First, these three little flowers won the postcard/potholder giveaway:
1. Ann said…
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a Dig potholder!!!!! pick me, pick me. I wouldn’t want to use it for fear of spoiling it. it would probably be hung up like a piece of fine art.
2. Missoula Mama said…
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I love your list. I will be 40 in a few months – the idea is a bit much for me, even though I’ve never, ever cared before. So I’m going to use your idea. I may even start now…40 is a pretty big number! (but not compared to the number of blessings in my life)
3. 6512 and growing said…
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Happy Birthday and what a beautiful life you’ve dug for yourself.
Wishing you many more successful jogs with the girls!
Congrats ladies! Send your addresses to me: digthischick at gmail dot com.
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Margot continually teaches me to stop and smell the roses. And not just a passing uh huh yeah those smell nice as I follow my thoughts to the next task. But an oh yes wow let’s just sit still and practice total olfactory immersion. I don’t have a damn place I need to be that’s more important than smelling these roses.
She’s got powers like that.
A few days ago Ruby was napping and I set about to put away the mountain of laundry in my room. The laundry that I had been placing on my bed every morning for days, encouraging myself to put it away. But then it would all of the sudden be 4:45pm and I’d scoop that growing mountain right back into the basket.
I was on a Laundry Mission and Margot did not choose to accept it. She wanted to play. I fought it, sternly telling her to leave mama’s laundry alone. And then I realized I was being an asshole. Isn’t this why I am alive? To play?
And so we tossed the neatly folded piles around the room like confetti, did belly flops on the sun-drenched mattress, hid beneath the basket and tickled for over an hour.
More again mama, she kept pleading.
And at 4:45 I scooped the messy pile back off the bed saving it for another day. If I get around to it.
Life is best when I roll around in the joy of little things, when I take the opportunity to participate in a my daughter’s fascination and happiness with a basket.
A rose’s perfect fragrance is fleeting. And once time erodes the petal’s delicate flesh, the smell is forever gone.
A good reminder: stop and smell those roses. I never regret it.
