Writing Me: Tradition

‘Tis the season of hayrides and pumpkin pies, costumes and candy corn, drifting leaves that turn into falling snow and crisp mornings with flannel sheets and chunky sweaters that lend way to days full of tradition. What does the word tradition make you think of? What does it make you feel? Is there a tradition you partake in every year, or one from your childhood that stands out?

Take the word TRADITION and tell us what it means to you.

Go where your words and recollections take you. A few lines, or dozens, in whatever form moves you, write as your heart responds to the prompt.

Starting today {and below!} we will feature our own writers. After that we would love to feature you {yes, YOU!} and your piece here on the Bigger Picture Blog. We would love to encourage and support our community in this writing exercise, and we hope you all will join us!

There are two ways to get involved:

1. You can write your own Tradition piece, grab our Writing Me button {above} and post onto your blog any time. Link up here to join in our community.

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2. Be one of our guest writers and have your post featured on our blog! Complete this form and we will email you with a feature date and information for submissions.

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Today’s post comes to us from Corinne...

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Tradition

 Starting in October we have a swell of birthdays in our family. And holidays… it goes something like this: birthday, birthday, Halloween, birthday, Thanksgiving, CHRISTMAS{!!}, New Years, birthday, birthday, birthday, birthday, Valentine’s Day… and then we rest.

These months are filled with traditions. Big ones: homemade birthday cakes, gifts, special breakfasts and carefully chosen birthday dinners, pumpkin picking, costumes, gratitude lists, pumpkin pie, mom’s stuffing, handmade ornaments, holiday baking, handmade gifts, snowflakes taped onto windows, movie nights, Christmas light drives, and on and on and on.

But the traditions I hold deepest in my heart happen on the inbetween days. The days where we exclaim our favorite bright red tree, and hear the crunch of leaves beneath our feet. The days when we make cookies just because the weather has gotten colder and the kitchen needs some extra warmth. The days where snow gently falls and mittens dawn our hands and we shovel for hours, and we come inside with pink noses and cheeks to hot cocoa and a viewing of our favorite winter movies {either The Snowman or The Polar Express}. The first day we pull out hats and scarves for a beach walk, and feel the solace and beauty of being alone in a vast space with waves crashing and breath chilled. The days where glasses fog when you come inside from the cold…

All of these small moments, they are traditions of the seasons. I hold them close, as they make up my days. Tradition can be small… tradition can be beautiful and simplistic. Tradition comes from within and is pulled out by a want to do it again {whatever the it may be} every year. Tradition warms the heart and tugs at us from years past… bringing us full circle and into the now.

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No comparison

This post is sponsored by Bounty… 

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Her birthday is coming up. My daughter is turning four. She is my second born, but she was also my first in many ways. From even the earliest of pregnancy symptoms, I knew that my pregnancy, and her whole being, would be drastically different than with my son.

I danced with nausea for weeks when she was in the womb. With my son, I felt twinges of sea sickness… but nothing more. With her, fatigue rocked my world on every turn. That pregnancy week by week I felt things that made me question my health, her health.

But with each appointment, each visit with the midwife, each sound of a strong beautiful heart beat, my fears were calmed. I was reassured that each pregnancy could and would be different.

Four years later and sometimes I forget, though in my heart I know there is no way to compare my children. I still need the reminder. Each child begins in their own way, grows into their person so individually.

There is no way to compare her to anyone.

And now she is nearly four and is a force all her own.  She challenges me on a daily basis with her stunning wit and questions and sense of adventure. From the moment she was born she hasn’t stopped moving or talking or being her for a second.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Writing Me: I Remember {corinne}

Writing Me is Bigger Picture Blogs series of writing exercises created to help our community dive deeper into writing, grow creatively, and learn about ourselves and each other. This quarter we are writing from the prompt “I Remember…” and each week we will feature one of our community members.

This weeks post comes to us from Corinne.

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I remember a blue sky with puffy white clouds, and rainbows. Rainbow brite, and wallpaper that spelled R A I N B O W in red, orange, yellow, green blue, indigo and violet block letters. Not a rain cloud or drop in sight.

I remember the houses on Yvonne Street, Pine Road, Winnacunnet Road, Boars Head, Carlton Drive. I remember rooms and bookcases. I remember yellow. Backyards and swingsets. A sandbox and dark woods.

I remember living across the street from Prescott Park, and hearing the summer plays four nights a week from my bedroom. The shrill voices. The dramatic songs. Tea for two and two for tea…

I remember the dining room table always being filled with love; the central location for our homeschool… it caught on fire once. I remember science experiments and penmanship. The 5″ by 7″ algebra book with pages so thin I feared ripping one with each turn. I remember the blue cover.

I remember writing stories in a notebook filled with pink college ruled paper, filling fabric covered journals from cover to cover with scribbles and dreams and daily events.

I remember family dinners and birthday dinners and celebratory lunches all at home. Homemade cakes. Green mashed potatoes on St. Patrick’s Day. Sewn by mama Easter dresses. I remember hand crafted dolls on birthdays, agonizing over choosing a favorite birthday dinner, the excitement of not being on dish duty. I remember every Christmas. The anticipation, counting the minutes, watching the clock, finally succumbing to a light slumber. I remember Christmas cookies in snowman covered tins, enough to tide us over until well past the new year.

I remember hot cocoa and oatmeal raisin cookies on a snow day. A hand knit sweater. My mama working the snow blower like a pro.  Her red cheeks, concentration, and big smile.

I remember being little enough to not have a care in the world.  I remember the feeling of falling asleep freshly bathed on a hot summer night, and flannel sheets in the dead of winter. The softness warming me from the outside in. My special blanket always held close, winter or summer. I remember warmth.

I remember feeling safe. And loved.

I remember feeling a net below me and possibilities above.

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Will you join us?

~Post an I Remember exercise anytime you like on your blog. Link up:

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~Want to be one of our guest writers? Complete this form and we will email you your feature date and submission details.