I love tattooed women, maybe because they are uncontrollable, they are themselves to the point of drawing symbols of their power on their skin. Talk about owning your own body, being in your body, claiming yourself. I love it. When the world is in an uproar over whether women should have a choice or not when it comes to their own bodies, being tattooed is one of the most visible choices of all.

Margaret Cho (via onehundreddollars)

love and take a lot of pride in my tattoo. This is a good articulation of one reason why.

(via kirstenmakestattoos)

Five families in the Netherlands got together to buy this land and hired an architect to build them a shared community house. Read more about it.
If you had the chance to live with 4 other families/couples, who would you want?

Five families in the Netherlands got together to buy this land and hired an architect to build them a shared community house. Read more about it.

If you had the chance to live with 4 other families/couples, who would you want?

year 3

One of my most vivid memories of my dad is tied up with one of my most vivid emotions: fear. Thankfully, not in the way some experience fear with their fathers. No, this memory is different. When I was young, between 2 and 3, I had an issue with one of my kidneys, and there were lots of doctors’ appointments (and, eventually, surgery, on Fathers’ Day that year) to fix it. The memory goes something like this:

I am laying (lying? who knows?) face up on an exam table, in a darkened room, after what felt like a long appointment. Above me, coming from the ceiling, is this seemingly huge machine. The technician is trying to convince me to be still (no small feat for a child my age), and the machine begins to make noises as it lowers towards me on the table. Terror flashes in my little mind, and I begin to cry, worrying that it will crush me there, like a ladybug, I remember thinking. Suddenly, a hand is in mine; it is my daddy’s. I remember him sympathizing with my fear, not belittling it. He asked me if I trusted him. He said that he would never let anything happen to me, if he could help it, that the machine needed to take pictures of my insides (it was an xray machine, if you haven’t caught that yet) so they could know what was wrong and how to fix it. He stooped to my level, never letting go of my hand, and looked me in the eye. He reassured me, tears in his eyes, then promised me a trip to Baskin Robbins afterwards.

I forgot about that memory for a long time, tucked away in some corner of my brain, until my freshman year of college. It was hours before my dad’s birthday party, and I had gotten him the best gift I could think of. He was a member of a fraternity in one of the many colleges he attended, and was proud of that. I found a fraternity shirt online and bought it, planning to give it to him. Sitting in my dorm room, I realized that the gift should be accompanied by a card. On significant occasions/birthdays, my dad would take the time to write a heartfelt message to me in a card that went with the gift he was giving. I did not appreciate this as much at various points in my life as I should have. But this being my first gift to him since I had stopped living at home most of the time, I wanted to acknowledge that tradition. But what to write? I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. What was my favorite memory of him? Bits and pieces came to mind, nothing really gripping, then something about the aforementioned one. Baskin Robbins. As I thought more about it, the memory came flooding back to me, along with the emotions entangled with it. I wrote to my daddy about this memory in the card, and later, when I gave him the package, he teared up in the middle of the Texas Roadhouse. After his death, my mom mentioned it to me as something that really touched him. It feels like the one time I can remember getting it almost right, loving and accepting him for who he was and who he tried to be for us.

I wish I could say our relationship was forever changed, and we operated on a new level of consciousness of each other, but that’s not true. We were two broken people, trying to do life, and carried our own baggage. I let that get in the way more than I should have. But that memory lives on in me, the epitome of what my father tried to tell me, with his words and actions: that he really did love me, my sister, and my mom, and wanted only the best for us. I’d like to think he knew I knew that.

A few months later that year, in 1992, I did have surgery on my kidneys, and the pain medication they gave me made me incredibly mean and also incredibly awake; not the combination you want in a post-op toddler. My daddy crawled into my hospital bed with me at 3 in the morning and did the only thing that kept me semi-calm: we watched The Jungle Book together. The medicine finally wore off, my body healed, but to this day, I have a 3 inch scar running across the bottom of my belly from the incision. I used to think it made me ugly, that it was a mistake. Now, I kind of like the uniqueness. It reminds me of those two memories of my dad. So on this, my third fatherless Father’s Day (as a dear friend aptly called it), I will choose to remember him as he was: human, but always willing to reach out and love me.

