Translucently.

{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 :)

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.

.mac 

{layered}

{Butterfnger Blondies}

Who gets philosophical with desserts?  

I'll give you 3 guesses.

I've been thinking about layers.  They're pivotal.  Without a doubt, the one-atop-the-other is a fixture in life.  From a physical perspective, humans are comprised of an intricate collection of body system layers that work together to maintain life.  Learning a task comes in a layered progression too.  From watching a skill modeled, to guided practice and then finally independent trials, new information grows and gives birth to dendrites.  Knowledge is now appropriately allocated & freshly present in our brains.  Designers dig layering too.  The world of art thrives with the influence and placement of layers in compositions.  Beauty speaks to us in three dimensions.  And, this building notion runs rampant inside the mixing bowl as well.  Wooden spoons twirl roundabout while flour dusted recipe cards detail the progression of the caloric goodness to come.

Layers matter. They heed depth. They challenge perspective.  They increase stature and validate base.  Layers infuse texture into the world of one dimension. As humans, we are shaped by texture.  Molded by what we take in; melded by what we give out. Each year of life adds yet another coating to the beginnings of us.  

I long to to build upon my base. I want each layer sweeter than the next of me.  Sweetened by the who I send out from the wholeness of my story.  With my actions. With my thoughts.  Through my smile and in my eyes too.  I want it all rich.  I crave it for myself just as much as for the ones I scatter out to.  I remind myself often that the underneath is just as necessary as the on top & now.  It's there for a reason.  My job is to continue on working towards the delight of my 3D. 

Surely, you didn't need all 3 guesses now did you?

.mac :)

Butterfinger Blondies

Ingredients

1 cup butter
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp vanilla
2 eggs
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp coarse sea salt
2 cups coarsely chopped Butterfinger Bars (approx 16 “Fun Size” bars) 

Instructions

Preheat oven to 350°
Cream butter and sugars in mixing bowl.
Add the vanilla and eggs and mix until incorporated.
On low add your dry ingredients (flour, salt and baking soda) until just combined.
Stir in your chopped Butterfinger.
Spread in a 9×13 baking dish and bake for 25 minutes until center is JUST set.
Remove from oven and cool completely.

Preparation time: 5 minute(s)
Cooking time: 25 minute(s)

 

BUTTERFINGER BUTTERCREAM:

Ingredients

1/2 cup room temp butter (1 stick)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
2 1/2 – 3 cups powdered sugar
1/2 cup chopped Butterfinger Bars (approx 4 “Fun Size” bars)

Instructions

Cream the butter and shortening together until smooth.
Add in you powdered sugar on low speed.  Turn speed up to medium and mix until smooth
Stir in your chopped Butterfinger. (I sprinkled mine on top rather than stirring them in!)
Spread on your cooled blondies

Preparation time: 5 minute(s)

{brand}

{shirt in hand posted about here & here.  Stellar purchase might I add.}

I've been thinking a lot about the word brand lately.  Thinking long spells on this 5 letter example of synergy, it's true.  This ponderation has consumed my precious times reserved for journaling and meditation cleaning the blasted kitchen after dinner and folding never ending piles of laundry.

brand |brand|

noun

1 a type of product manufactured by a particular company under a particular name : a new brand of detergent.

• a brand name : the company will market computer software under its own brand.

2 an identifying mark burned on livestock or (esp. formerly) criminals or slaves with a branding iron.

• archaic a branding iron.

• figurative a habit, trait, or quality that causes someone public shame or disgrace : the brand of Paula's alcoholism.

Both definitions have me consumed.  I'm on a see-saw with these 5 letters maneuvering my weight shift just enough to balance each meaning into a harmonized state of equilibrium with myself.  You see, brand is a big deal to me.  What with my booming entrepreneurial Goodwill spokes model pursuit and then again with just the who I want people to know is the quality behind k.Mac, the digestion of 'name' is critical.  I look for brands.  I scour encyclopedia-ed racks of used garments & accessories on quite the regular tip.  In musty-overcompensated-with-Lysol drenched establishments, I seek out the notable variety.  The Ann Taylor.  The infamous Banana.  The Gap.  The Limited.  The Boden.  The Ralph Lauren too.  Like a hungry lioness, I patrol the purged and reprocessed with skilled strategy.  And, once in sight, I collapse vehemently on the golden prize of brand.  I look not for stains or tears until phase 2 of my procurement process.   Experience settles it; keenly, brand and I are acquainted.

My pursuit of the "low miles; one owner" wannabes is not bigoted, mind you.  I am abundantly the ambassador of equality when it comes to style worthy potential. Into the buggy goes anything that fits the possible bill of 'real darn cute'.  It's phase 3 where the rubber meets the road of ready-or-not recyclability with regards to my wallet.

