So this is the part where I explain why what was once a weekly part of this blog is now an infrequent visitor. I will allude to my busy schedule and my need for blogging to remain a fun hobby and not an obligation. Because DAGNABIT, I control this blog, it doesn’t control me! But every once in a while I will post a list of things I liked that week. And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it, but I hope you will.
Only this part is supposed to be, ya know, witty and eloquent, maybe inspiring.
But then Glen spent the evening at a work event. And I spent 45 minutes hunched over the crib holding the boy’s hand until he fell asleep. And I sang 3 1/2 lullaby songs to B. And I was sidetracked by C’s new-found love of baking and the alarming questions she would yell at me from the kitchen. And L’s dance carpool fell through.
So, here it is anyway, but without the eloquent.
A man who lives, not by what he loves but what he hates, is a sick man.
~ Archibald MacLeish
This song is on constant repeat these days. The first time I heard it I thought of Glen and all he does for me and how wonderful he is and how he takes care of us all. And I felt sorry for everyone who isn’t in love with him.
This letting go is so beautiful, cause you make it so easy, to fall so hard…
Naturally, we will take the tragic Tsunami in Thailand and make it all about the rich, white tourists… Nevertheless “The Impossible” is a great movie. I cried from the beginning to the end. And yes, I like that kind of thing.
Joy in this Journey is NOT another cheesy Christian blog, as the title might suggest. I first stumbled on Joy Bennett’s blog to read a post about the death of her daughter Ellie. Not many people are able to tackle the topics of grief, faith struggles and depression with unflinching honesty AND hope. I’m in love with her tagline: “Somewhere beneath the kids’ stinky laundry and my own doubt lies a joy worth fighting for. I’m here to dig it out.” And she does.
I don’t care what he says, I invented this exercise. Except, I do it in the privacy of my own home, where only my husband can (and does) mock me.
So here’s me, dancing like no one’s watching. Because they aren’t. And that’s the best kind of dancing.