Anne Lamott tells a story of going shopping with her best friend, Pammy, who was weak from chemo and a month from death. Anne tried on a tight lavender dress-she wanted to impress her boyfriend-and asked Pammy if she thought the dress made her hips look big. Gently, Pammy said, ‘Anne, you don’t have that kind of time.’ A dying person knows that there just isn’t time in life to spend not living, and obsessing about hips (or lips or tummies) isn’t really living. (‘Heaven,’ said Bette Midler, ‘would be a place where people would stop talking about their weight and what they look like..’) I don’t have time for chalky energy bars snarfed in solitude, or for wondering whether I ‘deserve’ to eat lunch. What we all have time for, what we all deserve, is a seat at the table, eating in the company of people who give us grace.

from Rachel Marie Stone’s Eat with Joy: Redeeming God’s Gift of Food (via sarazarr)

Important life lessons.

Hey look, now Dean matches even more!

Hey look, now Dean matches even more!

ilovecharts:

Have a dream? Then Defend It From Other People
This week, Jessica addresses Spring Cleaning.

The sidetext: “Don’t let these little jabs bleed you dry.”

ilovecharts:

Have a dream? Then Defend It From Other People

This week, Jessica addresses Spring Cleaning.

The sidetext: “Don’t let these little jabs bleed you dry.”

First comic book purchase!

First comic book purchase!

grok 2014

Last week, I went to my first conference that did not involve praise songs and massive amounts of prayer. Okay, so maybe it *did* involve massive amounts of prayer, mostly because I’m an introvert through and through. 2.5 days straight of meeting new people sounds about as fun as running a marathon to me (and I don’t particularly believe in running, unless chased by a velociraptor.) And it was like running a marathon, in some ways. Taken step by step, a journey on both an individual and group level, and, most of all, it left me with sort of a high; I am already counting the days until next year’s event.

Continue reading…

faultinourstarsmovie:

One note = one vote. Like or reblog to vote for your state! Go South Carolina!

So I’d love to meet John Green; this is not new information. Also, I love my state. 

faultinourstarsmovie:

One note = one vote. Like or reblog to vote for your state! Go South Carolina!

So I’d love to meet John Green; this is not new information. Also, I love my state. 

twloha:

"Comes and Goes in Waves," Greg Laswell

This one’s for the lonely, the ones that seek and find,
Only to be let down time after time.
 

For a lot of people who have never personally dealt with depression or anxiety, it’s hard to grasp what it feels like.

“Why are you anxious and depressed?” they ask.
I don’t know. 

“Can you just snap out of it?”
It doesn’t work like that. 

“So, is it always like this?”
It comes and goes in waves.
For me, anyway. 

This one’s for the torn down, the experts at the fall.
Come on, friends, get up now, you’re not alone at all.

Depression and anxiety have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It started when I was young, and as a 26-year-old adult, it’s still here. It’s not always present, and most of the time I keep it at bay. In high school, I would have a bad week or a bad month, which seemed to be “normal.”

Then there were my first two years of college, when all I had were bad months.

It comes and goes in waves, I am only led to wonder why.
It comes in goes in waves, I am only led to wonder why.

I felt like I was spinning, yet completely stuck at the same time. I let the shame and guilt of what was happening prevent me from sharing what was happening in my head. I just kept pushing and trying to get a good day, so that the waves of depression and anxiety would cease to wash over me. But working, studying, going to class, swimming, or spending time with friends brought no relief.

At some point during my third term of college I found my way to the student health services building and into their free counseling session program. I needed something to change. Everything I tried wasn’t working, and there had to be someone who could figure out why the rapid pounding in my chest never stopped or the weight of sadness I carried never lightened.

Thankfully, there was someone. And for the first time in my life, I knew what was happening to me was something that happens to a lot of 18 year-olds away from home, starting a life on their own. I was taught some things that would help me manage my depression and anxiety. I was assured it wouldn’t always be this way. But most importantly, I found relief in knowing I wasn’t irreparably damaged—and I could try again.

This one’s for the ones who stand, for the ones who think they can,
For the ones who need a hand, for the ones who try again.
 

With Love,
Chloe

Learning.

Otherwise

Sounds

  • Meet Me at the Edge of the World- Over the Rhine
  • I and Love and You- the Avett Brothers
  • Chasing Someday- Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors
  • Light for the Lost Boy-Andrew Peterson

Glimpses