And, this is where this post sits nicely down on its haunches of just what the heck I aim to say.  I'm noticing.  Yes, this see-saw ride is doing more than just creating a dizzier best dressed of me.  Brands that are well known for their tags {high end name brands} leave me with buggys of much smaller sizes and yet with more room for wiggling.  Their fit is truer in form.  Their shape is contoured and suitably appropriate.  

Articles of clothing that one would consider a sub-scale in the hierarchy of fashion have a tighter fit with a higher numerical output on the tag.  Their fit is awry more often than not.  Sleeves are a tad shorter.  Inseams are a bit snugger.  Length is inevitably an issue.  Brand, swift & clever-like, pontificates its two-sided teeter-toter masterfully.  No weight shifting needed by me; equilibrium has arrived.

brand |brand|

noun

2 an identifying mark burned on livestock or (esp. formerly) criminals or slaves with a branding iron.

• archaic a branding iron.

• figurative a habit, trait, or quality that causes someone public shame or disgrace : the brand of Paula's alcoholism.

The mark you leave.  What will it be?  Truer in form or snug in the inseam?  Will you concern yourself with the number on the inside secretly wishing your could wear your article reversed outward for all the world to see? Is that your reason for living this day-to-day?  To feel that your innards are synonymous with a number on a tag?   Will you seek the good in quality even if it means rummaging or waiting it out until the perfect piece finds you with the pocketbook to purchase?  Or, will you satiate your substance with the sub par to sidle through your everyday?  What will be your brand?  

And, what about others?  Will you be able to spot their stitched tags of upscale?  Will these woven brand names of theirs make more of you?  Or, will you settle for the issue of odd length and premature ending sleeves only to say your spoken for and somewhat supported?

With sounds of classical music playing and fresh flowers filling my writing nook hands swimming in dishwater and befuddled by where the freakin' match to the umpteen millionth sweat sock is, I ponder my brand.  I ask these questions whole heartily and-in-the-face dead on too.  I want to be a brand of stature.  Me.  I want to be the true fit.  The tag reached for.  I want to be that for myself and for others.  I want it just as much for k.Mac too.  And, my biggest wish?  My biggest wish is that no matter where I am situated, I can always be found.  On Goodwill racks.  In storefronts on mannequins under spot lights galore.  Or in driveways for Saturday morning yard sales.

Me.
{my brand}

.mac

{the rhythm of the merry}

The void of this writing space in my life has been unsettling to my heart.  I find myself these days on a merry-go round of my myriad of musts. Cyclical, the wind slams into my tight lipped face as I hold tighter to the rusty rails just waiting for warp speed to downshift.  But, there's that overachiever girl with her feet planted firmly on the dirt playground spinning me faster and faster.  As if in unison, her hands propel a force that reeks velocity confirmation on my face of survival.   Then, there's the other gal.  She melodiously watches with a grandeur kind of anticipation.  Her energies funnel into nothing but acute concentration on this round-n-round routine.  She labors to catch the rhythm of the merry.  She looks at me secured there on the rusty turntable with some sort of admiration.  Her eyes cast darted glances of jealousy as I am on and she is not. Brittle dirt flies into the air around us as spinner girl takes dedicated delight in increasing the rapidity of this roundabout.  Faster.  Faster.  Faster.  I hold on with all my might.  I opt to overlook the churning of an upside down stomach wanting nothing more than to be obscene & ugly all over the place. Spinner girl cackles with her obsession for speed; she is mesmerized by her mission.  The on-deck girl has a full tank of 'I want to' just waiting for that precise time to leap and board.

{the rhythm of the merry}

I am that girl.
All 3 to be exact.

.mac

The Clothespin

my hands have been immersed in over 15 yards of baby pink satin, minky dot and damask for almost a week  --  creating a custom bumper pad in this fabric elevated my temperature so much from the manual labor, i actually stripped down to my sports bra to finish stuffing it  --  i just recently purchased a pair of shoes for $.50 from Goodwill that gave me the nickname "Meg-lo" from a texting/picture relay with a sweet friend  --  casey is over-the-moon magical about his count down to Christmas calendar  --  he takes the felt magnetic backed images on and off and loves to tell me which ones are his favorite  --  we didn't homeschool not one single stitch last week  --  eli read 6 chapter books from one of his favorite series in just 5 days  --  our Christmas tree's lower section just bit the dust  --  3/4th's lit is where we're at  --  i have an addiction to a $6.97 nose happy  --  the Downy Scent Booster pellets make me want to do laundry  --  folding & putting away is another story  --  in the past 2 weeks, i have shipped over 30 packages from k.Mac  ---  usps.com is my friend  --  bubble wrap is too  --  i bought an oatmeal seersucker suit set at Goodwill this past Saturday for $2.00  --  i can hardly wait for spring to wear it  --  i went immediately outside and captured an image of the boys the very moment i heard of the Sandy Hook tragedy on 12.14  --  i stopped and prayed and cried.

