(source= chaimai.com…or stoned pig)
I’m about to share a short story. A true one, with only minor embellishments. It was written by my sister, Leah Wilcox
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I’ve mentioned, here and there, my wrestlings with depression. I say wrestlings knowing darn well that I’m no Jacob, and my adversary is no angel. But I kinda wish I were a warrioress of biblical proportions, with long, lean muscles, indomitable red braids, and a stern, penetrating gaze. And I really, really wish a more angelic depression would wipe its brow, sigh, and say (preferably no later than this coming Friday), “Yeah, you bested me. I’m done for. Wasn’t sure you could, wow, who knew. Well. Here’s a ladder. So you can–you know–swing from a star, babe. Carry moonbeams home in a jar.”
I made a dress for my littlest daughter. I wanted to take pictures of her in it. She happily donned the dress and started posing pleasantly enough, but. Something someone said somehow set her off, and the photo shoot turned into a pout session/tickle fest. Eventually, after snuggling and serving a nice snack, I snapped sweet shots of my sugar darlin in her homemade dress….though I seriously don’t regret the photos of her in her moment (I love them all, actually). I promised I’d share more of these images, along with a pictorial tutorial of the outfit…
Remember these? Thought I’d share musings and tutorial on how I made them…
[continue reading…]
It is tempting, as I publicly document my life and loves, to make it look neat and pretty, and edit out the toast crumbs and forehead lines. Which isn’t such a bad thing, really…? I’ve thumbed through “Artful Blogging”, transported and moved by its luminous eye candy. It is an ideal I’m reaching for. (Or maybe, I’m just a kid saying “I want some! Me too me too!”). Recently, I made a sweet outfit for my youngest, oh-so cleverly refashioning it out of one of my abandoned summer dresses and a sweater I’d found thrift shopping. It was a labor of love, yes, but I’ll admit also that I was possibly a little greedy… I figured I’d have bragging rights. I couldn’t wait to show off beautiful pictures of my child in my very own creation.
Hey There! It’s still cold around here, February hasn’t clocked out yet, and just today, I discovered that the icicles my daughter comes home licking are in fact the bizarre looking ones we’ve noticed growing underneath my neighbor’s trampoline. We’re smack dab at the bitter end of winter here. So. I’m super excited to distract myself (and you too) with a party, of sorts…
Except it’s not so little…if you look below, there are quite a few bloggers involved. The Closet Intellectual is the hostess; you can visit her and each of the other blogs below by clicking on their banners bellow. The actual giveaway entry buttons are at the very bottom…entering is pretty simple. Just a few clicks and you could be picked to win a prize from this “Lovely Little Giveaway”. I’m giving away another cute little homemade/refashioned apron (this week, as serendipity would have it, I’m participating in two giveaways).
My friend Steph brings gifts when she visits. One gift was this apron.
Which I love. And which I wear, often…not necessarily with practical, utilitarian motives. Call it my kitchen costume.
Since I love it so well, I want more aprons. More and more and more. I always do want more, when I love something. This wanting more is a trait I inherited from my stellar grandfathers. Both of them. Call the trait a redundant heirloom. I’m not letting it go; it’s precious to me. My Grandpa Wilson used to say, when he really liked something (a hamburger, perhaps, or piece of pie) “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. This has a very Moorish flavor”. Sure do miss him.
My dad read it to us when I was around eight years old, after my mom protested his reading Zane Grey’s western romances to her innocents. Neither would she stand for “The Hobbit” and its swords and goblins at our young age (eventually we all eroded her objections to Tolkein and had the privilege of being raised on Dad’s winter night readings of all Tolkein’s major works…and I later smuggled Zane Grey into my bedroom to read All By Myself.
EveryDay Bloom: Journal of an Attempt at Creative Living, Dappled & Imperfect. Possibly Ridiculous.