i came across something online not too long that said something along the lines of “love the girl who reads…because even though she knows the difference between books & reality…she will try to make her life like her fairy tales”.

and that could not have been truer as i sat on my back patio this weekend, hot tea in a favorite mug, next to my favorite person, reading up on herb gardens, the sky gray & rumbly. it was perfectly quiet, perfectly filling in that “I have no where to be” kind of way. Everything was slow–the turning of the page, the fall of the rain, the cat as he lazily stretched out, the sweet peas as they push further and further out into the world.

it’s bits of my life, these precious bits, that make all the work it took to get here, worth it. i tried to tell myself it would be, weeks ago, as I labored intensely all day breaking soil & mixing compost in the garden. Tying up the thorny bushes of the roses, now to see the almost-violent cascade of scarlet and burgundy flowers over the green, or to watch the lilac starts bud up and unfurl their greenery.

all the times i have to rush about, check things off my to-do list, hurry about lest I miss doing yet another “THING-THAT-MUST-BE-DONE-THIS-MINUTE”…well then when I DON’T need to, i savor it so fully. it makes me appreciate that i DID grab those two beautiful teacups at the thrift shoppe, or i took the time to craft a ‘little moment of beauty’ for a future sometime, only to have that sometime be today.

it can be difficult, to slow down, to just breathe and absorb the world in this very moment, instead of planning for the someday. i always have some plan, something that could be getting finished (although the truth of it is I never will finish it all) but on a rainy sunday, the only thing that needs doing is breathing, and all that’s automatic anyway.

As the weather begins to turn and rain begins to fall and the ground softens under my shovel, my thoughts, quite naturally, turn towards renewal. Towards rebirth, life. I leave behind me the shadows and darkness of winter, I crave a new beginning. I want to leave behind the sadness of February and celebrate this new season (quite literally) in my life–one I hope is full of dedication and cleansing and flushing out.

This month has been spent cleaning, reorganizing, re-prioritizing. The garage cleaned out and sorted. Old projects finished. New projects started. The stack of books on my nightstand, the ‘to-read’ pile, is slowly dwindling. The garden, once a fantasy, is consuming my free time and the smell of earth & compost mixes with the basil, oregano, lavender, and sweet mint. The woody rosemary comes out, the onions have gone in. The grow light situation, once a mere idea, fit like a glove right into the place I needed it to, all good things coming together to create the perfect place for germination. A whole tray of tomatoes started.

photo 4

It is almost time for the clotheslines to be tightened and once again called into service. We pulled the hammock out and set it up again this weekend, although it was blown over in the night, so maybe I didn’t calculate the timing on that quite right. The hydrangeas took root, and all the little yellow-green flowers have blossomed into giant pink globes of beauty. I plant the lilacs across from them–I imagine next spring walking through a corridor of intense color and smell, a welcome welcome to the backyard and my own slice of paradise. The grass alongside the house is thick and lush, so green and lovely I cannot bring myself to mow. Surely, I think, there is a use for it. My mind drifts towards goats.

I bought a duck on Friday. ‘But”, you protest, ‘you already have two!’ Let me tell you a story.

I went to my favorite feed shop for a fifty-pound bag (I cannot bear to buy a smaller bag, even with my flock less than half) and thought perhaps i would simply LOOK to see what breeds of chicks they were selling. ‘I won’t buy any’, I thought. ‘I just want to look’. We all know how that goes–I pulled out the brooder last weekend.

There was a stock tank full of ducklings, some a week or two older, some newly hatched, and i could barely bear the cute. I reminded myself that two ducks was enough, MORE than enough, and ducklings poop more than anything in this world.

Vickie is the sweet lady who helps those of us seeking a touch of adorableness on a Friday afternoon. When I asked her why my 10-month old ducks had yet to lay an egg, she asked me a simple question that confirmed the sneaking & growing suspicion that I had ended up, against all the odds, with two MALES. (In case you aren’t aware, boys do NOT lay eggs. Which is the ENTIRE REASON I have ducks).

‘But’, she says, ‘we do have adult ducks in the back’. Magic. Magic words.