Yesterday, after church, I spent the afternoon working on a baby nursery I am finishing up for a client of mine.  My hair was down and it I wanted it up.  Without a hair clip nearby, I grabbed a clothespin from a basket I keep in my sewing studio.  My hair is very long.  I wound its ends and quickly twisted it up only to secure it to the top of my head with the simple clothespin's clasp. I then went onto continue sewing, go for a 3 mile run, visit my in-law's to help with Christmas decorations and have dinner, fold laundry and stuff Christmas cards. 

My hair did not once topple down from the clasp of the clothespin.  This physical reminder was so poignantly placed for my spirit to see.  I simply trusted in its capability.  I never once pigeon holed its job description.  

God is that clothespin for all of us.  He foresees and carries.  He runs interference and re-directs. He gives rest and He restores peace.  His place in our lives is needed now more than ever.  I find myself in contant conversation with Him. In the little & the big, He contains my humanity and supersedes my weaknesses when I trust and surrender my joy to just who He is. My clothespin.  My collection of life week in & week out that carves out the picture of the Earthly me.  Fritzed-out Christmas lights on the 17th of December, my tall reader boy, "Meg-lo", bubble wrap, sports bra stuffing, felt Christmas pictures shared with my 5 year old & all.  He gives us these real time reminders to collect and keep with our own clothespins on the string of this life.  And, His promise is these collected memories x infinity if we just trust in His presence and undying love.

12.14.12 is a reminder to us all. Collect and store up these precious everydays.  Secure them on your twine string.  Clothespin them to your heart.  And, above all never pigeon hole His magnificently holy job description. 

Thanks be to God, 

.mac 

{gut check}

Sand Tropez.  I cut my be-witchly twisted toenails and sawed down the last trinkets of uncool jagged from my fingernails last night.  The hour was officially exceedingly past bedtime, and I had deliriously entered into the iamazombiefromsleepdeprevation zone.  

I am a woman of color.  I love loud and volume.  Boisterous flavors and festive spurts of intensity sing melodiously to my soul.  And yet, like a ravenous lion in search of its next meal, my prey was this selected color.  I did not flinch.  I did not waiver.  I reached with precise vision for the above palette of neutral.  I did.  Me.  The woman of color.

I like this feeling.  This notion of going with your gut.  It has an exactness that is undeniable.  It requires little thinking for me.  Concerns are cast away; correctness is right on; it feels right.  I can do this with a nail color.  I can.  It is a hope that I transfer this autopilotness of on-time into other areas of my life more.  If it needs said, say it.  If someone needs love, give it.  If you have and some one does not, share it.  If you did wrong, fix it. 

Sand Tropez. Subtle.  Streamlined and silky looking too. Present.  I need this on my nails and in my heart.  The season of busy surrounds me.  So many moments are just waiting to be collected in the best way.  I am one, and there is so much to be done for k.Mac's holiday season and for my boys' learning.  My attitude needs reminding, and my best needs to be given.  Go with your gut.  Get down to the business of what your innards know matters most.  

Sand Tropez.  I picked it.  My jaggeds are gone.  My contorted excesses are too.  It's time to play on, playa in the goodness of gettin' after it in my busy but blessed. 

Game on,

.mac :)

Single Piece of Start

{Loris, SC:  July 2012}

Like a ball of yarn, complexly twisted within, my quest for a more rhythmical self requires me to consider the network.  I am to remind myself that my ball is but one long piece of yarn wrapped & contorted to create this single spherical form.  As human as they come, I need this reminder.  The perpetual recollection that I am not just me.  I am who I am for others.  My actions and my demeanor affect, furthermore, shape two very important people.  

And, if I am not careful, I will send out signals of sin & sour when my climb of rhythm is astutely ascending to the apex of just where I want to be.  For the backs of my legs' up hill strain is pain in pursuit of my balanced vision. Hence, my discomfort oftentimes expels out into ugly & curt.

Motherhood is God's yarn ball.  He takes you.  He reconfigures your composition both physically & emotionally.  You are forever changed for His forward gains.  Your single piece of yarn grows and miraculously manifests itself into something more substantial.  Something more complex.  Something that transcends.

