of my chest with joy for this little 8 year old boy and his Mama.  A Mama who was reminded of the good she has within, better yet, for the good she is giving out to the hands and feet she gave life to a mere 8 years ago on this day.  With a warm spacious energy, I found my hand on her shoulder congratulating her for the 8 year old masterpiece that belonged to her.  She thanked me kindly with a glow that only a mother can emit.  

With that, I moved ahead to my space in line and in my completely offhanded, energy driven "Meghan Fashion", I began to make the sound that trucks make when backing up.  


"In honor of one wonderful Mama and her birthday boy, I give you my space in line." I announced.  Relief filled in the wrinkled spaces of her forehead.  "Oh, thank you!  Are you sure?" immediately were the words expelled from her being.  I insisted.  The little boy never took his eyes of the hexagon shaped sprinkles.  The cashier actually had to use the scanner gun to ring them up as he asked to keep them in his hands.  

Off they went. 
Their day beginning before the sun.  

On my way home, I opted for the sunroof open.  It was crisp.  Quite the acute form of cold for the second official day of Spring.  I won't forget my hair whipping loosely in the wind that flapped downward into my interior console.  My sweatsuit felt warm and snuggly against my skin.  My fingers were tapping some off beat rhythm I had no recollection of. But, they tapped on just the same.  I could smell my moisturizer on my face as it wasn't even a full hour old from being applied.  Its smell wrapped over me.  It gave me a feeling of completeness I really can't explain.  
On a back road in our small rural sorta-new-to-us tiny town, I topped a hill, and He smiled at me. Tears streamlined down my soft cheeks of 37 as I opened yet another gift.  My car slowed to a stop.  I grabbed my phone and took the above picture as my heart had every right to open this one with each single paper tear.  

God speaks to me in colors. Subtle shades share their secrets; intense inks keenly reach into my soul.  I can feel their presence.  Moreover, I can hear the stories they tell. Rich with desires deep.  Pale lying in wait for the potential permeating glow.  Still in solemnity, pastels swirl with ones much like the other melding tranquility and finding center.  My insides are better because of their place in my world.

Yes, routine may know the way around a 37 year old.  But, it seems the older routine and I get, there is  another One we are beginning to know our way around.  The potential glow of the One who wakes before the sun is one I am proud to call friend.   Blessed are the ones able to give and to receive. Thank you, God, for my colors.  For Your stories, too. A new year of life I do declare.

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