I left with a beautiful, elegant, heavy-breasted, slappy-footed duck, and a dozen duck eggs from the kind warehouse guy. She is so…gentle? Wholesome? She is the girl next door of ducks, and my dumb little drakes have no clue what to make of her, so they run around the pen as she quietly waddles after them, trying to find companionship and a place to belong.

photo 1

She is helping this place feel new, a reminder that this backyard is not a place of death anymore. Or if it is, rather that it is all part of the Great Story. I am sad about my lost chickens, but I rejoice in the large warm egg that covers my palm (and if you have never held, then eaten, a duck egg, I invite you over to my house for a feast). I remember that it is all only a circle, that renewal always comes.

Feeling all these things, learning and relearning the feeling of the world in cycle and the past repeating itself, reminds me that people have always known this, knew this better than our world knows it today. Humans, pagan and Christian alike, have always celebrated the end of the long winter with feasts, festivals, and rituals of birth, spring, and renewal.

To tap into this new understanding of the meaning of seasons brings a sense of connection, of my humanity, of having a settled place in this world. A place I make plans in and for. The poppies go here, I’ll plant the jasmine there. Once the fence is up, I’ll plant something that vines. A new melon patch dug, and an experimental tomato plot. Should the bougainvillea be dug up, or did any part of it survive those frosts? That room becomes an office to work from home from, the photos need to be put back up on the wall. This hutch isn’t working, so let’s put this thrifted one in it’s place. Remember to empty the compost bucket. Go through the dresser and donate those clothes you REALLY don’t wear anymore. It’s the feeling of emptying and recycling and renewal and shaking off the all the extras you’ve accumulated during the winter when it was too cold to do anything (ten pounds included).

 photo 2

Last night was a nightmare. A heart-breaking nightmare. It is a night I cannot stop replaying over and over in my head, and yet it is one I want most to forget. How cruel our minds can be! I promise–I am not trying to be dramatic here. I am not building this up because it would add anything to the story. So here it is:

i have had a strange & uneasy (to say the least) past few weeks. It seems nothing in my life has been going the way it is supposed to, and personal issues keep cropping up and my self-esteem keeps taking all these hits. But all these probably-imaginary problems are nothing compared to the carnage that greeted me when I came home from derby practice late last night.

I opened the back door to let my dog in, but couldn’t see him. I looked out and noticed first that i had NOT closed the door to my chicken coop before I left, which I always do. And then I saw my dog, face buried in the belly of a blonde ball of feathers.

I screamed his name and he ignored me for a moment, then came racing over, muzzle yellow and blonde with feathers. I didn’t want to believe it, I was too horrified that It had finally happened (he has attacked my ducks twice before but I was always there to stop it). Sure enough, as I spun around I noticed the backyard was littered with feathers. I saw another chicken not too far off, a large wound on her back. I knew she would probably have to be put down, but I couldn’t even continue looking at this point. I sank down sobbing, and fumbled for my phone. Even now my heart races to remember the horror I felt as I began to understand what had happened. I had forgotten the most basic safety precaution in my haste to be out the door, AND loosed in my own backyard their predator.

I will not get too much further into gory details, as I did not let myself see them. I called my boyfriend, hysterical, and he came speeding (I’m sure) from work to my rescue. As i didn’t want to see who else was gone, he did a backyard sweep and came up with a body count. He also put down the hurt chicken, which I know was excruciating for him, as he’s been a vegan for thirteen years. I have no doubt it was a herculean effort, and the love he showed for me in doing that, unasked, carries me through.

If there is absolutely any silver lining to this horror, it is that my two favorites managed to survive–George, my best little chicken, managed to get over the fence (and even came home this morning for breakfast!) and Margot, my green-egg-laying bully, although she has a substantial wound and a gimpy leg, which I nursed this morning and am hoping to help her overcome. One more survived, miraculously without injury, but that’s all. Out of a flock of 7 chickens, four were killed, including my magnificent rooster, Frodo. He put up quite a fight apparently, and tried to protect the hens until the end, but that has left an enormous pile of feathers in the yard that makes my heart hurt to see.

I don’t even want to be in my own backyard anymore. It’s a place of trauma, a place of death. There are patches of feathers still attached to skin, and when i took the dog out to pee this morning the three remaining sounded an alarm–they will not forget so soon. I am so saddened by this feeling of destruction & stress in what is supposed to be my haven–I had spent that afternoon cleaning up the yard and prepping for spring, so excited about the warmer weather, and pulling out fencing to protect the garden from chickens. A moot point now.

