Here’s what I want to tell you today. I want to tell you that, if my words are causing vibrations that are running opposite to the truths you hold – sound waves striking dissonance or resistance or choppiness in the good and worthy balance you’ve been working toward, close this browser. There is a difference
Another week, another round of outfits built from the 25 items currently hanging in my closet. I am beating a dead horse here, and so I will simply say this: I have fallen ill to the matters of reducing. I find myself purging everything, from pantries to toy bins and craft closets to medicine cabinets.
So, it’s fairly obvious from my Instagram feed that we jetted town last week, a spur-of-the-moment adventure that didn’t involve scheduled work for either of us, which basically never happens. I don’t know, maybe Ken and I are growing up? Maybe we’re growing wise and gray and the next step is another minivan or maybe
Another week, another slew of outfits. Want to hear something funny? I talked to my dad on the phone this week (Hi, Dad!) and he says to me, while I’m chopping carrots, something to the effect of: You know, Erin. If you were living a long time ago, you’d have one outfit that you’d wear
I do not profess to dislike the Internet. This invention – if you can even call it that, being that its advance has changed our entire world in such a short time and is actually more of a movement, an evolution, no, a revolution – is a gift. We can tap on the keyboard and
I am a woman of my word, mostly, except for the one time I lied to a pug-loving co-worker and said I had a pug, hoping she’d be my friend, but it turns out she had a pug, too, and wanted to set up a dog playdate and was I available next Saturday? And then
Well, I didn’t expect to talk about this today, but here it is and here I am. For the past few months, I’ve been wearing the same clothes – 25 of them – over and over and over. It’s not earth-shattering, the idea of minimalism, and I’d even argue that it’s trendy to be a
On Sunday morning, I’d sit in a hard pew sandwiched between my two wavy-haired, lacy-socked sisters – passing notes about whether or not we thought our mother might let us stop for roast beef and milkshakes after service. We’d sing “Victory in Jesus” from red, dusty hymnals and I’d secretly pray to the Lord that