my bathtub is a time machine.

i drew myself a bath, let the water run over my toes. i poured in some salts because i like their grit, and i like the way they smell, though i'm not sure what the fragrance is supposed to be. they are a homemade gift in an unmarked glass bottle. they're sweet and fresh. i've nearly used a third of my portion.

then i poured some more.

and just like that, i found myself somewhere in a memory. i was a little girl in an unnamed apartment...clean and white and empty with firm brown carpet and freshly painted walls. i saw myself exploring, peeking around corners, and pondering adventure. i was there. submerged in this recollection. it was keen and real, and then it was gone. i couldn't tell you how old i was or whose apartment i was in. but the scent of those salts brought me back...through a series of buried connections i found myself in the past. time travel. it was so vividly distinct and so cloudy, like remembering a dream. it shot me through the webs of my subconscious and then snapped me back to my bath.

i don't know if this makes any sense at all. or if it's supposed to. i think the smell of the salts must have reminded me, some version of myself, of painted walls. fresh paint.

this remembering has happened a surprising amount lately. perhaps it's because i live on the farm again...i'm home...stepping over this familiar ground. or maybe it's because now i have a child of my own and find myself reliving the past often, find myself aware of my age. aware that i'm supposed to be an adult, yet excited and envious to watch him grow. i find a part of myself beautifully longing and aching for something that has past away. contemplating breveity. but still, i'm delighted with each fleeting memory...capturing each treasure in a mason jar like children do.

i'm thoroughly enjoying this life, the making and the remembering. the change. from time to time, though, i do admittingly get lost in the photographs, even ones from not even a year ago. when our son was born. the nostalgia is sticky sweet and heavy like smoke. the years lap unyieldingly, flying right on by. i'm amazed at how different everything has become. but what's stranger still, is how much everything is the same.*

*but more on that later.

a-ga-pe

a⋅ga⋅pe 
1. the love of God or Christ for humankind.

this week has hosted the annual Camp Good News Day Camp -

a week i have longingly looked forward to for the past three years.

refreshing, challenging &, at times, heartbreaking.

this past monday rolled around, and i was frazzled.

my heart was callused,

my mind led me to swim in frustration...

scores to count, kids misbehaving, utter chaos.

tuesday appeared...and then evaporated.

i hit the proverbial wall.

already physically and emotionally drained.

wednesday brought with it softness.

and today, well, today...

i found myself alive, aware...

my heart swelling out of my chest.

we gathered around the fire pit to teach the kids today's verse:

mark 12:30

i felt Him.

i felt Him in the wind as it brushed against my face,

turning the leaves.

i heard His rustling.

i saw His touch through the life growing around me.

the campers listening to the verse-

soaking up the words

& the love

& the moment.

many without yet realizing the magnitutude.

so much potential.

what will grip their heart?

paul talked to them with so much passion.

my first week of day camp coincided with the budding of our relationship.

we grew together.

today i listend to my husband speak his soul

& His word.

and i fell in love with him more

& i fell in love with Him more.

i saw two sisters hug while they prayed.

wrapped up and loving it and loving on each other.

a few rows up, two friends held hands -

everyone else with their eyes closed.

not for show, but for love.

after the kids went home

and the counselors had their dinner,

i slipped away to feel.

to feel the ground.

the sun.

Him.

to feel.
no camera this time -

i told my mind to remember

and my heart not to forget.

i listened to the sound of my weight on the world.

i tried to see everything with fresh eyes,

inspired by the very ones i was there to inspire and spend the week with.

giant trees with fingers dug into the ground,

& tiny, oblivious lives on their wooden skin.

today i reflected on quiet.

on internal.

on growth.

on beginnings.

balance.

connection.

i sat down at a picnic table to write, to get it all down.

how is this feeling on my shoulders and in my soul

going to translate into who i am and the work i do?

the surface of the table was gnarly and carved with names

of people i may never know.

they were here, too.

fleeting moments.

peaceful moments.

i may not ever be here again.

but i'm here now.

collect & gather.

{{on a less serious note, i thought i might include this little jewel, a part of the team's winning sculpture. a ram. made of balloons. and which, at one point, had 12 legs.
let's face it: it doesn't get any better than that}}

my husband thinks i'm a geologist...

the other day i caught myself showing off

my rock collection to a dear friend.

telling her my easy dreams and big ideas.

actually, my husband caught me.

he said i was a geologist.

there are certain things i remember about growing up.
i remember taking long walks...

back and forth down the dirt road to the neighbor's house.

i was almost always followed by a trail of dogs, even goats.

i'd entertain the trees.

i would think out loud:

stories

poems

imaginary creatures.

i'd be gone for hours without realizing.

physical books would come later...

collaborations with friends.

notebook pages and printer paper bound by staples,

written and illustrated by our own hands.

i remember posing my stuffed animals in the front yard...
i was on a photo safari, creeping up upon

unsuspecting plushes grazing in the flower bed.

i had a lot of animals.

all different kinds.

they made me happy.

i remember drawing in all my spare time.
i remember collecting rocks, coins, fossils, little curiosities...

i even had a rock tumbler.

i remember wearing cowboy boots

and shoestring bows made by my grandmother

for me.

i tell you all this because i came to a conclusion

that was a long time in the making...

you are made to be you.

for awhile i felt as if i had lost sight of myself.

but i feel as if i have settled back into my skin...

i have embraced my heart once again.

i have returned to sunny optimism

and a barefoot soul.

i am STILL a photographer.
i am STILL an artist.

i am STILL a writer.

i am STILL a lover of nature.

i am STILL a wild berry picker.

i am STILL comforted by Reba's quilts.
i AM who i always have been.

and will be.


just reconstructed.


i am STILL a rock collector.

my husband thinks i'm a geologist...