I cried so hard, wailing so that a neighbor came out to see what had happened. Then I sat on my couch and cried until Jon came over, while he cleaned up, and afterwards too. But as I cried, I let myself feel how much it hurt, gave myself permission to feel the bad stuff, to let it wash over me and to get it all out. I know that today is awful, and tomorrow probably won’t be much better. But they are the living, they are life. Just as death is a part of living, so too is pain a part of pleasure. One is not complete without the other. But there will be no pleasure in this memory, no funny ha-ha to help ease the pain of what’s happened. This is simply a grisly opportunity for growth, a chance to refine my character and let it inform future decisions.

So now my dilemma is this–do I keep the chickens I have left? Do I try again for spring chickens, with more chicks now? I have the brooder and a bit more experience, although I did not expect to use either again so soon. What about the dog? Because right now it is so hard to look at him–I don’t even want to try. It makes me sick to my stomach. I KNOW he was just doing what dogs do. I know that in my head. But in my heart it feels so much like a betrayal–like he has shown his true immoral self. I guess I think of him so much as a companion and person that I forget his dog instincts, his primal callings, which i know can be such a dangerous habit. He doesn’t have a soul, he is not governed by a moral compass. To him, it is, “what is right in front of me?” But still–how can i forgive this? I can’t look at him without seeing his muzzle covered in feathers. He twitched a lot in his sleep last night while I tossed and turned all night, and all I could think was he was reliving his executions. And all of it was my fault.

That’s the very worst of it all. I made a mistake–I didn’t think. Because of that mistake, four deaths ensued. Granted, they were poultry, and I understand there is a perspective needed to their deaths. They were only chickens–but they were my chickens, and I loved them, loved watching them grow and discover. The fact of the matter is, they trusted me to keep them safe and I failed them so completely. It is not grief so much as it is horror–my soul is reeling from the violence and utter disregard for life. That it came from such a sweet puppy is horrifying, that it was my own doing is almost unbearable. It is the biggest “What If” question I have ever faced–this mistake has become my biggest regret. There is so much guilt wrapped up in my sorrow.

Of course there is some grief, as when you lose any animal in your care. I’m sad to have lost fearless Balina, who always came right up to me, and Frodo, my gorgeous feathered-feet rooster (“fro-toe”). I’m sad that Lucy & Eunice, one who laid the biggest, most beautiful rose-colored eggs, would have felt so much fear and pain before the end. These four were from the batch of five I raised together, the chickens my late Mamaw “bought me”. I just don’t know how to wrap my mind around the fact we “modern” (i.e. sheltered) humans tend to forget–nature is chaotic and has absolutely no regard for our feelings. Death is a very real, very present part of life. The dog killed the chickens because dogs chase chickens, have sharp teeth, and are generally able to do so. He had no quarrel with them–he wanted to play with these soft toys.

There were many questions without answers in the long sleepless night, one of which–do I keep the dog? Because once they’ve killed a chicken, there’s no way they’ll stop. Or do I forgo chickens–if not, I’ll have to be vigilant every moment of every day. Because Hero isn’t loyal to me because he understands my wants and desires and comprehends the plans I’ve made and wants to help me accomplish them. He obeys (sometimes) because I feed him and wrestle with him. He has no higher motivation than his present needs.

At one point, in between sleep and waking, I thought it had all been a very violent nightmare, a dark dream from which I’d wake. It certainly had some of it’s unreal qualities. And, as I’ve been playing Skyrim for the last month, I had the wild (and nerdy) thought that I could simply reload the previous save, and all the bad things would be undone and I’d have a chance to start again. I could check the coop door and none of it would have ever happened. But there’s no such thing.

This is already long enough, and while it certainly helps to ‘say’ all these things, there is nothing that will make it feel better and I am tired of thinking it over. There is no tidy resolution to this piece. I just had to put as much of it out there so it doesn’t stay in here, draining my energy. Thanks for reading.

2013 was a year for making my dreams come true.  This year, I want to make them my reality–the parts of my life that keep going once the charm has worn off. I want to stick with these wonderful things I’ve started–to not let the romance die when it gets a little hard. To finish all the projects in my garage and rid myself of the other things cluttering it up. It’s about NOT being lazy—getting up and doing the things I want to do, need to do, to have a more stream-lined routine and a relaxing home environment to come home to. That means doing a lot of things I push to the back burner because I’d rather watch another episode of Adventure Time. But the problem is, that back burner is getting full.

