just an ordinary day

I sit back in front of the screen, keyboard at my fingertips with the craving to tell an extraordinary story about my day, about my life. On the tip of my tongue, creative genius is waiting to spill out.

I'm delusional. Not only am I not a creative genius, I have no extraordinary story to tell. But the craving is still there. More times than not, I ignore it for lack of something to say. Who wants to hear about my ordinary day?

I'm not in turmoil, I do not grieve, I am not a victim or lost trying to find my way. There is no delicious story full of drama, with edge of your seat excitement hidden in my past. I am no heroine. I have skeletons and regrets and scars hidden away in my closet, but they're just teeny compared. A scene of 'nothing to see here'. I'm not suffering or want for anything. I can't share stories of how I survived a tremendous ordeal.

But, if not being any of those things causes a lack of things to say, lets hope I never write another word. I guess my ordinary day is saying something all by itself. Something along the lines of 'you lucky girl' perhaps.

So today I sit here grateful and I appreciate how the ordinary can be extraordinary. This morning Owen got dressed by himself and my coffee was brewed and prepared to perfection. If I could have purred I would have, it was soooo good.

I'll keep rolling that creative genius around on my tongue until my kids do something funny.

Chink in the armour

Everyday I put on my armour and get out of bed. It's what keeps me from being nothing more than a blob of mush on the floor composed of contradictions that can hardly co-exist. My raw self that I don't understand anymore than the next guy.

This armour of mine, it isn't perfect but I've tried to form it into the person I want to be. Sometimes it cracks and my raw self comes pooling out. Exposing me to the world for who I really am. Raw emotion is hardly ever pretty. Self preservation hardly stops to consider others feelings. Insecurity feeds off of others strengths to the ultimate damage of its own host, as does jealousy. A crack in the helmet and I'm over come by the drone of constant argument between the angel and devil which have perched on my shoulders, in an infinite debate. Leading me in circles. Like most debates, there is no conclusion or agreement.

The saint with all the patience surely wasn't named Misty. I'm not sure if my rope is shortened by the outside world or what lives inside my head. I am more often than not, my own worst enemy.

All I can do is shove on my armour, hope it doesn't crack, lead with my heart and try to keep it from slipping out from under my sleeve.

A smile on the apple pie

Today I prepared our thanksgiving feast. No feast would be complete without apple pie. Not just any apple pie, one like my mother used to make. You see, no apple pie is complete without a smiling face.

I never thought of myself as a traditional person until I reached adulthood. Basically, I think it's because I didn't realize I was. Not until I read a book in University about rural history and the role of women in it. Through the chapters I recognized stories told by my grandmother, mother and some I could tell myself. Weird I thought, that I can relate to these women from a century ago and the ripe ol age of 21. It's somehow comforting.

My goal as a farmer, which is shared through history, is to feed my family. Not to become rich, not so someone can call me successful. Just so I can be a little more self reliant, and simple and pure. So I can teach that to my kids, like my parents taught me. Maybe tradition is as much thought as it is action.

Most of the ways my grandparents used are long gone, but some remain. The more I look the more I find. With our new home, new land and the beginning of our farm, I have noticed it more. Especially lacking a tractor. I'm thankful for being shown how parents and grandparents did things. How they made do with what they had. I'm proud of the fence I built, with Grampy's home made fence tightner.

I know I will appreciate a tractor a whole lot more when we finally have the luxury. But I think I'll get a harness for the horse first. I'm sure my Dad can teach me, after all Grampy taught him.

Life in the service of a cat.

Our house, like most others is full of unwritten rules. I buy groceries, Mart mows the lawn. We even have some unusual ones, like no feathered pets. I love ducks and chickens, but I guess I can't win all the time.

There is one rule that rules above all else. It can trump any chore and gives reason for others to do things for you, without argument. I don't know how the rule was created. Hobbes must be way smarter than we ever gave a cat credit for, because of course, the rule benefits him the most. Heaven forbid, he ever be disturbed.

If the cat is sitting on my lap, I can't, just can't get up to answer the phone or get myself an evening snack. I can't. The cats on me, I am immobile. Out of service until he decides to move. Of course, because of the under lying laziness of our species, this rule is often taken advantage of. If it weren't for the cunning mastermind of Hobbes, it would be down right abused. But he is not one to be placed on a lap. He is wise and all knowing. The only way he will lay upon your lap is if he chooses. (Or you have the brown cosy blanket on you.) We still try though, to stretch this rule, while we lay like mush on the couch. Hooray for me, if so much as my pinkie hides under his plush, soft, extra cushiony coat.

Hobbes does not allow cheaters. Don't try to slip in under him, when the ring of "can you..." is heard in the house. Hobbes will be gone, and you'll be stuck, sitting there alone, doing nothing. No way out of this chore. Better luck next time.