Motherhood is just that. Complex.  Complex & beautiful.  You find yourself on the inside knowing just where the yarn's origin is.  You know, that single piece of start.  Yet, you are so confined to the outer spherical form you resist going inside at times to locate its initial presence. 

{Aunt Tee-Tee and Uncle Tone-Tone's driveway}

And, when you do climb inside that ball of yarn to search out your beginning, your rummaging can potentially alter the greater composition of sphere.  On this day, I remind myself that I am there.  I am the beginning of this something greater.  My single piece of start lives within.  It is in myself and in two very important people.  I can find it whenever I want to.  But only with grace and the cognizance of my place in the legacy that I am leaving in the 2 little hearts God gifted me to give life to.  

.mac

{week 26: my 2 in 52}

-these 3 things-

My year of rhythm pushes me.  Like a bull in a china shop, its eagerness to be not only present but so center stage in my life is cantankerously obnoxious and mannerly out-of-bounds at times.  I am hard at work on riding the waves of life as they ebb & flow. But, those lots of responsibilities as a homeschool mama and perpetual to-dos of a designer and hormones and a full-time-hard-working-head-coach-of-a-husband tend to get in the way of my rocksteady efforts from time to time.  Ahem.  

This place I call home for my thoughts-turned-words deserves truth.  I am not joyous all the time.  There are moments when I want to explode; moments where I can hear my mother's words, "I hope your face doesn't freeze like that." all too loud in my internal ears.  There are moments when I would like to call in a substitute mom for my boys complete with those great heavy worksheet laden sub-plans as I fill out my sick leave and/or personal day form.  Goodness knows, my boys would enjoy a sub-mom on the days when my ebb & flow meter is askew.

So, I write this post for honesty's sake.  Honesty to you, but mostly for the woman I see in the mirror every morning.  And, I know that my smile is still here even in those days when I feel like her or her. How do I know?  Those 3 examples above.  Yes, these brought me joy this week.

Olde Cape Code Toasted Sesame Soy & Ginger salad dressing I want to pour it in a shot glass or sip it  on ice. I love it that much.  I actually have a small canker sore in my mouth from the acidic overdose of  salad ingestion from just this week.

Shiloh Season by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor  This is the book I am reading to the boys aloud. I read Shiloh  to them last Spring.  I love that the dialect is West Virginia country and I love that the topics are hard ones about a love that works through tough lessons about life with bad people.  I love getting lost in my boys' eyes as they are glossy and transfixed on every word aloud read from my lips.  I love that they beg for me to read more as each chapter finishes.  Joy is here in these precious times reading to my heathens.

OPI's Sweetheart nail color.  You know my joy is grading out at a good C- when I am choosing natural tones for my nails.  This color is soothing my ever-lovin' soul right now.  I am not gonna knock it. And,  yes.  Nail color is important.  It is if you're Meghan Alicia Cobble at least.

Gotta scoot.  I am off to find a padded cell.  One that fits a 5'9" woman of athletic stature.  You'll know who she is when you see her.  She has this sour scowl on her face almost as if it's frozen there.  Her nails look great though painted in the sweetest natural hue.

.mac 

The Eerie and the Melody

{self portrait: 9.4.12}

I had a wicked homeschool math lesson post to share, but it must wait.  Vexing for the real is on my mind tonight.  It seems the particulars of real are like shadows without warning: close and personal.  The kind where you bob & weave only to find they still linger behind you.  Like a broken record, my mind's needle scratches the rigid vinyl of now.  I confront this present with past and future held tightly in each hand.  The melody plays in that awkward ambiance the way that a 45 will spin. You know, with that distant lonely and eerily offset tune?  And, I stand on the dance floor alone with party dress attire and handfuls of yesterday and tomorrow.

I beg for either lead to sway even if it's the slightest half step of a rhythm.  Alas, nothing.  I have 2 dance partners unwilling to commit to my now.  My dance.  My need for a lead.  And, I know all too well it's not lady like to shift my hand to the small of one's back.

So, I wait.  My toes tingling and my dress pressed.  The immediacy of the melody begs for a way around the dance floor.  I am anxious and so very eager.  Yet, I wait.  Solemnly. Politely.  Intensely.  I wait.

Me.

Moving through me.

The eerie and the melody.  I am compelled to dance nonetheless.  I want to glide and swirl with my eyes closed and my smile wide; I want to find that place called presence.  And, I want to hold my rhythm there.  Unconcerned with the right hand of you should have and the left hand of what if, I want my now to know no end.  I want internal speculation to cease. "But, of course you wore the right dress, darling."

Life brings us there.  To that place of righteousness & validity right where we are.  Did I say just what was needed?  Am I doing what is right?  Am I where I need to be?  Past and future have a hold undeniably profound and powerfully profuse in our present oblivious to whether we like it or not.