I’m the kind of person that DOES “do” resolutions. So what? I don’t see anything wrong with them. I like vocalizing my intentions, it helps keep me more accountable. And I like making lists. And why not? I make all sorts of brash, bold resolutions but if 2013 taught me anything, it’s that things can be accomplished if you take them one step at a time, even if they are daring and wild and bold. But that maybe this year i don’t want to accomplish quite so much–I’ll be content if I get a new air conditioner and the ducks start laying eggs (and my built-ins get built-in).

So while I love my swaggering statements, this time I’m gonna bite off just what I can chew. And then I’m gonna chew it SO HARD. And then (to complete this disgusting metaphor) I’m gonna swallow it and TAKE ANOTHER BITE.

(Also I keep starting posts about starting a new chapter in my derby career and how I feel now we’re finished and what the first public bout was like….but I can’t seem to finish them. So I decided to just push through with this 2014 Resolution Post).

I want to be kinder, less selfish—more generous with my time, with my money, with my food, with my love.
I want to spend more time with my family and drive the 45 miles down to see them more and stay up late playing games and drinking cheap wine, because that’s the stuff I remember most.
I want to open my heart to those I wouldn’t normally.
I want to stop thinking of myself first or how something will impact ME only.
I want to grow in my relationships–to listen FIRST and speak second.
I want to develop a reputation for contentment, for peacefulness.
I want to stick with my Primal diet, because that worked for me. I know I can be a better roller girl, play a better game, if I’m working with more muscle than belly.
I want to skate my heart out and do as much as I can each practice. And go to those Pilates classes to keep up my core strength.

Yup.

Let’s talk for a minute, shall we, about home ownership. Specifically, first-time home ownership. Even MORE specifically, YOUNG SINGLE WOMAN first time home ownership.

Because there aren’t too many people out there talking about that. Sure, they’ll mention housing statistics showing it’s a seller’s market, and there are plenty of HGTV shows about buying your first home together, but that’s the catch–it’s usually two people handling this massive project together, juggling the stress between the two of them.

Nonetheless, I had heard that home ownership was a difficult thing, that it was hard and wasn’t nearly as nice as you’d imagined. I simply brushed it off, deciding those people didn’t know me and that I would be different. had taken classes and seminars and read books and blogs and I had all my financial ducks in a row. I would be awesome at this.

I’m not.

It’s hard.

Sometimes it’s as nice as I’d imagined, especially when the rain is falling and I’m wrapped in a blanket on the back porch watching the ducks play in their pool. Or when I finish painting the guest bathroom that perfect shade of plum and I know installing the wood floors was totally worth it the pain of ripping up the 30 year-old tile. Those are the moments when I decide it is better to own than to rent.

But there are other times, times when it is much worse than I was prepared for, times when the bathroom pipes start leaking, the fridge goes out on me (TWO back to back!) and the A/C won’t turn on for six weeks and there are ants and roaches invading the house and some of the wiring is NOT connected to a power shutoff and just when I think I can’t do it anymore, the door to the garage falls off it’s hinges and I flipping lose it. All over my screen door. (This just means I lost my temper and ripped the screen door off its hinges and now it’s dented and I have to buy a new one of those too).

Those are the times I reevaluate my determination, try to figure out if I could just go back to living in a tiny apartment with two cats and no garden or clothesline or chickens or sewing room, if I could go back to Lamar traffic and no responsibility for the air filter and a utility bill that’s a third of what it is now. Those are the moments I realize doing this with a partner would make a lot more sense, when I see how much easier it is when you have someone with whom to share the stress of replacing the enormous air conditioning unit. I can see why so many people wait to be married before doing this. I start to wonder if my realtor would think I was crazy for selling the house five months after buying it.

Just to make this perfectly clear: home ownership is SO MUCH MESSIER than you think it’s going to be. Replacing baseboard and installing new floors and removing popcorn from the ceiling will show you the ugly, not-well-built side of your house. You will see how the walls are not straight, how buggies and spiders will still find a way between the walls, and you’ll shudder when you find a squished roach between the vanity and the wall (I’m still trying to figure that one out). Everything will break at once, and it’s never as simple as putting up a fresh coat of paint on the wall.

