I found this while cleaning out some folders the other day. It’s incomplete, but I think it’s meant to stay that way for now.

Home is where the heart is–only a cliché because it’s true. But if it’s true, my heart is a divided country, its borders drawn in love.

Each province is home to a name, or a group of names. I carry them with me to protect them, as though the blood of my heart were both sword and shield that could fight with its beating.

In the summer, my friend wears no shirt, and no shoes. The length of his muscled torso leads your gaze along his full height, and reminds me that he is taller than I ever manage to remember. When we meet at the airport, which we often do, we slam our bodies together in a hug, as though it’s been centuries. We find a restaurant with beer, or perhaps margaritas. I spill my guts, he wipes them up, and I remind him not to let his ego run rampant. When I text him at 4am, he says to come over. I cry, because my heart has been broken.

The one time someone broke his, he did not cry, but came to my bed to sleep, pulling me against his chest. In the morning, it wasn’t quite so dark, and we went separately to our breakfasts.

My birthday was just the other day. It felt surreal. This birthday year is a 9, numerologically speaking–I’ll let you figure out the math on that one. While I love birthdays, and in fact had a lovely one this year with my hubs, in the weeks leading up to it, I was feeling rather contemplative. What had I done with my life to this point? What could I do? How could I make this year the best year so far?

I began working out around the first of the year. I do a barre exercise called Pure Barre, and so far, I’m addicted. (You can read about other people’s addictions to this craze here.) A couple of weeks in, I also began jogging.

So, for my birthday, I was feeling improved physically, but still plotting ways to make myself more of who I intend to be.

I had a meeting yesterday I hoped would bear some fruit, but I worked to be calm and not assume anything. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have exciting news: There’s a new magazine coming out in May, and I am the editor! Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved writing, and everything I’ve wanted to do with my life has been united by that single love. This magazine will focus on telling stories about brave people–people who have faced illness, fought for our country, started businesses, and so forth. I couldn’t be more thrilled. This is exactly the type of project I’ve always wanted to be involved with.

Just to make the week even better, we finally, FINALLY, close on our property Friday, and my husband found the lost title for a vehicle he purchased…well…let’s just say several months ago. He hasn’t been able to drive or register the thing, so this was quite a victory.

I’m incredibly grateful for the wonderful opportunities that have presented themselves this week, and every week.

Happy birthday to me.

…I’m pretty sure it’s the third. The post will magically know the correct date once I hit publish, so just check that little marker and you’ll know for sure. 

I still live in a camper. I don’t even mind it. Well, most of the time.

Once next week hits, and it’s officially past the New Year week, we will continue the land search. We’ve narrowed it down to two plots; at this point, we are only waiting on the owner to verify one of the surveys so that we may officially decide which to make an offer on. More to come once we actually have an offer accepted.

Notes on the New Year

I read something recently that suggested we not make resolutions, but instead think about how we want our year to look, and make choices that reflect that as reality. 

I want my year to be fit, filled with positive energy, and productive in regard to my writing goals. 

Translation: I want to develop a regular jogging routine again, eat fewer baked goods, not be so crabby toward things I disagree with, and I want to write, every day, without fail.

The most unfortunate problem

or dilemna

of living in a camper is that when

my laundry basket is full

I must find a washer.

My husband and I worked all summer to finish a home remodel…so that we could sell it (which we did). We aren’t the only people around who are looking to simplify, but our goal comes with a bit of a twist. Hubs is self-employed, and currently renting warehouse space. While a tiny house sounds amazing, we actually need to build him a space to work. 

That being said, it’s a nominal cost to have space built for us to live in–think an attached apartment to the warehouse, so that’s what we’re hoping to do.

Of course, that’s all in theory. Reality, at the moment, is a camper. 

Most people would probably call my current abode a trailer, but that brings up images I prefer to avoid. My grandparents bought it in the early 90s, a few years after retiring. They used it a bit, let it sit and serve as an occassional guest bedroom, and then, when my nephew was put on travel work, he lived in it for a couple of years. My brother has taken it to Montana and back. (He also had a small group of Mennonites living in it for awhile, but that’s another story.)

This camper has history. 

My family, thankfully, takes good care of their property, so here I am, Winter 2013, living in this bad boy with a cute dude. 

Which brings us to today. Today is Icepocalypse 2013. We get one of these about once a year here in Arkansas, but never before have I experienced it from a 150 square feet of exposed living quarters. I kind of love it. I have a radiant heater that keeps us quite toasty. We are actually probably warmer here than we were in our traditional home–it was so expensive to heat that hubs kept it, ah, on the cool side. 

We are putting an offer on land tomorrow. If it goes through, a whole new set of adventures will commence. 

We feel lucky…since living in this space, we’ve decided we can live in a smaller space than originally planned. We must like each other!

Where do you call home? What do you want to call home? And a personal question…cabin porn? Yay or Nay? 

My nephew, my wee little nephew, was born with heart-shaped nostrils.

Seriously. If you held him and looked at his nose, it was there for all to see.

I haven’t asked to look lately, but I suspect they are still little hearts.

He was the first of my sibling’s children that I was old enough to appreciate as an aunt. I remember the first time I saw him, and watching him grow has been a miracle of life.

He’s always wanted so to be big. When he hit his birthday last year, it was like someone injected him with growth hormones. Today is his next birthday, and he is 6 feet tall, or a little better. His voice is deeper, and he is the image of my brother.

He is kind, funny, smart, and a great conversationalist. He is a baker, a writer, a fisherman, and a gamer. He gives great hugs, and willingly.

I love him very much.

So happy 14th birthday, my lad, and here’s a toast to the fullness of life that you have ahead of you.

Love is indulgence.

Love is an email of random thoughts you can’t wait to share, and a cabin on a river that you didn’t have to plan yourself.

Love is stumbling drunk down Bourbon Street, singing a tune you both remember from old times, and pointing out to your new friends just how long the two of you have known each other.

Love is an electric blanket preheating your side of the bed, and a roll of good toilet paper kept just for you. Love is a section of closet space, and a house key pressed warm in to your palm.

Love is chicken and dressing made every year for your birthday, just because it’s your favorite.

Love is tender, love is kind.

Love…is a bonsai tree.