Tonight my dance floor is crowded with all too much room to move.  Alas, nothing.  Paralyzed and vexed, I wait.  The small of my back is vacant.

.mac

{sporadic}

My husband can barely stand to sit beside me in church due to my note taking skills.  I don't know how many times he shakes his head and smiles only to say:

"Honey, how do you make anything out of what you took the time to write down?"

And, that's just it.  My mind works in sporadic clouds of jumbled letters.  Most often best written crooked at an angle oblivious to the parallel lines' plea to use them.

{homeschool, new design ideas, reminders, necessities, hopefuls, plans}

I love when it's Bic and Steno time.

.mac :)

{now}

 1.  Casey McGill is into making jewelry.  He dives into my buttons and "looks for treasures" he says.  Then with a snip-snip of the twine, he creates lovely wears.  One would think this necklace is for me.  You know, "M" for "Mama" or "Meghan", but that would be a fat no.  He wears it.  When asked what the "M" around his neck stands for, he replies with, "Mama's Mine." {insert heart swell here}

2.  I am in love and head over heels with my glasses.  I want to wear them all the time.  These glasses were just to ease my astigmatism.  You know, to wear when sewing and driving at night.  Nuh-uh.  These bad boys are becoming my crack cocaine.  

3.  My sister-in-law, Melissa, just recently brought over an entire bag of castaway make-up products she has tried once or twice and no longer wants.  Do you know this is like Christmas for me?  The contents vary from lipsticks, to concealers, to lip and eyeliners, to brushes, to eye shadows, to foundations and powders.  Hallelujah for cast offs.

4.  This print I have in my studio rocks my ever lovin' world.  I stare at it.  Sometimes, I even salivate when I look at it long enough.  I often wonder why anyone ever invented pastel colors.  

5.  I made overnight french toast casserole.  Um, wow.  It's like doing your taste buds a favor.  I made a 9x13 pan and then a 8 x 8 pan.  By the next day, the 9 x 13 pan was 'toast' and all that remains is the 8 x 8 pan.  I ate 2/3 of it myself.  Honesty really is the best policy.

6.  I wear a retainer every night.  It is the same retainer I have had since I was 20 years old.  It lives inside that yellow container you see.  I cannot sleep without it. Kenny is a lucky man to lie down with me every night. I promise my teeth shift if I do have a night's slumber sans retainer.  I may be a little obsessive.  Once I left it in South Carolina at my sister-in-law's house.  I made her promise that she would NOT look into the yellow container, before mailing it. THAT'S how nasty this thing is. 

7.  The Nantuckett pillow by k.Mac has become very popular.  I have made almost 40 so far.  Shown here is the one that lives in our house.  Worried that it's a pillow too pretty to use?  Let me put your mind at ease.  Our pillow has had grape juice and popsicle spilled on it thus far.  It never fails that it is the resting spot for either boy at our home during wii time.  As in, they sit straight down on top of it.  Grr.  And, check it out.  Still rock solid.  

8.  I just recently was given one of my most favorite pictures that belonged to my Mom-Mommie.  It was a picture that hung in her formal living room over the fire place.  Before that, it hung in her home as a child.  As a little girl, I loved to star at this picture.  It is vibrant and alive to me.  My Dad-daddy gave it to me on my last visit down to my hometown.  I am so honored to have it.  It will always bring me such sweet memories of their home and my life their as their granddaughter.

9.  I am wearing a collection of memories around my neck these days.  I have decided that although accessories are for aesthetic value, they also are for memory keeping.  I have chosen to forego what's "in" and proceed with what I love.  The necklace is a dainty 14 kt. gold link.  It was my Mom's.  She wore it all the time with a tiny cable car charm.  The filagree heart is the first charm ever given to me by my very first boyfriend.  I was 16 years old.  His name was Bobby Smith.  His memory serves as such a sweet reminder to me.  Bobby was such a jubilant soul.  His life was taken at 19 years old.  I wear this heart to serve as my wake up call.  When life bogs me down, when I want to "be ugly" as we call it in our house, I remember Bobby.  His life was short, but he made the absolute most of everyday smiling and spreading happiness to others.  Finally, the feather.  It sways to my left.  It is a charm fashioned by my mom from a pair of earrings.  The other earring-turned-charm belongs to my maid-of--honor from my wedding.  Hers sways to the right.  I received this charm when I was 12 years old.  Tammie was 18.  She was my idol growing up.  I wanted to be just like her.  She was strong and amazing on the basketball court.  In my little girl eyes, Tammie was everything beautiful to me.  What started out as her being my basketball mentor, turned into a lifelong friendship.  She gets me like no other.  Mom gave us the feather charms at the beginning of our time together.  She said the feather was to remind us both that "Even Dumbo could fly with a feather."  Confidence.  I still need to be reminded.  