But you know what? Despite the overwhelming frustration and feelings of “I cannot possibly do this”….I am doing this. Daily. I turn on the fans, open the windows, and drink cool water–who needs A/C? I scour Craigslist and find an amazing deal on a fridge. The bugs…well I vacuum a lot and do my dishes every night and I set out ant bait. The chickens are taking care of the roach problem (If that were the only thing they did to pay for their food I would still keep them!) I work for hours every night until the bathroom is not broken and all my extra money is tied up in paint cans and baseboard, and I learn how to set a toilet seal and use a jig saw. I am being shaped, I am being molded, by this 35 year old house.

I will never again paint a room without buying three or four sample colors to walk past for a few weeks. I can install a light fixture all by myself, and I’ve learned the differences between a circular saw, jig saw compound miter saw, and table saw, as well as the necessity behind each. I now know to pull the sink off a vanity FIRST, and next time I’ll just buy a door new instead of trying to rehabilitate an old one. I have to remind myself that hardship is part of the adventure too. I tell myself that it will be a funny story in 6 months, and that part of living is getting your hands dirty, messing up the sheetrock texturing, and buying another two feet of baseboard because you didn’t measure right, even the third time.

I guess my “advice”, if you want to give this blog post a point, is to say: it really is as hard as everyone else promises. Things WILL go wrong and you WILL screw something up. You will run out of money and be uncomfortably hot and cracks will appear in your guest bedroom. Your houseguests will have to brush their teeth with water out of the shower tap, and roaches will find a way into the bathroom no matter how many drains you re-caulk. Make sure the reasons you want your own place will give you more satisfaction than the stress a house will give you, because both are bound to happen.

Everyone loves fall. Everyone. Every blogger I read (and believe me, there are quite of few) have all written their posts by now extolling the virtues of autumn. They’ve covered the incredible beauty of changing foliage, the piles of decadent fallen leaves jump in. They’ve touted the wonder of seeing your breath in the morning, squealed in anticipation of pumpkin-flavored everything, and piled on the layers of snuggly blankets and scarves. Boots abound.

However, I don’t live in any of the sensible states, states who understand what the term “season” means. Texas forgot for a while, but thankfully, we are finally, FINALLY seeing a relief from the scorching temperatures. There’s a lingering chill in the mornings when I let the chickens out, and I’ll get to start wearing my favorite beanie to practice soon. This morning my wellies were a bit stiff and chilly as I pulled them on my bare feet and I had no choice but to be grateful.

While I love all these things, and agree quite heartily with the most eloquent of poems for fall, I am learning that that is not what I love so much about October. Of course I love that the purest, bluest skies appear this month, that the stars are crystalline in the velvet, but it’s not what I love most. I adore snuggling under my blankets, I love any excuse for homemade hot chocolate, and I am eternally grateful for the haven of a hot cleansing shower, but that is not what holds my heart so fast to the fall.

I am so bound because autumn has become a time of release for me, a deep sigh that lets me drop my burdens, a slowing down and walking through my life. It used to be a time of action, of decision and movement, because that’s when the semester started. But as I’ve grown older and the rhythm of my life has shifted, so too has my perception of each month’s personality. The summers used to be about living in the sunshine and soaking up as much freedom and life as I could–the stunning joy of swimming in a cool river on a hot day, the unmatched friendships born of thunderstorms, the pure visceral reaction of standing underneath a canopy of stars knowing you are but a tiny piece of a very large puzzle. Summer was unequivocally my favorite season. And I still love it, though not in the same way, for I have learned, and am still learning, to value more in life than pure joy.

If summer has been the time of joyful expression, then fall has become the time for challenging renovation. Every living thing uncovers itself, begins to strip itself bare and takes stock of who it has become and what it has gathered to prepare for the challenging months ahead. I have taken a page out of their books–I slow down, look about me, and reflect what it is about myself I want to change or improve. Typically they are more physical changes–Invisalign one year, chiropractic care last year, interest in the Primal Blueprint. I take better care of myself during the fall–I remember to nurture my tired, heat-exhausted body and remind myself that it’s ok to take care of me sometimes. I strip myself down to the basics–what am I about? What am I making the most important thing in my life, and should it remain so? Am I ready for whatever is coming my way? If I were to meet myself in a coffee shop, would I like that girl, want to be her friend?

I always feel like I know myself a bit more in the fall, I get a sense of where I want to go in life, a sense of what I want it to look like. I dream a bit more, have more motivation to rid myself of excess and focus on the things most important to me. I can see more clearly the direction I am headed and can course-correct, and that is always, always, a blessing.

