little mysteries


One day, you might drive past a busted bag of flour on a busy street downtown.

You're just gonna have to press on knowing the backstory will never belong to you.







It is almost enough to have seen it with your own eyes.






Almost.







Tell yourself you can build a new story upon its head...someday.


 And get on with your life.

The Things We Leave Behind

Some stuff he won't be needing anymore... things that remind us he was here... and that he was our very own.






Clam Creek Fishing Pier ~ Jekyll Island, GA







The old fishing pier at Clam Creek on Jekyll Island is one of the tacks in my personal map.





You know, one of those places on the planet where a soul can just exhale.


































Ruddy Young Man in Scruffy Town









I know that poetry month is over but poetry can be habit forming. Today,  I'm watching Chandler at a Hurricane Jr. golf event in Knoxville. It's the first of his tournaments I've been able to follow him from start to finish.


I didn't go looking for a random poem to share, rather I found myself thinking along these lines as I watched my boy  take to the tees and hold his own amongst competitors of all kinds. ..and some who are not kind at all. 


He's playing well enough- might not take home the biggest trophy today- but he's right on par in his pursuit of  becoming a man, a real-life gentleman...and that's who this game belongs to, no?


I'm his mom, I'm supposed to be proud I guess - but this reaches beyond pride into hopefulness and joy. 


If he never plays golf well again another day of his life, but holds to integrity and fosters the growth of good character in every facet of his life for the rest of those same days, a green jacket will pale in the splendor of his array. 





IF

Rudyard Kipling





If you can keep your head when all about you  

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;  

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:


If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;  

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;  

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;  

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:


If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,  

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,  

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,  

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!









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