10.  Coconut oil.  Yep.  I am cooking with it and slathering my body with it too.  Why?  Refer back to #9, please.  Do you see that crunchy looking chest?  My mother-in-law says it's good for me.  I'm going with it.

11.  k.Mac has a handmade rewards card!  You receive 40% off your 13th purchase.  Nice, huh?  I try to be.  I want clients to know that I appreciate them choosing k.Mac; that I appreciate their investment in me.  Purchases have to be $30.00 or more to count towards your rewards card points.  I have several clients almost ready to claim their 40% off too!  

12.  Laundry.  Clean.  Been in the basket for 2 days now.  It's funny how I move the basket from room to room in attempts to actually multi-task and fold it while doing something else.  Yeah right.

There you have it.  My rhythm.  My now.

.mac :)

{again}

Again.

Beauty is profound even in the end.

Whispers of mistakes settle seamlessly in the sinking.

Gossiping back-n-forth with the sun.

She didn't keep her cool.

Her list of to-dos were barely checked off.

She reached out to no one today.

And the settling stings.

Heat radiates and burns my soul.

I waller in the act of letting go and letting down too.

Exacerbated by the day's finality, I coddle my imperfections.

Again.

The saturated farewell serenades.

Never mind the whispers.

Trust in the beauty of goodbye.

For the end is only the beginning.

A second chance of sorts.

Again.

Tomorrow waits anew.

                                    .mac 

{sunset compliments of my brother and sister-in-law's beautiful South Carolina home}

I'm Mom. And that's enough.

PLUNK.  That's the sound of my hind end hitting the hardwood plank on dirt ground after choosing to get off of this internal seesaw ride I've been on with Time Magazine since their  recent May cover story.

I get it.  

I get the freedom of speech.

I get the shock factor value too.

Heads turn.  Google heats up.  And, voila. A hoopla is born.

But, there are some things I just don't get.  

I do not get the lack of respect for the role of motherhood.  I do not see where a headline and cover photo such as this gives honor to the journey of parenting.

All women are not the same.

Promoting Attachment Parenting is terrific.  Landing a center stage like Time Magazine with a sold-out audience is rock solid too.  But promote all of this in a way that shows respect and honors the role of motherhood.

Who me?

It must be that I formula fed my babies.  If not that, then clearly I am a woman insecure with my body and excessively private with my parts.

Nope.

My stat records with the title of mom include a first born who traded thrush with me back-n-forth, back-n-forth for almost 3 months straight.  More blood shed {by me} than I care to recount in areas most tender to a first time mama learning to breastfeed. An off-the-record documentation of my sister-in-law straight up lying to my on duty day witch nurse when asked if my son received his 6:00 feeding.  This falsification due to my lack of mastery in getting Eli to latch on. Countless nights awake and co-crying with an infant who needed more nourishment.  A husband waking every single feeding for the first 2 months to help me figure it out.  3 months of nursing.  6 months of just pumping.  By 10 months, my first born was drinking whole milk.

And furthermore, when my second son arrived, crazy enough, breastfeeding was a huge success. I nursed Casey for 20 months introducing him to whole milk in his eleventh month.

I have nursed in public with respect to my body and to my baby as well as to the others around me.

I have skinny dipped in the broad day light too. So there.

I am woman. We are women.  

And within each woman is a world of diversity. From the choice to conceive, to getting pregnant, to potentially dealing with and grieving miscarriage(s), to delivering the baby, to making the decision to breastfeed, to what their family's care and nurturing system will look like all reads completely different with any given woman's story.  And, that's just taking into consideration one process of one baby.   Our experiences with each birth can be so very different too.  Just take mine for example.

Whether you are an avid fan of the order and schedules that the popular book Baby Wise promotes or a strong supporter of theories like Attachment Parenting that leave rhythms and routines more loose and general, we all need to remind ourselves as mothers of our number one goal. This is to provide quality care to the best of our abilities in our environments.

My environment as mom has been one at home.  I cannot tell you the respect I have for working moms doing their very best to provide both financially and emotionally for their families.  The idea of of o'dark thirty, a breast pump, a brief case and a pair of heels sends chills up my spine.  Shoot, I work within the confines of my home and there are days when the last thing I want to do is prepare a meal for my family.  I can only imagine how a working mom might feel coming home only to replace a pencil skirt with an apron.

