Tummy Tuck

Life is Art

Blogging lets us, for posterity, paste words and photos together in combinations we might not see if we didn’t make the time to reflect and record.  Blogging lets us paint a picture, our lives a masterpiece, the screen a gallery.

And by masterpiece I don't mean some hallowed museum piece. Sometimes we use decorated words strung together in thoughtful eloquence. Sometimes we hide behind vague metaphors, writing in circles and shadows and outlines. Sometimes we share photographs worthy of frames. Sometimes the pictures are hard to look at but speak unutterable truths.  The blog may not follow the formal conditions of beauty and composition and our story is certainly not pretty, but there is art in living.  In our family, life is sketched in and sculpted around and refined by love, and that's what qualifies as our masterpiece.
We want the love to last.  Writing it down here is a hopeful guarantee that in some way, it will.

It's been said that happiness makes for dull artistry. And if you look throughout history at great works of art, the idea seems quite valid.  Some of the best paintings and stories and songs seem to be the result of seasons of depression, sorrow, heartache. I've said before that I credit grief with introducing me to my best writing, with helping me ferret my truest emotions and with motivating me to spill them somewhere.  Here. 
But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I'd rather our story were dull, that our lives were nothing but boringly happy.

Our lives are messy.  And they are beautiful. 
JEB

Attached

When I stop myself from rehashing the past and rehearsing the future, when I hold my children close and barnacle myself firmly to the present, I remember just how fortunate I am.

JEB

Early Bird

Although not particularly interested in "getting the worm," he rises early.  EARLY.  And as the sun peeks over the horizon, he sings from his crib.

Personally, I'd prefer mornings that started later, but there doesn't seem to be a snooze button on this boy who wants breakfast.  And really, given the choice, I'd pick his warbling over a late wake up call.
JEB 

To Grips

When I press my head to her chest she provides the simple beat of her heart to measure time. With each pulsation I’m reminded that what I’m doing matters.  I'm where I should be, my conviction strengthens.

Having once inhabited my body, I know that part of Celia will always live within me.  We're bound forever by life’s unfortunate affinity to pair the penalty of coincidence with love of a life-altering magnitude.  There may be a place deep inside my cells where memories reside, a place for today's struggles to become tomorrow's nostalgia. And at that level, far beneath conscious thought, a place she'll always, always be. 

When I cover her thin hand with mine, I hope to feel the blood running below her pale skin. I rub my thumb over the soft lines of her palm, stroking into her grasp an apology for her fate and a gentle goodnight.

JEB

Carry On

The British government, upon the outbreak of WWII, commissioned posters to be distributed throughout the country as a means of allaying public fear.  Three different posters were produced and while the first two designs were widely distributed the third poster, simply bearing the words 'Keep Calm and Carry On', was reserved for use only in times of extreme crisis.  Although hundreds of thousands of these posters were produced, only a handful were ever displayed. 

We framed one recently, and hung it in our kitchen this week. 

Since then, Tucker threw a bottle of red nail polish on the earth-toned kitchen floor, and although we acted quickly and although the slate and the grout are sealed, there will forever be a spot (albeit one of the nobody-else-will-notice variety).  I may or may not have kept calm as I tried to clean up the nail polish.
And then yesterday Andy dropped a bowl of Pad Thai chicken.  The bowl didn't break, and the dog took care of most of the mess, but we may or may not have both lost our patience and our appetites.

Now we know, WE KNOW, these things do not qualify as crises.  And far more often than not there's a happy huddle of souls crowded around our counter top.  Like most homes, our kitchen is the hub of the house, the place where Celie learned to make guacamole, where kisses are sent and received through the back door panes.  It's the place with the fewest seats and where, inevitably, the most people congregate.  We make some messes and a lot of great memories in our little kitchen, not to mention some pretty good meals.  Our relationships strengthen in these incidental moments when it seems like not much is going on and yet so much is.
JEB

Goodness

We've been surrounded by so much goodness.  Our whole lives have been, in general, full of mostly gentle, happy times.  Take, for example, our wedding.

Good people, lots of them.  And a good time.

Currently, good may not be the best descriptor for our lives, but woven together with the not-so-good is really so much that is.

Take, for example, Beads for Batten.
Jeri Allie deserves credit for coordinating details that made our wedding live up to our dreams, and next Saturday, April 24th, she is hosting "Beads for Batten" in Gallipolis, Ohio (340 Second Ave, That Special Touch).  Beads will be sold for three dollars each, and will fit Pandora and Trollbead bracelets.  One hundred percent of proceeds from the sale, from 10am until 3pm, will be donated to BDSRA. 

We have been shown such good care, such good care that when we think about what a painful time it’s been, when we sift though the past year or so, we remember all of the good things, all of the loving words, all of the lavish generosity.  And, goodness, "thank you" just doesn't feel big enough...
JEB