A letter to Canada from Oklahoma and hot cocoa to warm the bones. ✉✏
The empty pages in your notebook are the soil in which you can grow flowers or weeds out of stories and songs. Don't let dust and emptiness dribble here. Sing, write, wonder, repeat.
I grew up being ashamed of my hands because they are small. It has taken me years to realize how wasteful it is to be ashamed of something so integral to daily living and loving. How could it be? I was ashamed of the very thing that rolls flour into dough and rubs the backs of loved ones. These hands of mine can grow food out of recipes, push roots into flowerbeds, and make sounds out of banjo strings. I love my hands. I love my hands. They are small but they are mighty.
I am dreaming about sending invitations by way of flowers to the bees and butterflies. It's not even springtime yet, so I must keep dreaming and plotting the garden in my head. What flowers will you grow this year?
Deconstructed potpourri | a mixture of dried flower petals, leaves, plant life and spices that is used to make a room smell pleasant. Find little reasons if you can't find big reasons to enjoy your moments spent alive on a Monday.
An apple a day and poetry.
I visit my pressed flowers as often as I can, I write poems in my notebook, I run my fingers against my guitar, I look at apples and try to see how something so ordinary can also be beautiful. Sometimes I cry and holler until the mountains can hear me, other times I accidentally break petals in half and end up feeling angry, but most times I try to see the beauty by letting the flowers curl and the poems be written as they may. I do not need a perfect life to have flowers, forests and little everyday magic.
Maybe, one day I'll have photographs that show you how I weep or the look of fear on my face when the oven catches fire – but for now, the flowers are here to comfort the both of us.
Enjoy the little things.