Moms have enough on their lists of to dos.  I don't think adding the unwarranted guilt and/or anger derived from a misrepresented theory of parenting showcased in a highly skewed smack-in-the face slanderous headline and image has a place anywhere in between "pick up milk", "clean out closets" and "6:00 ball practice".

I'm Mom.  And that's enough.  

The journey of parenting is one helluva ride.  It is all things good and hard work too.  It's not for the faint of heart.  It's for the ones ready to share a space in their hearts to lead and love on growing ones with hopes of training up men and women of good character and great abilities.  Our end goal as parents is to make this world a better place.

In your way.

In your time.

In your struggles and successes too.

All out of love.

I'm Mom. And that is enough.

No more edgy headlines to hustle up hate.  No more drama to deploy differences that breed doubt.

Find a way to sell your magazines.

Tell your story.

Report your reviews.

I am putting my foot down to your wickedly twisted ways of defiling the art of motherhood, Time Magazine.  

I'm Mom.  And that is enough.

.mac 

{her}

I miss her.

Bulky and thick are the roots of 16 years.  The time before has been entangled and twisted by the deep, grainy life vessels that have since grown beneath my tree of life.

Transporting nutrients to my now:  my past.

I miss her.

She was sick.  Sick and all of a sudden.  The story of her life leaving was told furiously and fleeting.  As if smacked up side the head with her last chapter only to realize it was the Ciff Notes version, my family had only mere moments to prepare.

My transit time to her was psychotic chaos.  One where crying was deep and then denial was deeper.  In the middle of the pouring rain.  In the middle of the black night.  I raced to her.  Thunder claps and heavy rain pellets were mute; my mind's fury filled the elapsed time until I reached her with a volume so intense.

It's rained every year on this day for the past 16 years.

Finally, my time to be with my mom had come.  With florescent lights and slick sequential squares for a floor, I scurried to her bedside in ICU.  My eyes met a woman I had never seen before.

Mom was full of life.  Vivacious in a simple way if you ask me.  Manicured and tone, her natural beauty was undeniable.  Her dark brown hair usually stopping a little above her shoulders framed a face where the prettiest green eyes lived. Her teeth were perfect to say the least.  The most natural pearled white with all edges turned just the way they should be both top and bottom.  Her happy was in her wrinkles though.  The inevitable inheritance of crow's feet did nothing but validate her depth of smile.

I reached down to smell her first.  I touched her second.  My mom's smell was where Meghan was.  Right underneath her ear lobe and a little before her jaw line.  My nose still knows the place.  My eyes looked past the body limp with a head half shaved and large tubes drilled directly into her scalp.  I needed not to be observant of the hospital gown half off her shoulder and the tape streak remnants left on her face from the presence of her lifeline known now as a ventilator.  I needed my mom.  I needed her smell.  I knew the place.

Anger and sadness are dreadful when laced with disbelief.  Immediacy takes on an even more amped up version of now and compels you to that desperate place where you will do anything for supernatural powers to make it all right again. I had real feelings that I could make her right again.  These feelings only magnified the horrendously crushing fall that was to come in six more hours.

Mom was brain dead.  Two massive aneurysms to the center of her brain had done irreparable damage. The location of the aneurysms deemed them inoperable and my dad was given the option to try experimental drugs or take her off life support.  This offer was given to him roughly 16 hours after my mom's first aneurysm {unknown to anyone} that occurred at my younger brother's soccer game.

Like living out a nightmare, our family's infrastructure was crumbling and all we were left with was what to do with these out-of-no-where empty pieces.

My dad's heart was stolen.  I watched as the thief of death ripped it from his chest right before my very eyes. At 15 years old, my little brother physically shut down from incomprehensible shock followed by massive grief.

And, me?

I just wanted to fix it.  Fix it all.

I couldn't sit still and I don't know if it was from anger, disbelief or my stubbornness in accepting mom's life was ending.

Tight chested and clammy was the rest of my April 26, 1996.  The nauseous reality seeped into my soul and it sickened my heart even more.

The chain of events to follow that day were none I care to remember.  Countless phone calls and hospital guests were tended to.  Looking back, I see the massive support and love, but in the moment and to be brutally honest, it just seemed as another reminder that her time here with us was over.  I'll never forget the first person that spoke of mom using past tense.  It was if their hand blatantly smacked me across the face full on.  And, my reaction was to correct them curt-like and instantaneous.  But, then my now told me to hush and that their verb tense transition was my new way of life.  She was.

16 years today.  At ten after five eastern standard time, she will have been gone.
Bulky and thick are the roots.  

