"It looks like plastic. I'm not trying to be critical, but since you asked, it looks like you could peel your face off with a paint scraper."
Sigh.
My seventeen year old was giving me the truth I had asked for. I am turning forty in one week. I have never worn much make-up. I hate it. Sometimes I'll wear a little eye makeup...but that's about it. So I'm getting older and so is my skin. I thought maybe I should start sprucing myself up a bit more- you know, wear a little foundation, maybe some lipstick. Nothing too dramatic. It didn't go over well.
"That's not something you should say to your mother," my sweet husband says from the next room. I defend my son, "No, I asked for the truth."
I went to clean the makeup off. It's always better to be myself, anyway. My children like my plain face, and I am happy.
The other day I had some peaches from a can (store bought) left over. I put them in a canning jar and thought, "How pretty these peaches look. You would never know they weren't canned at home. " I decided that those peaches are like blogs. We take our life experiences and 'can' them, sometimes making them look a little better than they are. I think it's important to focus on the positive, but I want to be authentic, too.
Turning forty is big for me...Only one more week of thirties!
I am going to spend time this week reflecting on changes I would like to make in my life . I have been either pregnant/nursing or both for eighteen years! In the next decade that chapter will close...
I don't want to think about it all too much, but I do.
I love my life, my husband, and my nine wonderful children. I am moved by nature and the glory of God's creation. In fact, I was thinking of the scenery around me; we have lived here eight years now. Month has curled over month, bringing changes in the landscape that reflect the changes of life. I am amazed by the fury of the days - the passing on of moments and dreams, the worries, the joys, the hopes; life unfurls in its ebbs and flows, pounding out rhythm. But I can't catch it; I can't hold it; it slips through these fragile hands. I can only be present to what is NOW.
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| Soil womb awaits the planting. |
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| She has risen from her coiled slumber. |
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From icy splendor... |
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| To Summer lush. |
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| fertile and overflowing |
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| barren but beautiful |
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| A sea of peace |
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| A gentle unfolding. |
