Forever pink and blue crocs...

I was looking back through photos on Flickr this morning... the one above is three years old. I can look at the photo and think to myself that it was a while ago. But when I type that - three years - it feels like an eternity. And now I look at my babies and she is all legs and movement and curly wild hair, and he is toothless and tall and almost lanky in ways. She still snuggles with us most nights, and he still wants to be oh so close all the time (except when he doesn't, and she doesn't...) I love that I can still see their babyhood in their faces even though they are full into childhood. Their cheeks are still round, their hands still fit in mine. They still wear Crocs (pink for her, blue for him, always). 

I love that through them I can see time, it's changes and sameness.

Sinking in

Since Monday, we've been dealt a few tough cards. It has been a bit of a slap in the face after such a beautiful weekend away with the family. I'm learning to be okay with not being okay.

Recently I read an Eckhardt Tolle quote in which he says "Whatever the present moment contains, embrace it as if you had chosen it." 

I like that. Practicing that, and practicing letting go, are the two main things I'm focusing on this week. As well as breathing. Breath, Corinne. And on that note, I'm so thankful that I have friends who remind me to breathe. Thank you...

{editing to add that while I'm not going to talk about said tough cards at this moment, this isn't a cry for help, it's just me putting out there and sharing that it's okay to not be okay. I'm just showing up in my own way in this space as I feel called to do so. It's all part of the journey!}

From the mountains...

My heart did flip flops this weekend. We spent three days up in the White Mountains for an end of the school year celebration at Story Land. And while the kids had an absolute blast at the park - rides and ice cream and splash pads and face painting and gift shops galore - it was the mountains that thrilled me. There was a moment of realization. It might have been Saturday nigh at a scenic overlook, where the light and shadows and rain clouds illuminated the countless mountains. It might have been the two hours spent at Echo Lake on Sunday morning, where the water was clear and kids fished for tadpoles and we only needed to speak in a whisper to be heard. Or it might have been on the ride home, counting off the things that would be oh-so-nice about living in the mountains with access to clear lakes for swimming, kayaking, canoeing. And all that fresh air... 

Whenever it was, I realized that this ocean girl might have a bit of mountain love in her. 

And that has shocked me. Stirred something in me. The result is yet to be seen. But for the first time in a while, I feel utterly awake and in love with a place I had long forgotten.

Room of daydreams

I've long been a fan of daydreaming. Meditation? Eh. But daydreaming... letting my mind wander... surprisingly, it settles me. There's power in meandering thoughts. There's power in giving ourselves the nod of approval to sit and seemingly do nothing. 

During the past week or so I've made an effort to sit up in my room, alone, in the afternoon for a spell. It never lasts long, and often my quiet time ends up with a bed full of checker boards and Uno cards and arms and legs, but simply making an effort to have the space - the room - to stretch and breathe and daydream makes all the difference in my attitude. 

In the same respect, I love our room. I love the tranquility of sheer curtains and the comfort, as well as familiarity, of a handmade quilt. Way back when Lucas and I were getting ready to share an apartment, the only hesitation I had in the very back of my mind was if I'd be able to share a bedroom... {I'm not sure I have ever even mentioned that to him!} but luckily he has always been the most patient, loving man, and easy going in terms of decor and whatnot. He's long understood and put up with my love of our bedroom, in whatever house we are in. The need for quiet. The need for space. The need to quietly move from sleep to wakefulness {that, unfortunately, has gone out the window with having little ones about...}

And while my children might not understand that forcing the alarm clock is not a pleasant way for mommy to wake up, they do understand that our bedroom is for snuggles and daydreaming and rest. Even if sometimes they bounce and we give airplane rides with our feet, and we tell silly stories or jokes, for the most part there is much conversation and secrets told and dreams shared. It is a place where together or separate, we worship and delight in dreams. 

You need room to do that. You need space. You need to give yourself permission to do nothing but let the mind wander, and the dreams to surface, and the willingness to follow their lead. 

truth of a tooth

I'm sitting here on this sunny Tuesday morning, sipping coffee and thinking back on the last three days. We had a full weekend. Days and nights spent up in Maine with my inlaws. Kids swimming in the pool, the smell of chlorine lingering still. Tide pooling. Scraped legs, green from sliding down rocks covered in algae and seaweed. Ice cream and crab cakes and chowder and cookies and donuts. The good life. 

