Monday, June 5, 2017

A Writing Desk of my Own

Last week we moved. Across town seems like it might as well be a different state-the 30 minutes from where we were a lifetime. I feel all the emotions changes like this bring. Sadness to leave the place we first brought Owen home, the place where he first spoke "mama" and "dada", where he was taught to walk, where he giggled and played and slept in our arms. The city and streets I grew up on. However, more than that I feel the joy and purpose that is unique only to a fresh start. A new place to live, a new position of the furniture, a new neighborhood, a new grocery store, a new outlook, a new start.

In a way this move feels a little like coming home. My father grew up in a neighborhood five minutes from here, and I spent each Sunday night of my childhood running through the fruit trees in the yard of that old house. The home my parents first brought me home to is just a few streets over-the church we now attend is the same building I was blessed in as a baby. I am literally right back where I started.

I love this old house already. It's charming bay windows and plethora of light make my heart sing. The view of the mountains as I lay in bed and the fireplace mantel dressed with fresh peonies fill me with a sense of home. One of my favorite parts of the house is a piece of furniture that we finally have room for-my great grandmothers writing desk. A beautiful old wood fold down desk that she left for me. I've always loved it, but it's meaning has increased with each passing year. I sit here now and glory in having a dedicated space for myself-a writing desk of my very own-and I wonder if she knew even back then how I'd love to write.


We talk a lot about turning our hearts to our fathers, an activity that has come alive for me since moving here. As I sit rocking Owen just minutes away from where my grandmother raised my father I can't help but wonder if she did the same. As write this at the gorgeous desk that was my great-grandmothers I wonder about all the letters she wrote here, the treasures she hid in it's many drawers. As I walk the halls at church, a baby in my arms, I think about my mother doing the same. I think of all that have come before that have made me who I am, and all that come next. I think of my little link in this never ending chain and wonder how I can make it strong, sure to connect the before and the after. I don't have a simple answer to this-but I have a feeling a good part of it might just take place in this exact spot, here at my writing desk.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Valentines Flowers

Valentines day has always been one of my favorite holidays. I think it started back when I was a little girl. I would anticipate Valentines day for one main reason, getting flowers from my Dad. Each year my dad gave me and my sisters each a beautiful flower arrangement. I always felt so special to get my own Valentines flowers-just like a grown up! I don't think my dad has ever missed a year of Valentines flowers. Usually he hand delivered them to us, but I'll never forget my first Valentines day after getting married-when he drove all the way down to Provo and left them on my doorstep,without even ringing the doorbell, because he didn't want to interrupt the fun Saturday Nate and I had planned. A simple text telling me to look on my porch revealed that my Dad would still be giving me flowers-even though I had a husband to give me some too.

Last year my flowers from my dad were different than before. Valentines came just 8 days after my sweet Owen was born. I was living in that beautiful sleep-deprived yet beyond happy newborn baby bubble complete with c-section incision pain and great fatigue. He brought me flowers, all the exact same color-except one-representing my sweet baby. I'd officially graduated to the "Mama" mothers day flowers-a rose of a different color representing my baby. I don't remember very many details of last February, thanks to the above mentioned bubble-but I remember these flowers.

As I got older it wasn't just the flowers that I appreciated-it was all that they meant. My sweet father, all those years ago, wanted to do something sweet for his daughters, to make them feel loved. And I knew that each year even if I didn't get any 'special' valentines, or very many 'candy-grams' or if I didn't get asked on any dates or have any reason at all to suppose that would ever change I had someone who loved me. I'd look at those beautiful flowers and think that I was so incredibly lucky to have a dad who loved me so much.

Now, it needs to be stated that Nate is an incredibly wonderful husband and that he has also given me flowers every Valentines day, and so many other 'just because' days. He loves me so much, and treats me better than I ever imagined. I am so blessed to get two Valentines flower arrangements each year-one from the man I love the most, my best friend and husband-and the other from the first man I ever loved, the one who made me love Valentines Day.

Where Have I Been?

I've thought about blogging so many times over the last year. Originally I took a break to decide how much of Owen I wanted to share here-how much felt safe and fair to him. I never really made a decision about that, but as time passed I sat down and started a few posts-a birth story, and various "catch up" posts.

So what's different this time? (Assuming I actually push 'Publish' this time around)

I'm writing this for me.

I'm not trying to "catch up" on anything. I don't feel like I need to apologize for missing out on anything, or stress to post a million pictures of Owen's "Go Dog Go" first birthday party! Instead I'm simply blogging now because I miss writing, and for some reason I write best when I'm pushing it out there for the world to see. (Or for the one person that reads my blog these days).

So I'm back. I'm not sure what that means-how often I'll be writing or what I'll be sharing, but my fingers are dancing on the keyboard again and stroke by stroke it feels more like home.