Kind of like new love. . .

I often think back to the early days of this space.  The first time I pushed past my Jitters, braved it, and clicked the “Publish Post” button was a monumental day.  I didn’t know it then, but I know now, that day was the beginning of stepping into a new me.

Those early days of Running Chatter were much like the early days of new love.  You know how it is when you spend every waking moment thinking about that special person.  It’s been a long time since our love was “new”, but I still remember the way I would leave my dorm room hoping to run into Chad walking to one of his classes.  I remember what a rush it was just to see him walk through the dining room with his friends.  I remember counting the hours until we would see each other again.  And if we weren’t together?  I was thinking about and planning for the next time we would have time together. 

My experience here was much like that.  I thought about it all the time.  I thought about what I would write.  I anticipated the evenings, when the house was quiet, and I could sit down and just “be” with this space, with my thoughts, with our stories.  There was excitement, enthusiasm, and almost a desperate need for this space.  I approached Running Chatter with the same passion of a new relationship.  It was in this space (or through this space?) that I poured out my intense grief over losing my Mom and, in turn, developed a deep appreciation of simple everyday blessings

Of course, as most of us know, love changes.  What begins as a burning fire of passion is often traded for a steady flame of commitment and intimacy.  While I wouldn’t trade those college years with Chad, filled with  anticipation and excitement, for anything, I am so thankful for the steady, powerful, and committed love we share now.  I know that without those early years, we couldn’t have what we have now.  And, if I expected those early years to last forever–we would fail. 

Over the years, I’ve felt the same thing happening here.  As our life, our family, and I change, so will this space.    While I understand that it can’t always be what it used to be, I look forward and embrace what will come. . .

Recently, my Dad jokingly said to me, you’ve got a good thing going with your blog–the way you tell on yourself.  Before anyone can get you–you get yourself.  He’s right.  I enjoy using my somewhat absent mindedness, burnt Tupperware, and countless mommy mishap stories as fodder for my blog. 

It’s more than that, though.  It’s more than just telling on myself.  To me, it’s bigger.  Deep down in my bones, I hope I’m leaving three beautiful souls a legacy. . .

. . . a legacy that says, it’s okay to be you. 
I know that they will not be immune from wandering and questioning, and searching.  They will have their days when they hate me or hate themselves or hate their lives.  Days when they just want to fit in or blend or stand out.  These things are part of the process.  The beautiful process of discovery. . .

As I’ve spewed my grief, fears, joys, sorrows, celebrations, neurosis and simple life here, I have embraced myself, and life, in a way I never did before.  And maybe that what I want for them.  I mean, what I really want them to understand, whether through our stories here or living life together, is this. . .

Shame is pointless. 

Perfection is an illusion.   

Life is to be lived.

I often wonder if my Mom knew this.  I wonder if she was aware of the beautiful mess that is life.  I suspect if she did. . . she would be here today.  Instead, what she didn’t teach me in life, she teaches me in her death.  

My Dad is right. . . I’ve got a good thing going with this space.  As I’ve opened my soul, I’ve also been able to spread my wings and fly. . .

. . . free as a bird. 

What am I trying to say?  Thank you.  Thank you, to those who have visited here, stayed here, embraced my words and our story. . .

. . . thank you for helping to make the space as comfortable as burning flame of enduring love. 

  • Anonymous - January 30, 2014 - 3:10 pm

    awww, friend. you made me cry (again). 🙂 i loved this little post. it was so sweet! thanks for writing. i'm so glad you're little burning flame has turned into a steady commitment! i love what this space has done for you, but i love what it does for others, too.
    love you, Miss ReplyCancel

  • Kim Ellis - January 30, 2014 - 4:07 pm

    You so know how to love out loud and its so fun to watch you in your everyday life! I appreciate your blogs because it brings out something in me that makes me realize life its to be lived! Not to dwell on the oops and what ifs and the wish it were a different way but to take what it is and make it life and its ok that it doesn't look like what its 'supposed' to look like… it is what it is! Hugs Summer!!! Thanks for letting us in and soak up some of Your sunshine everyday! =D ReplyCancel

  • Barbara Allen - January 30, 2014 - 4:27 pm

    Summer as you share your heart, your passions, your life and your family you touch the lives and hearts of all of us who are blessed by all you share – you put into words many times the very things that we have on our hearts but we can't find the words to articulate those things – my friend, thank you – may God continue to use you to impact the lives of all who come across your path.

    • Summer Kellogg - February 7, 2014 - 3:11 am

      Oh, Barb. Your path and mine? I'm so glad they've crossed–even if in this virtual world.

      You have made a difference in my life. ReplyCancel

  • Ky | TwoPretzels - February 6, 2014 - 8:01 pm

    As I read these words I breathed in deeply. I exhaled loudly. I nodded in my spirit. I hear you.

    This IS your legacy. It's why I write, too. These words, those photos… your children's children will know you. They will feel a connection with you long past your last breaths. What you are doing is good.

    Someone was recently talking to me about my blog; about the grief I'm writing about and she said, "You're writing an instruction booklet for your daughters, right now. So that they might see, through you, what it's like to grieve for the first person who loved you."


    Our legacies.


    This is fabulous:

    Shame is pointless.

    Perfection is an illusion.

    Life is to be lived.

    I often wonder if my Mom knew this. I wonder if she was aware of the beautiful mess that is life. I suspect if she did. . . she would be here today. Instead, what she didn't teach me in life, she teaches me in her death.

    • Summer Kellogg - February 7, 2014 - 3:12 am

      I don't think I will forget these words, Kylee.


      Thank you.

      Thank you for so much but more than anything? Thank you for being an inspiration to me.


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