Love.

On the road to visit my mom, I drive by an old abandoned house with graffiti that makes me smile.  I often tap the breaks (as I’m usually barreling along the highway) just to take it in.   

While this has made me smile for months, I am now taking it personally and making it personal.   I am putting a period at the end.  Love.  That makes it a directive, you see.  And while the Fig is truly close to my heart, there has been a quiet thought that has slipped in.   A gentler pace is not laziness.  And my friends, I know at this time of my life, I need a bit of a gentler pace.  Just as this winter has made me crave and yield to heartier meals and earlier bedtimes, this particular season of my life is pushing love – not in a noun-ish or feeling-ish sort of way, but in a live it with your time way.

Ten minutes after I leave my mom, she does not remember that I have been.  But when I walk in, her eyes light up and she tells everyone this is my daughter.  No one else can give me that kind of love.  And while she is loved by many others,  no one else can give her my love.  

When Frankie and I had lunch and caught up this week,  I said I just can’t think about furniture right now.  Frankie, with her old soul wisdom, understood. 

We’ll be back: )

Love.

june