transitions.

i have a new space. this one...well, it's not for me anymore.

you can find me here if you like:

http://saltandink.blogspot.com

xoxo.

the cushion

 i wanted to write something this morning. i know this because i dreamt of ex-friends last night. of running into them on the beach and trying to make small talk, awkward and forced. i woke up and turned on the oven, cracked eggs into a bowl. thought about cutting my hair short. between the blade and the basil, my finger inched forward.

there is nothing like slicing a chunk of flesh to the hinge to make you forget what you wanted to say.

what do you think of first when you hear the word 'cushion?' good, soft, comforting. someplace to rest and feel at home. or is it stagnant, sedentary, insulated, sheltered?
i feel like i'm living in a cushion right now. and i'm wondering how long i can sit here before i just plain can't get up anymore. how long i can lay down before it loses its shape and no longer looks pleasing.

i'm wondering these things because i cannot even chop herbs without losing a pound of flesh.

palms to the sky

sometimes i think the absolute hardest thing in the world to do is to be yourself. to walk around with palms help upward rather than facing outward, away from the body. there are moments when you might be walking around, content, and then someone close to you will find something out about you they didn't know and all of a sudden you are somehow no longer the person they thought they knew and you don't fit into the story they are trying to tell. i am watching this happen in my own life right now. people i love being forced outside the lines because their colors don't fit the landscape. i hold hands with those closest to me and close my eyes because i know, for a fact, that every color that exists is a part of the whole. it doesn't make it any easier, but at least we know who we are. we are the ones who will accept you for who you are.

i met a woman at ikea yesterday. i was walking around with the baby, killing time while my daughter played in the children's play area (because she absolutely loves that place) and as i was strolling through the small storage container section, i noticed this adorable pregnant woman with cutoff jean shorts and a shirt tied in a knot at her belly button. she was fit and healthy looking and for some reason i just blurted out 'you are ADORABLE' because i couldn't help myself. because she was. i remember how abnormal i felt during pregnancy. how sometimes the idea of growing a human in my body felt so incredibly unnatural that it was all i could do to run daily errands and pretend everything was normal without losing my mind. because, really, this idea that my body was responsible for housing the single most important thing in my life was a freakishly terrifying prospect. especially in those months before the baby kicked. once i felt the movement, it all seemed to make sense. in a backwards sort of way. this woman? at ikea? we ended up talking for about 15 minutes, standing among swedish design components. we exchanged phone numbers and i couldn't help but think that i was so close to just walking by her, thinking about how wonderful she looked and wondering what other's perceptions were of me at the time i was pregnant. but i blurted. and so we spoke. and now i might have made a friend. maybe not. maybe that will be the extent of our connection. but the fact remains, there was a connection made to another human being at that time. that little thread of camaraderie that happens between people who share an experience. and i have that little envelope of a memory of me just plain being myself without any reservations and i felt good. i felt connected to the rest of the people walking around me after that. i looked at them and realized we all have our stories, we all have our mornings that happened before we ended up at ikea. we all have the ways in which we cope. and we all have the aching desire to be accepted for who we are. i mean, don't we?

i have moments when i think there is no way in the world i am going to survive this life. there is too much beauty. too much pain. too many times when the other humans i am bumping around with are going to find something out about me and decide nope. don't like that. discard. i think i am going to have to deal with someone rejecting my children at some point in their life simply because of who they are and i have to figure out how to navigate that. because there are times, like when the douchebag in the hummer yelled at me in the parking lot because his monstrosity of a car wouldn't fit next to mine and i didn't have the foresight to pull to the side so he could pass first. there are times when someone will look at you with anger and hatred and all of the bad days in their life shadowing their eyes like a visor and simply being yourself will not be enough. i have to teach them to place those moments next to moments of rows of flowers and look at them at the same time and say to themselves this. this is my life. all of it. the hummers and the flowers and the small storage and the play areas. i have to teach them how to hold all of it in the palms of their hands and still walk around with a smile on their faces.
or maybe i have it all wrong.
maybe they are teaching me.

just me, myself, and i.

this morning was weird. there was a thread of wire between me and my words that somehow made everything sound hollow and insincere. or righteous. or convoluted. somehow misconstrued. and it must have been me. b's voice was tinged with irritation and i was defensive. and then i realized it must be me because the kids just plain didn't like me this morning. it's hard when you share an 850 sq ft bungalow with three other humans and you feel like your feelings are bumping into every wall when you are in the room. white sheet on the floor, i bowed my head.

yesterday i was desperate for some alone time. no kids, no husband, no reason other than i needed to be alone with my own thoughts and not have to worry about communicating with anyone else for at least two to three hours. first the car died. and i felt as though the universe was trying to tell me something and i had to tell myself over and over to react as though this was not a big deal. because part of my job is to teach my children that sometimes the universe is an asshole and that is not enough of a reason to be one yourself. so i smiled, walked back in the house and made lunch for the kids while b took the car to get fixed. later, i got my two to three hours and they were decidedly less sumptuous than i had hoped. seems that getting away by myself for a bit of time didn't help all that much. because i was still there.
like i said, it must be me.

the seven year itch

on may 20th, our seven year anniversary, we woke up early. i fussed with my hair. he tied a bow tie. our kids got dressed at the last minute so they wouldn't ruin their finery. we packed the car with certificates and rings and pink peonies from trader joes. we stopped at cathryn's for a quick shoot. because she is the kind of friend and photographer who is able to capture perfectly how alive you feel. so that you will see your pictures for the first time and you will start crying all over again.

we drove to a courthouse. inside were our parents and my amazing friend, ben, there to record the day for us. we waited in the lobby with other people dressed exactly like us. some fancier. some not. i was wearing sandals. i felt the most beautiful i have ever felt in my life. the rearview mirror of youth be damned.

we stood under an archway inside a tiny room with walls peppered with sponged on blue paint. i didn't know what side to stand on and all of a sudden i heard words along the lines of 'do you, krista, take bryan...' and i felt like a little girl in dress up clothes so i held his hands tighter. i kept my eyes on his and noticed my children in my peripheral vision, watching us, quiet. i was crying more than i expected. i was hovering over the government carpet and i willed myself back into my body because i did not want to forget what this felt like. i wanted to file it away for later so that when i need it, i can take the paper thin memory of that moment out of hiding and hold it up to the light, rub it between my fingers, inhale. 'i do.'

seven years. and i still get fluttery when catch a glimpse of him across the room, not aware i am watching him. he has taught me through example that there is nothing more appealing and inspiring in another human being than to be comfortable in your own skin. he tells me he loves me every single day. and i do not take it for granted. every time he tells me, i acknowledge it, i hear it, i am grateful for it. and i tell him, too. so that he doesn't ever have to wonder.

seven years and i am still surprised by him. a song he likes or a food he doesn't. and i remind myself that i cannot ever suppose to know every facet of him. that it makes me so happy for the future to know the person i am closest to in the world is still a book waiting to be read. that his chapters are still being written and that i get to see the first draft, always.

seven years, two babies together (and his teenage son who completes our little circle), and our wedding was not the best day of my life. because this is not the peak. things are not downhill from here.
the best day of my life hasn't happened yet.

i do.

(photos by cathryn farnsworth)