The word "vapid". Webster's dictionary defines it as:
: lacking liveliness, tang, briskness, or force : flat, dull <a gossipy, vapid woman, obsessed by her own elegance — R. F. Delderfield> <London was not all vapid dissipation — V. S. Pritchett>
I preferred Brian's possible explanation which was "the combination of "vacant" and "stupid'".
I'm going to add it to my vocabulary. Sometimes its going to have its intended meaning, and sometimes I'll actually be referring to Brian's definition. It's up to you to figure out when it means what. I'll know, but I won't disclose.
The days growing noticeably longer. Mornings becoming bluish violet with my second cup of coffee. A late supper that doesn't have to be pitch dark.
My "new" sewing area. Ma and Pa Hildebrand's original 1950's chrome kitchen table set before the living room window. Lovely view (note the bluish early evening light), excellent lighting, splendid blue chrome chairs (yard sale-ed last summer), and a collection of pyrex, green glass, and enamel bowls with just a few of my favourite buttons.
Inspirational thrifted fabric. Brian and I explored an MCC that we'd not previously encountered and I found this long, retro velveteen skirt boasting 1970's swirls and images of trees. It may actually inspire me to lose myself in some creativity.
This yellow crocheted throw for a whopping $2.50. Somehow I manage to throw together all manner of incongruent colours and textiles in my home and I wholeheartedly believe that it works. If you disagree, go to the home show and be all boring like that. See if I care. And after that, I'll "unfriend" you. pfffffft.
After being in a bit of a pit for about two weeks, sometimes weeping but mostly stuck silent in some dark place, he has remained patient. And today he suggested we hit up some thrift shops. I'm pretty sure he did that just for me, and if I'm wrong, I don't want to know. I prefer my romantic fantasy. He even feigned interest in the three skirts I purchased today (yes, I have a thing for skirts, and yes, they were $2.00 each...), and insisted that I buy a book at Chapters that I had my eye on.
Thrift shops, Book stores, Black coffee. True love.
Did I mention that he remains uncritical of my passion for collections, colours, textures, layers, and in-congruency? That he doesn't react upon coming home to the house being entirely rearranged for the upteen-billionth time? (I once heard a story of a friend's husband throwing a hissy fit if she so much as moved the couch an inch or three. He'd grown up with too much uncertainty and simply couldn't cope with change. I realized then that I hadn't chosen Brian simply for his studly good looks and ability to boil water).
Breakfast at Stella's. Every now and again on a Sunday morning as church sidewalks are being shovelled and dads all across the province are yelling at their kids to hurry up and get in the car, I enjoy a serene drive down St Mary's road in stillness and anticipation. My car knows its own way to Stella's, with my friend Karla in tow. Well before solidifying our breakfast selections we have become lost in the meeting of our minds, hearts, questions, hopes, and fears. Some people can ask the question "How are you?" and it can be answered within the breadth of two words. When Karla and I meet at Stella's, its bound to take several hours just asking and responding to those three words. I find myself expressing things I only say or think in whispers to my own self in the dark after midnight on a night with no hydro. I find that in these tellings, I am able to draw some lines in the dot to dot that is my life.
We sit back and look at each others' pictures. It's an amazing gift, to be found this way. To sink into the safety of being heard and understood. To feel so safe.
I chose the post "Things I am loving this weekend" because its been a hard two weeks. I've found myself again in a dark place, as is my recurring story. It's been difficult to remember peace and satisfaction and harmony. I've warred with myself, I've engaged in endless internal dialogue with any number of wolves. I've felt frightened, frustrated, weak, and inadequate. I sat down a time or two to write from the trenches, but I felt too vulnerable to hit "publish". And then, this weekend, some strong beams of light broke through. And that's what I decided to write about and publish.
I'm revisiting those dark places, and I'm challenging myself to find that publish button again. This is my life. This is my story. Whether I be met, understood, misinterpreted, misconstrued... these are risks that I will contemplate. And hopefully decide to live out loud, anyway.
In any case, I'm so grateful to be able to authentically publish all the real life gifts that always find me wherever I am, and refill me again with hope, and light, and just the tiniest little bit of clarity.
What are you loving?