I remember my last time to tell her goodbye in a physical sense.  It was important for me to rub her body from tip to toe.  I can remember her smoothness and color.  Her legs were muscly and long.  She was beautiful even in death.  The urgency in my chest to rescue her and take her with me even if it meant making a fool of myself was intense.  My crying surges found anger and release on her body left behind.  I wept on her.  I told her how proud I was to be her daughter.  I whispered to her how much I loved her and that I would always do my best to make her proud.  I thanked her for her joy in my life and for all that she had taught me and for all that she had done.  And, I even begged her.  I begged her to spring up from that bed and come alive.  Come alive for me. For me.  Selfishness is so sincere and urgent in death.

And then, I found Meghan.  Right underneath her ear lobe and a little before her jaw line.  I sunk myself there.  Placing all my weight and life into that spot.  I asked her to hold me close, and she did.  Still and serene, I loved on my mom with all that I had in me.  I inhaled every last of her that I could, time and again.  I kissed her over and over.  I held her hand.

I miss her.

Bulky and thick are the roots. 
Transporting nutrients to my now:  my past.

 Right underneath the ear lobe and a little before the jaw line.
 I know the place.

Kenny

Eli

Casey

I find Meghan there.
.mac

{dangling}

It never fails.

My boys' creativity is spot on.  

In & about my everydays of home-and-work-all-under-one roof,  I find it.  Brilliantly, it appears in the most metaphoric of times.

dangling.

armored and ready.

hanging on by one.

Anyone else ever feel this way?

If so, may we all be reminded that Levolor is a stellar brand in blinds.  Strong and durable mind you.

But, what's most profound to me is the Clone Trooper's gaze.

He's looking up.

Thanks boys.  Your mama needed this reminder.

.mac :)

{week 37}

{worth}

Under a bed hidden and stuffed.  Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled.  Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.  

{cluttered} 

My March has made more of me; it has demanded me to define.  And, like a passenger just de-boarding my midnight flight, I hurry up only to wait.   Antsy and eager for the merry-go-round of identical black suitcases to commence just to find the luggage tag that designates the mark of me.

The mark of me.

  {worth}

The word is moving and subtle.  It commands the center of my soul even at first glance.  I often wonder how each of us finds our way nearer to this 5 letter way of life.

March was my month to stare worth directly in the eyes.  Our pupils, jet black & common, locked briefly and then time & again I was forced to avert from his stable stare as my salty tears were thick and made for a clouded view.

Human life is one big chance.

It's God's shiny quarters dropping one-by-one into your parking meter.   What will you do with the elapsed time the round George Washingtons allot you?  What will your out do with what is on your in?  I dream of balance and poise, of center and evens.  I relish the rush of potential energy anxious and able.

Able.

{worth}

And, I watch fervently for my luggage tag; the mark of me.

March asked me to define.  It expected me to stretch to my tippiest of toes in search of {worth}.

{mine}

Under a bed hidden and stuffed.  Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled.  Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.  

{cluttered} 

I reached up; I looked out; I prayed within.  I wanted my answers concrete and majestic.

My worth hides not in the concealer used to cover and the locks I choose to lighten.  Its presence is not my status or my style.

And, as He dropped another few into my meter this month, I felt His urgency. It seemed to grow in magnitude and strength the further March progressed.  Insecure, I scrambled and wanted so badly to stop this stare down with worth.  I wanted to disengage and rebuke the hard lines and lessons of just who I am.

And, force fixed, I peered once again at the baggage carousel waiting to spot my luggage tag.

The mark of me.

Crowded-like all the way to the very edges of my soul, He was.  My search was so very revealing and honestly intense.  Overwhelmed with emotion, angst and an unnatural serenity from above, I lept. Into His arms, I lept with all the indecisiveness and uncertainty of me.  My flaws and faults, my guesses and games, I gave in.  His urgency had found something.

Under a bed hidden and stuffed.  Wrestled and lodged behind drawer casings crumpled.  Snookered and sideways like the car keys amid empty gum wrappers and old grocery lists.  

{cluttered} 

My worth damaged and torn.
      

My value is in what He provides me.  It is me giving over my weak and watching Him work.

My March has made more of me; it has demanded me to define.  And, like a passenger just de-boarding my midnight flight, I hurry up only to wait.   Antsy and eager for the merry-go-round of identical black suitcases to commence just to find the luggage tag that designates the mark of me.

My mark is not perfect. It falls short and finds fault.  But my worth is everything for the glory of God.  May He have many quarters left for my meter.

My ensemble:

• tank (GAP) 1/2 off Goodwill $.25     
• pants (Patagonia)  1/2 off Goodwill $1.25

TOTAL ENSEMBLE INVESTMENT:  $1.50

My mission: {worth}

My status:  * * * (3 out of 5 stars)  This one is tough for me.

My memories:  I am enough.

.mac