The Flower

I changed the header to the blog. 

I’d like to say that I was cool and confident enough to have put it together in a matter of minutes without giving it a second thought. . . but I’d be lying.  I spent hours and even enlisted the help of my husband to get it just right. 

I began by adding a sampling of pictures of the kids and arranging them in a way that I thought was artistic and creative.  I played with the font and arranged and rearranged the pictures.  I moved the title and even considered changing the title.  In essence, I was trying too hard to be something that I’m not. 

. . . I’m not cool. 

I’m a simple girl.  But like the simple white flower there is a complexity and intricacy that is there if you take the time to really look at it.  I like that.  I’m drawn to that.  I relate to that.

When I was a teenager I used to have a special place I liked to go to just to get away.  It was a park just a few miles away from our house.  I would park my car and throw my bag containing my journal,  pen, and books over my shoulder.  I would walk through the front portion of the park that contained tennis courts and a baseball field and cross the street to the back portion of the park that was more quiet and hidden.  I loved the sound of the leaves crunching under my feet as I hiked up the hill to find my spot where I would bury myself amongst the trees with my journal.  On some days I would sit and write about anything that was on my mind.  It could be as simple as the boy I was dating or the race I just ran or more complex such as my fears about life.  And then there were other days that I would just sit and close my eyes and feel the wind brush my face. I would listen to the sounds of children playing on the playground below me and enjoy the fact that they were unaware of my presence .

It was in that place that I dreamed. 

When you are 16, sitting in a park, under a tree, alone, with a journal is seen as, well, strange.  (At least that’s what I thought, because no one else seemed to be doing it.)   I can still remember the way my eyes darted from here to there hoping that no one would see me because I had no idea how I would explain myself.  It was much easier to tuck that part of me away and be the silly, light-hearted, and somewhat ditsy girl than reveal the true depths of my heart. (Ironically, I was voted best sense of humor in high school.)  Not only was it easier to be funny, it was safer.  What if they don’t like who I really am? 

Sensitive isn’t cool.  Dreamers aren’t cool.  Funny is cool.  I wanted to be cool. 

As an adult (who still feels very much like that 16 year old girl) I’m not quite as concerned with being cool.    (Note:  I said quite. . . nope, still haven’t arrived) I do, however, want to be at peace being who I am.   Writing in this space has allowed me to embrace that sensitive dreamer that hid herself in the trees so many years ago. 

And so that’s why I picked the flower.  I felt it represents the person I am discovering in this blog.  Simple? Yes.  Complex?  Yes.  Cool?  Probably not. . . but I’m okay with that.