I have not published anything on this blog site in 5 years.
I don’t think I’m the same person I was 5 years ago. I’m afraid to read the old blog posts.
I probably won’t.
We’ll just start again.
I have recently heard from two different people that I am a good writer, which was all the motivation I needed to return to this blog.
We’ll see how it goes.
There is a fine line between thriving in chaos and wanting to run away from it all. As soon as the scales tip, I daydream about driving until the gas runs out and starting over wherever that happens to be. Then Responsible Me speaks up, reminding Reckless Me that We have a husband, pets, a job, etc. and we can’t drive off anywhere. Fine, Reckless Me, responds, I need a vacation.
The only problem is, I can’t take a vacation every time Reckless Me feels the urge. Not only that, vacation is supposed to be fun, not a way to escape daily life. If I was really living my best life, I wouldn’t need to escape it would I? Vacation could be about exploring new places, going on adventures, trying new things, eating different foods, relaxing and just having fun. They wouldn’t have to be I-don’t-care-where-just-get-me-out-of-here weekend trips, sleeping in a hotel, tricking myself into feeling rejuvenated, just to go back to work Monday and realize that I don’t feel better at all.
No, what I need isn’t a vacation. What I need is to rest every day. Such a simple concept but so difficult to put into practice. I don’t have time to rest – I have things to do. Work, taking care of pets, cleaning the house, making food, spending time with my husband… Where would I find the time for resting? Especially when there are more important things to do.
I’m wrong again. Rest is important. Rest keeps Reckless Me from trying to commandeer this ship and lets Responsible Me feel calm amidst the chaos. I’m talking about physical, emotional, and spiritual rest. I need sleep, y’all. I need my bedtime routine. Ideally, I would read and/or write for half an hour, wash my face, brush my teeth, pray, and fall asleep to a guided meditation every night. Most nights I barely get my teeth brushed.
As an introvert, I need emotional rest too. I spend a lot of energy being with people, making conversation and interacting with others is draining for me. If I don’t have time alone to recharge, I am grumpy and unpleasant. See, I worry about what to say and how to say it; I worry what people are thinking of me, and why did I wear this outfit? It takes a lot out of me, even when I’m with people I know and love to be around. So the down time by myself is really important.
Arguably the most important kind of rest is spiritual. It’s a common verse – “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”* But what does it mean? What kind of labour, and how heavy is heavy laden? There are plenty of people who work harder, longer hours than I do. Do I really need to take up the Lord’s time and attention?
Absolutely. We all need rest. God gives it to us for free, every day, if we’ll take it. It really is easy, if we can let go of our obligation to all of those things on our to do lists. We don’t have to live in chaos until we feel the desire to escape from life. We can, and should, rest daily in the Lord. He can handle all of our burdens. He can enlighten us as to what is important, and which of those to do list items can be erased. Wouldn’t it be responsible of me to take care of myself, so I can show up better for my family and my job?
That starts with letting go of the idea that I have ever, or will ever, thrive in chaos. I haven’t, and I won’t. That’s not how God wants me to live. He wants me to have joy in Him. I should make time for prayer, time for bible reading, time for work, time for family, time for hobbies, time for vacation, and remember that if I’m overwhelmed I can take it all to the Lord, who gives us rest.
❤ JK
*Matthew 11:28 KJV
Pinewood Acres, Sunset Terrace, New Street, Pearson’s Corner, Sunset Terrace again, Main Street, Cannon Mills, Chapelcroft, Sheafe Court, Redmill. I have had many homes – two mobile, two apartments, one had my name on the mortgage and one was just a rented room. I felt at home in all of them, though I never felt attached to the physical buildings. I think it is true that home is where the heart is – the place itself doesn’t matter much.
The only thing I remember about my first home is that there was a playground in the neighborhood with one red swing and one blue swing. My next home was close enough to the elementary school that I walked there and back in second grade. The longest I spent in a home were the 10 years my family lived on a farm (it wasn’t our farm, but we rented a little land for our mobile home). Then there was the year I lived with my grandparents. After that, I moved back in with my dad and sister to a new home where my room was also the laundry room and guest bathroom. I really liked that one, though.
From there, I moved in with my husband. I was proud of our first apartment, mostly because it felt good to be “on our own.” It only had one bathroom, though, which was the. worst. Moving had always been easy because as a kid, I didn’t have much stuff. I wasn’t responsible for any of the logistics. I enjoyed arranging my things in their new spaces. Since neither my husband nor I had furniture, moving in together was easy too. We picked out furniture together and had it delivered. Despite having moved several times, it wasn’t until I was 25 years old that I learned how to pack.
I loved that we bought a house with “potential,” but the timing wasn’t great. We had to be out of our apartment the day after we signed the paperwork for the house. We didn’t have time to paint over the yellow or purple walls. We didn’t have time to redo any of the mismatched floors. After everything was moved in though, I didn’t care that much. It was our first house!
I like the newness of moving, the purging of old things, the preparation of new spaces. I like deciding where to put what, and then rearranging it all three times before I get it just right. I like making rooms feel a certain way, warm and welcoming. That, to me, is more important than the building itself. The mobile homes, the one bedroom apartment, the three bedroom house were all home to me.
