Zombie Apocalypse

stream

If you know my husband you know that it’s a form of endearment if he wants you around for the Zombie Apocalypse. He’ll say things like, ” That new neighbor looks like a piece of work. He’s got a pick up truck with fishing and gun stickers on it. Not really sure what I think about my neighbor having a gun, but I bet he’ll be helpful during the Zombie Apocalypse…I better go meet him.” I’m not sure if he really thinks the Zombie Apocalypse will come to pass, but he sure does talk about it a lot. For example according to him, I will be really valuable during the zombie apocalypse because of my stealthiness. When he appreciates this quality in me he calls me a ninja; when he doesn’t, he asks if I’m an assassin. “I’ll never tell.” I say.

We got snowed in for the blizzard of 2016 and I have yet to be accused of being an assassin, which I think is evidence of things going well. Given my need for exercise, nature, and quiet we agreed I’d trek through the paths to the store while he manned the fort.

There’s something about the woods I love. Unlike the roads already covered in ash, the tree lined paths glisten with snow in the days after the storm. Today, the grey clouds gave way to blue sunny skies. The patted down paths twisting and turning through neighborhoods and shopping plazas feel more personal than the roadways somehow. I bump into a mommy friend with her daughter. They are thoroughly cold and worn out from sledding which makes me smile.

Then I arrive at the grocery store and looked around,

no milk

again

no veggie 1

and again.

no veggie 2

 

With just an image or two, the quickly setting sun, and a suggestion of an inevitable outcome repeated a few thousand times utopia quickly turns to dystopia.

I ran into two mommies at the checkout that I knew, but, I noted,  the beauty of interconnectedness is lost in fear. The impromptu rescue party of husband and kiddos seemed equal suspicious, given my explicit directions to hold down the fort.

I couldn’t help but feel heavier on the way home: four grocery bags, a toddler, a husband and a baby. We made our way through unlit paths and focused on not tripping on now crunchy snow. The sled was broken, toddler’s gloves were sokin’, the kids were cold.I worried about dropping the baby in the carrier as the toddler and grocery bags alternated falling from the sled into the snow.

We try to laugh in our house. I don’t really think I need to worry about zombies chasing me through the snow. But when I got home I did allow myself a hearty minute to focus on the power of suggestion and the subtle pervasiveness of hate and fear.

Several years ago my husband and I started on a journey to lighten the load of what weighs us down. Sometimes that’s been things, and sometimes it’s been people. Either way it has been hard to seek hope rather than fortify against fear.  But in light of living in the shadow of the Zombie Apocalypse-I’m so glad we have.

 

 

 

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Snowy mornings

snowyam

For 1,000 different reasons there’s still no place I’d rather be snow bound than this little town.

Neighbors who build igloos, friends who walk the trails bringing snow gear, unexpected stop-ins, pots of hot chocolate, sledding on the neighboring hill…

Trading notes on what’s open, sharing ingredients so everyone has food…

Counting my blessings and not my curses.

28″ of snow fall

#snowdayhoneymoonphase

#nextphasecabinfever

#Blizzard2016

#Snowzilla

 

Words to Live by

willplaygroundblog

Grandma told me when I get to the end of my rope, hold on. So, at first, I held. Then I had children. Now I write because children understand what’s important in life.

I make my way in the world by the words I fall back on. I make a world for my children in the words that I write because the world will be made by our children.

  • We don’t tear down
  • Mommy loves you ALWAYS
  • Sharing means caring
  • Everyone is learning
  • Everyone makes mistakes
  • Everyone has accidents
  • Someone who is crying is having a hard day
  • On cold days we have hot chocolate, on hot days we have popsicles, on hard days we have a chocolate milky talk with mommy

Still Waters

Nathan Harney March 23, 2010 - June 18, 2014 *Photo taken by NTSAD Official Photographer

Nathan Harney
March 23, 2010 – June 18, 2014

It’s funny how empty significance can feel.  The world goes on, while we know our life has changed. On our worst days, it’s easy to believe we’re insignificant. On our most significant, sometimes it feels as if we alone realize how very much we each impact the world.

I have seemed quiet, like still water in a deep river. But still waters are just an illusion.   Life flows through rivers in currents unseen. If I listen to the stillness, I find its current churning and see along its path the lives that have been touched through its passing. It’s in the smallest signs of impact that we see the greatest hope. The holiest of things in life are the ones that repeatedly make us take pause, remind us of the value of significance, and eventually feel hope. A sunny day in a town known for its cloudy ones, an act of kindness in a place known for its hostility, a child surviving an impossible disease after so many have died from it, these things remind us that outcomes aren’t always predetermined. There is hope in the knowledge that the essence of life is an often unprecedented change. In those moments of significance when I seem the most still, I find myself floating on that hope for change, the one I have no reason to believe should come. That hope that pushes out the fears of insignificance and lulls the worries of not impacting another. It is the current unseen.

I find life is deeper than we think, more connected than we realize, and just as we think that that we’re stuck in a place we didn’t imagine, we find an unseen current has been pushing us on to a place we don’t yet understand. Though our experiences are different, the essence of the ones that matter are so very much the same.

Because I promised, I’ll share Nathan’s story. I’ll remind you that in it, I see hope. He is a source of hope and his impact on the river, is yet to be seen. I invite you to  hear Nathan’s story and share it :

Website: http://www.nathanharney.com

*photograph taken by the NTSAD photographer Sarah Mattingly