{by Ms. Picket To You of Post Picket Fence}

(photo source)

Kids at a pool: it’s the epitome of fantastic wretchedness.

They swim and dunk and dive and flop unattended and fully entertained and working up to an excellent exhaustion. The sunscreen melts off the minute it’s applied, but their bodies are submerged, so: only shoulders get burnt, maybe noses. They paddle and flop and hunt quarters at depths taller than they are. They coordinate games named “Baby Dolphins.” They get drenched and pickled and giddy all at once.

But the goggles are too tight or too loose or worse than her brother’s. The towel is too soggy but worthy of a battle, a whippingatyou, smackingatyou battle. The sister’s belly flop is half-assed and “mine will be better and hurt more than hers” and WATCH ME WATCH ME WATCH ME will echo across the chlorine, over the deck chairs, past my magazine, and straight into my face. Straight into my face over and over and over: WATCH MEEEEEEE!

{by Valeria from The Red Balloon Photography}

A SOMETHING in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon,
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstacy.
~Emily Dickinson

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{From Deidra at Jumping Tandem}

Remember those boxes of 64 Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener?

In my world, it didn’t get much better than that.

I could spend hours with a box of crayons and a coloring book. My grandmother or my mother would color one page, and I would color the page next to it.

As the years went by, I took pride in my ability to stay in the lines.

{by Emily of Chatting at the Sky}

Piano was my major until my sophomore year of college. That was when I quit. Required practice and theory classes and hours upon hours in fluorescent lit rooms with Chopin and Czerny did not bring out the art in me, it nearly made it die. I quit simply because I wanted to love it again. It’s the same reason why I will probably never be a real professional photographer. The art of it doesn’t outweigh the responsibility enough, and so I continue to learn at my own pace and in my own way. I take pictures because it helps me see. And that is all.

For a long time, writing was private for me. Over time and through this blog, writing has become something different. Of all the art there is in the world, writing is the art that brings the most satisfaction as well as the most fear. I can avoid the piano for months at a time. But if I don’t write, there is a distinct possibility I might not exist. I know that isn’t actually true, but that is how it feels.

I write for pleasure, for remembering, for learning, for listening, and for money. I can write in the early morning hours as well as late at night. I squeeze it in ten minutes before it’s time to get the kids and quick while the water boils. Unlike piano or photography, the art of writing outweighs the pressure and expectations. For some people, the art of making music is worth the fluorescent lights with Chopin. For me, the art of writing is worth the fear, the risk, and the isolation.

Because I believe I’ve found the art that is also my worship, it is important to me to use it. To practice it. And to share it. When I played piano, it was always really difficult for me to play for people. I was nervous, embarrassed, and tried to avoid it at all costs. If I would have decided that was the art I wanted to pursue, I think I would have gotten better at sharing it. I would argue that unshared art is still art, but it feels more like a hobby.

{by Brenna at Suburban Snapshots}

10. There are half-full, brightly-colored plastic cups on the floor in every room. Three are in the bathtub.

9. There’s always that one girl, bawling her eyes out in a corner.

8. It’s best not to assume that the person closest to you has any control over their digestive function.

7. You sneak off to the bathroom knowing that as soon as you sit down, someone’s going to start banging on the door.

6. Probably 80% of the stains on the furniture contain DNA.

5. You’ve got someone in your face at 3 a.m. looking for a drink.

4. There’s definitely going to be a fight.

3. You’re not sure whether anything you’re doing is right, you just hope it won’t get you arrested.

2. There are crumpled-up underpants everywhere.

{by Rachel Matthews}

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
~Langston Hughes

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Rachel is a Texas based foodie, photographer, wife, and mama.
See more of her photographs on her blog, A Southern Fairytale.
Subscribe and follow @sthrnfairytale

{By Alexia from Say Another Lexi}

(photo credit)

If he sees me when I am with people, he will think my cheeks must hurt from smiling so much. He will wonder if my fingertips are worn down from touching people all the time. He will see how my eyes are really magnets, gravitating towards anything that glitters. He will know that ever time I throw my head back to laugh, I am really swallowing a falling star. He will see all the different shapes my mouth makes, because it moves even when I am listening. He will see the way I hold my hands on my lips when I think before I speak, as if words will escape without permission. He will see my thoughts splash across my face, emotions striking my face like lightning, one after another. He will see that I can never hide behind my expressions, and he will understand that my readability is a sign of sincerity. He will know that those thoughts are just drops, and that inside me there’s an ocean. He will want to swim in that ocean.

If he sees me when I am alone, drawing hearts falling from trees like leaves, he will think of me as a girl from a sad song. He will wonder why the frown in the middle of my forehead is so deep. He will wonder who hurt me and gave me such hollow autumn eyes. He will think someone broke my heart and he will be jealous of that boy for getting so close. He will wonder what I look like when I smile. He will think of my notebooks as keys, and know that they are filled with words falling from a fountain that goes on forever. He will wish his heart was a musical box that played my favourite song. He will follow my gaze and wonder if I’m really looking at the horizon or something else that he himself cannot see. He will be discreet but he will want me to see him seeing me. He will smile when I scowl and go back to scribbling. He will know that, one day, we will laugh about this. He will want to see my hair spread across his pillow like an auburn pien-mien, lying with his head between my breasts, sharing secrets we swear we’ve never told anybody else. He will want to be the one to light up my eyes, and the one to catch the glint of tears before they fall. He will see the effort it takes sometimes just to stand up straight and he will know what that feels like, but he will stand up straight, even straighter, sometimes, just to teach me how.

(by Talon)

photo credit

Never pick the berries the birds don’t touch
you told me long ago
and I remembered your words
when I saw the red berries
glistening in the snow
and I didn’t touch them
because the birds ignored them
leaving the fruit to the muse of winter

Never make a wish on a waning gibbous
you told me long ago
for you said the wish became magic
under a waxing crescent
the new would herald beginnings
with endings tucked inside
and when I saw the moon near full
I stilled my secret

{by She Was}

Cylence Gray was 12 years old when she stopped believing in god and started believing in love. Standing alone, and to the side, slender pale arms wrapped around her black waist, Cylence watched the magpie, head cocked, watching her. Cylence liked that her face was turned to the sky. It meant that she didn’t have to look at the spring wet hole they were slowly lowering him into.

Cylence had been cracked open by grief and from that opening faith flew. Many years later she remembered. The tugging was the worst part. Being forced to look, to acknowledge, to know. As if somehow she could unknow. The tubes and the rattle rattle death breath, the corridors, closing in on her, as she waited, as they all waited. The mashed potato and gravy portrait her mother painted on the white wall. Her mother’s anger, at her, at her, for being there, for having held his hand and for having heard his heart beat when it stopped. She would never not know. Never unknow.

{by Lotus Carroll}

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Lotus Carroll (aka as Sarcastic Mom) writes with her heart on her website, i am lotus.
Give her any camera and she can make magic, another version of this photo can be seen on Flickr.
More of her photography can be found on her portfolio.