swim like fuck.

"She had to do more than hold on. She had to reach. She had to want it more than she'd ever wanted anything. She had to grab like a drowning girl for every good thing that came her way and she had to swim like fuck away from every bad thing. She had to count the years and let them roll by, to grow up and then run as far as she could in the direction of her best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by her own desire to heal."
-Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

What I Did This Summer.

I hiked and biked. Not nearly as much as I wanted, but I did it. This summer was the summer of fighting against pain to do the things I wanted to do.

I visited a pool that had "adult swim time", which my mom and I agreed would be a stellar title for a dirty romance novel.

I walked to the tops of the highest hills I could find, then sat there for a while enjoying the view. I thought a lot and reassessed a lot of things, trying to decide what truly matter to me now at almost-30.

I went to the beach with my family. It wasn't the greatest vacation we've ever had. There were a lot of complications and problems I won't go into here, but there were also moments like this, watching the people I love run around in the sand, free and happy, the best versions of themselves.

I ate a lot of watermelon and a lot of late-night pizza. I drank kahlua and cream, iced coffee, and wine (not at the same time). I got tipsy with my mom over the most liquor-filled sangria I've ever had.

I watched my son ride a horse for the first time. I watched him fall in love with it. He wants to grow up and be "an engineer and a cowboy".

I made a lot of art. I painted and glued and collaged. I burned out and started up, over and over again. I battled a lot of demons with a paintbrush.

I finally opened up an online shop.

I started hoopdancing again. I felt my body remember how to do the movements, and as a result, felt more connected to myself than I have in a long time. It's nice to be capable, no matter how small the accomplishment.

I made fresh tomato soup, and homemade french fries, and granola. I picked and dried dandelion and plantain and red clover. I made sun tea and dried apple chips and eggs benedict.

I cried a lot. Living with fibromyalgia of ever-increasing severity is no joke. There are days where I am seriously in trouble and there's just not enough help to be had. So I let myself cry, and cry often. There is so much to work through when you live with chronic pain.

I sat out on my porch during thunderstorms.

I watched my son grow tall and lengthen and lose the last of his tiny-boyness, which broke my heart. I made a lot of love and had a lot of arguments. I took long drives through the trees. I woke up with the sunrise on good days and let myself sleep in on the bad ones. I read some amazing books, watched a few movies from my childhood, most notably Little Women and The Secret Garden. I despaired over being so poor, then rejoiced over the simplest things, like homemade marinara sauce, and butter on good bread. I made myself underwear (much like this), and planned more sewing projects. I took my hub on mini-dates to our favorite Thai restaurant, where we ate the yummiest pad thai, shrimp dumplings, and miso soup. I went into the woods at every given opportunity. I left my phone at home a lot. I alternated wildly between feeling horrible about myself and being immensely proud of my achievements. I felt more like a grown-up than ever, which was both terrible and wonderful.

What did you do this summer?

Goodies!

I have some new goodies up in my shop! You can check them out HERE.

This refugee crisis is boggling my mind and tearing my heart up. How can anyone have the stomach to turn these people away? If the roles were reversed, the countries denying these people entry would expect help for themselves, no question. I read and read and I don't understand. These are people. They are like you, like me. They have Facebook pages and iPhones, apartments and houses. Razor wire is erected with an attitude of triumph, like "hey, we're keeping out the pests!" The smug callousness I'm seeing is surprising me--I know, it shouldn't, but it does. How can we place any blame upon a group of people desperately trying to get away from a corrupt and tyrannical government? Will we never learn? Years and years ago, thousands upon thousands of people fled Nazi Germany, only to be turned away--I don't need to tell you how that story ended for most people.

What I want is what I can't have: I want the people who are ignoring this problem to find themselves in the same situation. I want to watch them lose everything, be hollowed-out while still trying to be strong for their children. I want to watch them kneel in the dust with their outstretched hands, begging for the smallest mercy, and watch their hands be slapped away.

the dreamers.

"I want to be outside with the misfits, with the rebels, the dreamers, the second chance givers, the radical grace lavishers, the ones with arms wide open, the courageously vulnerable, and among even--or maybe especially--the ones rejected by the table as not worthy enough or right enough."

--Sarah Bessey