It’s hard to pick up writing again. For me, journaling is not an old friend who (though years may have passed) you can sit and sip coffee with like no time has turned at all. No, writing remembers…. So, I apologize if this is the other side of eloquent.
I have been working pretty non-stop for about a year, with but a few breaks in between, and though I am grateful, I can’t help but feel worn. This January we moved to Houston and have just gotten the chance to settle in to our little apartment with our equally little family.
I am savoring all of these moments. These moments of early morning coffee, of the light casting an effervescent glow on the hardwood floors, of the smell of mint and rosemary perfuming the kitchen, of dinners eaten around the coffee table (because we haven’t gotten around to finding one for the kitchen just yet), of midday walks, and of late night conversations talking about everything, saying nothing.
These moments of just living. And breathing. And being enough.
I’m rather introverted, hermit-like, and recluse-ish (and yes, those might very well mean the same thing), but I have found a small stage in this odd social realm here and on instagram.
I’ve always thought that photos can tell stories sometimes better than words can, capture candid, honest moments: slices in time. Those are the pictures and stories I find myself chasing, that I find myself hungry to tell… even if they are seemingly insignificant.
These photos for instance portray our little family exploring the neighborhood; a simple act of taking a walk. But for me, this is the depiction of happiness, the closest thing I have to bottling memory.
I can look at these photos in this liminal space and smell spring, see Dexter relentlessly pestering the squirrels, hear the birdsong of finches and wren, and feel her kisses warm on my skin.
Where an outside viewer may just see flowers, I see happiness.