Also? My oldest lost his first tooth. In Maine. At an ice cream shop. He was chomping on an ice cream cone and told me his tooth hurt. I peeked in and low and behold it wasn't the tooth that is a teeny tiny bit wiggly that we've been paying attention to for months, but one on the bottom that we had no idea was even remotely on it's way out. Two minutes later his face changed, bewildered, mid chomp, and his tooth was out. The tooth fairy made a very special stop that evening. 

All this and I'm left thinking about how often we focus on something that is not really the issue, or the thing that warrants all this heavy thought and concern, when life simply happens the way it is meant to. Throwing us curve balls when we least expect them, and then realizing these events that simply happen without our intervention are the big ones. The real life events that make up our existence regardless of our interference and meddling. Leaving us with how many moments spent, exhausted, on unnecessary thought and worry, trying to create our own issues. 

Sunday morning, before the gaping hole in my sons mouth emerged, the two of us spent an early hour at one of our favorite beaches. A little stretch of protected dunes and sand and tidepools. We threw rocks, collected shells and sea glass. And we visited some trees that had washed ashore that we visited months ago. We saw the changes that just a few months {from our last visit} of weather can create. The wood softened, the driftwood sculpture half covered in sand, the exposed edges painted with textures and shadows. Statues on the beach, talismans of the magic of nature and time. 

Wild

We haven't seen the sun since Sunday. The clouds have hung around like blankets, offering a bit of rest and respite before the swell of summer activities that begins this weekend. It is our last week of our first year of homeschooling... and we are taking things quietly. Reviewing and reading and easing our way into a schedule of more relaxed days and a routine of not much. 

But we want the sun. At nearly five and six and a half, the kids need to be outside. Thunderstorms loom and the inside of our home is bursting with energy and this is another reminder that I cannot contain wild beings. 

They are not meant to be contained, these children. 

I've been feeling the same way about writing. That it cannot be contained. That if you have the itch for it, the want, the desire to stream words together, they cannot be contained to a mind. They need to be spilled out, bursting forth from a safe, comfortable home with wild abandon. 

Wild. How often do we see that word and cringe? Cower in the face of a wild thought or craving or urge? Scared that it might be too much. Too primal. Indecent. But maybe, just maybe, if we let go of some our inhibitions regarding all things wild, we can connect to our natural, our primal, needs and fulfill ourselves in a deeper more fulfilling way. Instead of stifling and hiding. 

And so the blanket of clouds offers a bit of a cushion, a pillow of rest before the swell. 

A progression...

Years ago, when my firstborn was still an infant, I started a blog. I started it to share stories about him, our days, share photos and keep grandparents up to date with our life. It was titled The Story of Fynn. And then my daughter was born, and I changed the title to The Story of Fynn and Paige. Eventually I met other mommy bloggers and I changed my blog again, this time to Trains, Tutus and Tea Time. There was a bit of everyone in that title, I thought. Through the time spent on that blog I met many writers. Artists. I went to blog conferences and had many coffee dates which were started by conversations online. And then I felt the title didn't fit, again, and I changed blogs once more, to Weaving in the Ends.

And then I stopped writing online. Nothing seemed to fit. In my mind I kept going back to "does this piece fit on this blog? But the title...."

This writing online and sharing online is a tricky thing. A personal thing. And for me, in order for it to be personal it has to be comfortable. And trying on the hats of different titles never seemed to work out very well. I would put the preconceived (by me) notion of what needed to be on the blog in front of what I wanted to write. What I had to write. And so I stifled myself for a bit.

Which leads me to here. Now. I want a place to share my writing, but I don't want to have the "out" of not fitting with the blog name or title or url.

So I'm writing on a site that is my name. Corinne Noel Cunningham. That's me. And if I can't write whatever the heck I want under my own name, then I really have issues. So here I will write and share and not call this a blog but instead a place where I can share my writing.

And I'm happy to invite you here. To have you here. Thank you for being here.