Houses that I never lived in have been home to me. Houses I haven’t seen yet will be home to me, too.
❤ JK
Over the weekend, I celebrated my wedding anniversary. I was only 22 years old when we got married, and quickly learned that ‘livin’ on love’ doesn’t get you very far. We still have a ways to go, but here are 6 things I’ve learned in my 6 years’ of marriage:
<3JK
I once had a dream that I was in my grandparents’ backyard laying in the grass. I was alone, soaking up the warm breeze. Slowly I got up, went inside, and walked up the stairs into a bedroom. There was a crib in the middle of the room, no other furniture or anything on the walls. I picked up the baby and held him close, stroking his dark hair. That was the whole dream. Somehow when I woke up I knew that the baby was mine, and his name was Blake.
Fast forward to July 11, 2017 and I thought I was dreaming when the pregnancy test displayed two pink lines instead of one. After four years of negatives I hardly expected a different outcome. I cried hysterically for a minute before calling my sister, “This can’t be real.”
It was three days before I could tell my husband, as he was living four hours away at the time. I nestled the three positive pregnancy tests in a little gold box with white tissue paper. I could see the incomprehension at first, then the joy spread across his face. It was amazing. It was as if our lives finally made sense; as if we could see clearly for the first time. I felt lighter somehow, but also fuller. I was filled with love I had never felt before. I was sure that everyone would see it in my face but I didn’t care if the whole world knew. We waited so long for this. For six days I walked on air.
Then I had my first doctor’s appointment. The one where she was supposed to confirm that everything was perfect. Instead she said, half squinting at the ultrasound monitor, “I don’t see anything,” and the roller coaster ride began.
Those next three weeks were the longest of my life. We held out hope that it was a mistake. Maybe I ovulated late; maybe the ultrasound didn’t pick up what was really going on in there. Maybe the baby will keep growing.
August 8, 2017 was the third ultrasound. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law were both there. We prayed together before I went in. The technician was quiet while she maneuvered the ultrasound wand, saving picture after picture. When she was finished I said, a little desperately, “Is he still there?” She gave me a ‘please don’t’ look and started to say that someone would call me. I asked her again, a little more desperately, “Can you tell me anything? Please. I need to know.”
“I’m so sorry. There’s been no change.”
I felt as if my whole body was caving in on itself. The technician apologized again and I thanked her for telling me. As the door closed behind her I collapsed in tears, “How am I going to tell David?”
I held his tiny, precious life for just a moment and it changed me forever. I walked around like the sun shone from inside me. I still smile when I think about it and I’m grateful for that bit of peace. Now there’s a tiny shadow in my heart. I don’t mind it, though. I think about him every day. When I do finally meet him he’ll know how loved he is. That makes me smile too.
❤ JK
I was 11 years old the summer we adopted our first dog. Although he said we were only going to take a look, I’m sure my dad knew that he would have to take the dog with my sister and me in tow. She came running out of her current owner’s house and did laps around the yard. Rachel and I found this very amusing. About a year old, her ears were huge and her tongue hung out the side of her mouth. Her name was Barbie but we changed it to Jaime.
Jaime loved living out in the country with our big yard. She and the neighbor’s dog, Bear, (also a German Shepherd) had quite the fling. Jaime would Houdini her way off the long lead and visit him, frequently returning home smelling like the horse pasture on our neighbor’s land. On her best days, she’d go for a swim in their pond and show up just in time for dinner. Rachel and I would tag-team giving her a bath before she was allowed back in the house.
She didn’t care though; Jaime loved the hose, as well as playing frisbee, and chasing our ratty old soccer ball around the yard. She was sweet and goofy, but like all good Shepherds she was also very smart. She looked out for Rachel and I, sleeping in our bedroom every night.
That Thanksgiving, thanks to her rendezvous with Bear, she gave birth to 8 puppies. Rachel and I missed the birth and were disappointed, though Daddy assured us we should be glad we were not there for that clean up. He bought a kiddie pool and a dog playpen, and set them up in our dining room. Our very own dog nursery.
Jaime was a good mom, although she would occasionally roll over onto puppies as they tried to nurse. Rachel and I were always sitting right there, watching, and would wriggle them out from under her swollen belly. We adored having puppies. We watched them grow until they were crawling around the playpen, their tiny puppy barks sending us into laughing fits.
Call us crazy, but we drove to Georgia over Christmas break. My dad, Rachel, me, Jaime and all 8 puppies squished into our van and made the 12-hour drive, kiddie pool included. When we came home it was time to start looking for their permanent homes. I knew we couldn’t possibly keep them all but it was sad to see them go. We had given them all names by then. I don’t remember them all now but my favorite was a fluffy boy we called Fozzie, as in Fozzie Bear from the Muppets.
The following Christmas Jaime had a litter of 9 puppies. Again, Rachel and I missed the birth and again, my dad insisted we were better off. One of the puppies went to a friend of a friend so we were able to watch him grow up through pictures and an occasional play day.
