Honestly

I'm taking an online course about Laura Ingalls Wilder (it's free and you can sign up here).  A theme from the first class was truth and whether it can differ from the facts.  I've always thought not.  Integrity is inspiring and honesty, essential.  But my wedding shower was more than fourteen years ago and I still wish that when my aunt gave me that funky, sparkly, bright yellow laundry hamper and asked with fingers crossed, "Do you already have one," I had fibbed and said, "No!  This is exactly what we need!  Thank you so much!"

True story.

Mostly.

Okay, so she didn't actually have her fingers crossed.

I'm working on it.

Inventory

I spent a good chunk of today sorting and organising.  Going through the clutter, I found a lot of trash--mismatched knitting needles, broken rubber bands, scraps--and one or two treasures.  Digging in one bag, I came up with a little packet of paper all folded up.  It was something I'd written more than ten years ago, the first chapter of a novel.  I remember writing it when Mary was a tiny baby.  Looking back, I can see that I was unsettled.  I was twenty-one.  About two years in, marriage still felt new.  I had just finished my degree.  And suddenly, I was someone's mama.  There was a lot of adjusting.  Everything was unfamiliar.  I was unsure.  Reading today, what I wrote then, I felt impressed by the bravery of my effort.  In a bewildering season, it took a lot of courage to believe in my ability, or perhaps my right, to put together ten (clumsy) pages.  It could be time for chapter two.