Maybe one day winters will hold the throne in my heart, one day when I am older and wiser. Perhaps I will cherish the imposed quiet. Or perhaps I will learn to really like the spring, with her charming adolescent displays–awkward and inconsistent, with the promise of beauty to come. But as it stands now, I will take autumn and all her revelations, for while change is painful, it is with the realization of growth through these challenges (some may call that maturity!) that I have learned to value the beauty in them. I can see that by acknowledging my imperfections and the need to change, I have taken the next step on the path to become the woman I want to be.

Grief. It is a peculiar aspect of our human existence. It affects us in different ways, and we express it in surprising ways, at surprising times. It can transform us from normal civilized loving people into a primitive version of ourselves, expressing our emotions in grunts, yells and cries.

The day of my grandmother’s viewing, my immediate family went to visit earlier in the day, so that we could cry like we needed to before the official viewing when we would be doing the comforting. I hadn’t truly cried before this point–it didn’t feel like she was gone, merely stepped out to the grocery store. My stomach flipped around a bit when walking towards her room, and as I stepped through the doors and caught just the first glimpse, I lost it and had to turn back. I had to give myself a few minutes before trying again.

Seeing her in the casket was sad and shocking–it was affirmation that she was in fact, dead. And that she wasn’t coming back.  And that it wasn’t her. It was an eerie replica of her, a close resemblance. But try as I might, I couldn’t’ imagine that version of her talking to me, laughing like she did. It was her shell, and that actually brought a enormous amount of peace. I was able to see that the person she was truly wasn’t there anymore, that she had left it behind. It only strengthened my belief that she did indeed possess a soul and it had indeed flown away.

I love love love to think about her reunion with my Papaw. They were in love from the moment they laid eyes on each other–they were married a month after they met, and their marriage was strong through 42 years. I don’t know that she ever recovered from losing him, they had been partners and soul mates for so long that  she was adrift without him. So it gives me such great pleasure to think of that moment when they were reunited–how immense their joy must have been. The complete peace of coming home at the end of a long journey, the satisfaction of being in the company of those you love best and wish to never leave. That’s what I held on to, that’s what let me smile throughout her entire ceremony–the thought that she was so much happier where she was.

So while I grieve for her, while i cried over her casket and felt my soul shift a little, through the tears I remembered that this was actually the best thing that could have happened to her. I like to think of death as the next adventure, that once we walk through that door and our soul is unstoppered from our body, we begin another life that is simply unfathomable to us now.

My family grew so close on this trip–laughing and loving and grieving and binding tightly together, an unexpected blessing this week. It isn’t that we aren’t close, it’s just that we sometimes lose the sense of each other in the everyday living of separate lives. But between a shopping trip funeral clothes for my brother, walmart runs, back-bedroom bitchfests, backyard clean-up, and too-long pants, we all reconnected in a very healthy way, regained the sense of who our family is and what we’re about.

My siblings and I rode up together, without all our significant others, and I feel like I saw a more complete picture of my siblings. I learned so much about my brother: for the first time in my life I feel like maybe I know him and can relate to him. Part of it is that we’re older now, part of it is that we finally had the time to sit down and connect. There are so many reasons to respect him, so many times I sat back and marveled at the man he’s become, and the man he will become. And while my sister has always been my best friend and has never failed to impress me, I loved having her to rant to, and appreciated her well-founded opinions and perspective on things.

The three of us talked frankly and freely about where we as the adult children in our family need to step up. It’s time that we take on more responsibility for things like holidays and making our own family traditions. Since I have no more grandparents, our family dynamic has shifted and regrouped–a new patriarch/matriach are stepping forward in the form of my parents. This means we need to create our own traditions and work hard to make things meaningful. As the oldest child, I’m learning that means sometimes I have to do more than I want to do, which is usually just showing up. I need to make plans, make food, and make time for events. I don’t want my family to drift apart, because they are so precious to me, and if this week reminded me of anything, it’s that my family members are the greatest people in the world and I want to be around them all the time.

coldantlerfarm

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

Rurally Screwed

Jessie Knadler

Wayward Spark

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

Small Measure

Small Measure

SouleMama

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

Dear Baby

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

longest acres.

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

deliberate life: she turned her can'ts into cans, and her dreams into plans

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 237 other followers