I was in the 7th grade and Jaime was only about 3 years old when one day she ran off and didn’t come home for dinner. We looked and looked for her, checking at the SPCA several times, but we never saw her again. Since she didn’t turn up anywhere, including the side of the road, we assumed someone found her and took her in. I like to think she lived happily with her new family until old age caught up to her.
She was a good dog for sure. Perfect for two little girls and their daddy.
❤ JK
photo credit: Jon Dubin
I have been kind of a writer since the third grade. I wrote mostly poetry from ages 9 – 18, then took a long break from writing altogether. I recently began journaling per my therapist’s suggestion and am comfortable calling myself a writer again. The poetry was ceremoniously thrown away when I was about 18 and I regret it all the time. Conversely, I believe in my writing so much now that decided to try my hand at blogging. I sometimes have a way with words and hope that what I share here is helpful in some way. <3JK
So I just let slip to all 200 of my Facebook friends that I’m going to see a counselor next week.
It’s been a long time coming and I have this (in)fertility journey to thank for pushing me over the edge. I can’t tell you how many times my husband has said, “You need to talk to someone.” I can’t tell you how many times I thought about it, looked into it, made sure my insurance would cover it, wrote down the phone number…and conveniently forgot to actually make the appointment.
When I’m having a good day it’s easy to tell myself I don’t need the help. Look, I’m showering and going to work like a normal human being. Look, I’m walking my dogs and feeding them. Look, I’m going out with my friends.
Then a bad day comes along and my fake-it-til-you-make-it doesn’t work, and I panic. You probably wouldn’t notice it if you saw me during an anxiety attack. I have gotten so good at hiding it. On the inside, though, my heart is racing and my lungs stopped working but somehow I’m still talking, walking, working.
Anxiety has always been part of my life. Since I was a child, dreading the first day of school, I have had anxiety. Back then, it manifested as stomach- and headaches; the anticipation of the unknown was too much for my little heart to handle.
For about the last 12 years, I have suffered anxiety attacks. I know my triggers, I can feel it coming, I can walk you through the whole experience. But no matter what I do, I can not prevent it from happening. I can push it down for a little while, maybe, but it will come. And I will be helpless. Powerless.
I’ll be my 10-year-old self, or my 15-year-old self. I will forget who my 27-year-old self is. I will be unable to form a coherent thought, much less be able to tell you what is happening.
I know that I will struggle with anxiety for the rest of my life. I am hoping that counseling will be the first step toward recovery. They say that doctors make the worst patients, and helpers are the worst at asking for help. Ironic how much I will advocate for someone else to do the things to get well, but for a long time I couldn’t make myself do the things. Now that’s it out here in the internet, I have to go, right?
<3JK
I am an introvert. I have always been able to entertain myself, hardly ever needing another person to interact with. I very much enjoy solitary activities such as reading, or playing…solitaire…haha! See? I even laugh at my own jokes! Don’t get me wrong, I like people and I love my friends. Most of my friends are not introverts and that is good for me because they make me leave the house once in a while. Sunlight? What’s that? My extroverted friends are wonderful. They make me laugh with their endless stories (and I mean, endless…extroverts never stop talking). They make me act silly, in public even. And I hate. hate. hate. to embarrass myself or appear dumb in any way. But the extroverted friend doesn’t care because they’re too busy having fun. Extroverted friends are great but introverted friends are special.
In no particular order, this is why you need an introverted friend:
Thank you to my extroverted friends for living out loud and dragging me along.
If you have an introverted friend tell them you love them! If you don’t – go find yourself one! (But be careful, we startle easily)
<3JK
Coco Chanel once said, “A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.”
I just cut my hair. Not so sure about the life changing, but then again I’m writing this while sitting at a booth in Panera, which has never happened before, so, who knows.
I love getting my hair cut. A couple of years ago I started getting a shampoo, too, and that, my friend, is a game changer. Get the shampoo, girl! It’s so worth it. The head massage is the best part of the whole thing. For five minutes I’m so relaxed I could fall asleep. Then comes the haircut part and I leave looking fabulous which means I feel pretty darn fab, too! Getting a shampoo and haircut is my version of going to a spa. I recommend doing this about every other month.
Growing up I would let my hair get long enough to donate after it was cut. I did that three or four times I think. Then after I went into high school I just left it short. I would get a haircut whenever I felt like life was getting too crazy. I still have that mentality. Today’s haircut came after growing my hair out for a year. I do like it long; I have beautiful hair, not to brag, it really is pretty. But long hair is work – the hair washing and styling, it’s too much for my lazy self. So it ends up in a pony tail a lot of the time, which is not that pretty. Anyway, last week I was feeling overwhelmed and decided the hair had to go. Unfortunately my guy at the Great Clips was off that day so I had to wait.
That’s another good lesson – when you find a good hair stylist, stick with them. Marco is the only guy working at this Great Clips and just happened to be the person who cut my hair the first time I went there. I went to this Great Clips because it’s closest to my apartment. But the stars were aligned because this man can cut hair! And he gives a great head massage.
<3JK
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