The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

I'm just a hobbit, trying to make her way in the world with faith, hopes, & dreams in hand. Oh & some art tools as well. & a ukulele.
HONK HONK

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May 15th, 2013
I’ve never dated, and never had romance. But I know what love is, and I know what it means to love a person without compromising beliefs and standards. But by way of physical attraction to a guy, I find myself drawn to only a few minor things: hair, eyes, the smile, and hands. I’ve always love studying hands, especially those of the men in my life - my grandfathers, my dad, my Uncle Ben, my “papa” James, even some of the guy friends I’ve had over the years. A man’s hands are a symbol of strength, and to wax poetic, I love to draw on that strength that I see in the hands of those men who protect and love me. There is hard work and even a masculine ferocity in those hands that can’t rightly be explained; those hands can build or break things without hesitation, and yet be gentle enough to take my hand while escorting me or envelop me in a hug. Some of the hands are scarred, some are wrinkled and rough, some are brown from the sun and freckled. But they are all the same in this aspect: they symbolize a strength I need and have been blessed to have in my life. That strength has lifted me out of many frustrating times, and I’d be lost without the fierce but gentle touch of those mighty hands and the mighty men connected to them.

I’ve never dated, and never had romance. But I know what love is, and I know what it means to love a person without compromising beliefs and standards.

But by way of physical attraction to a guy, I find myself drawn to only a few minor things: hair, eyes, the smile, and hands.

I’ve always love studying hands, especially those of the men in my life - my grandfathers, my dad, my Uncle Ben, my “papa” James, even some of the guy friends I’ve had over the years. A man’s hands are a symbol of strength, and to wax poetic, I love to draw on that strength that I see in the hands of those men who protect and love me. There is hard work and even a masculine ferocity in those hands that can’t rightly be explained; those hands can build or break things without hesitation, and yet be gentle enough to take my hand while escorting me or envelop me in a hug. Some of the hands are scarred, some are wrinkled and rough, some are brown from the sun and freckled.

But they are all the same in this aspect: they symbolize a strength I need and have been blessed to have in my life. That strength has lifted me out of many frustrating times, and I’d be lost without the fierce but gentle touch of those mighty hands and the mighty men connected to them.

(Source: thesensualstarfish, via myfotolog)

April 4th, 2013
Have you ever been out at night under ropes of tiny lights, with guitars, fiddles, and mandolins singing because life is so grand? Where faces are flushed with the light of lamps and a campfire and the joy of being alive and winging such music to the skies above? I have. And it’s an experience like none other, one that words shame because they cannot capture those glorious moments. I’ve danced under the stars to distant strains of the bagpipe. I’ve sat beside a fire and listen to the soft, sweet wail of the ulliean pipes. I’ve made torches with cousins and marched about in a field on an autumn night, reveling in the simple fact that we could do such a thing and knowing our Celtic ancestors did the same. I’ve cradled dear friends and family in my arms while quiet music played, to cuddle or comfort them, or to just let them sleep on me and be at peace. These are the moments where my soul was wrapped in the goodness and blessedness of life. These are the moments I will always cherish. They are my shining, glorious bits of summer that make up the mosaic of my life.

Have you ever been out at night under ropes of tiny lights, with guitars, fiddles, and mandolins singing because life is so grand? Where faces are flushed with the light of lamps and a campfire and the joy of being alive and winging such music to the skies above?

I have. And it’s an experience like none other, one that words shame because they cannot capture those glorious moments.

I’ve danced under the stars to distant strains of the bagpipe. I’ve sat beside a fire and listen to the soft, sweet wail of the ulliean pipes. I’ve made torches with cousins and marched about in a field on an autumn night, reveling in the simple fact that we could do such a thing and knowing our Celtic ancestors did the same. I’ve cradled dear friends and family in my arms while quiet music played, to cuddle or comfort them, or to just let them sleep on me and be at peace.

These are the moments where my soul was wrapped in the goodness and blessedness of life. These are the moments I will always cherish. They are my shining, glorious bits of summer that make up the mosaic of my life.

(Source: dailydoseofstuf, via myfotolog)

December 8th, 2012

I don’t know what it is, but it seems like within the last few days, a lot of my friends and family around me has been struggling - over petty things, picking fights, feeling like crap, etc.

So far I’ve stayed up until 2 a.m. with one on the phone, Skyped another briefly, and played Terraria with a third. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to do this; it’s one of my callings, to be there for people who need a listening ear.

But honestly at this point though, I’m all

What is going on why so many terrible feelings about selves and so much angst against others IT’S CHRISTMAS.

I’m just doing my best at this point to be there for anyone who needs me, but…

To use a euphemism I heard in the play I saw last night (SKIT Theater’s performance of “A Christmas Story” - AWESOME):

GOAT DANDRUFF GUYS

GOAT. DANDRUFF.

It’s spiritually oppressive, that’s what it is. Lots o’ bad vibes goin’ down.

October 4th, 2012

Irish Pride

No, it’s not just a sense of staying true to my roots.

Read More

August 27th, 2012

Miracle Ben

Two years ago today, my Uncle Ben was in a severe motorcycle accident that shattered his shoulder, broke ribs - one of which punctured a lung - and gave him head trauma. There was concern as to whether or not he would pull through.

Well he did. Why? Because he’s freaking stubborn. And because God said, “Nope, you actually get to stick around.”

I got to see him for the first time since that accident back in April. And just tonight, he texted me to let me know that this was the anniversary.

I admit to crying. Not out of shock or sadness or any other negative feeling. It was out of pure gratitude, because now this day is a day of remembrance, of celebration, because Benjamin Kruse was given the gift of life restored.

But it’s still hard for him. Very hard. So hard that he didn’t pick up when I tried to call - he asked that we just text instead. So I did. I have been for the past hour, just encouraging him, sending him my love and doing my best to uplift him in any way that I can. I think he must’ve been having a hard enough time that he didn’t want me to hear him in such a state…

I hate not being there for him in person right now. I hate it.

But the conversation went from heart-felt, to deep, to him suddenly saying “Hey, there’s a skunk outside somewhere. I’m going to get my BB gun and see if I can shoot it!”

Me: “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN NOOOOOOOO.”

It’s been downright hilarious ever since.

Long story short, I was there for my Ben regardless, and his gratitude for it shows. I’m sick at heart because we live so far away and I’m not able to be there in person, but that’s only a small bit. My heart is otherwise full of joy and love in the knowledge that I was able to uplift him, even for a little while…and get a stitch in my side from laughing uproariously at his dumb antics at trying to find the skunk outside his house.

I love my Ben so much. So, so much.

June 29th, 2012

Daily Musings: A Post About Shoes

I work in a shoe store, and I’ve discovered that I can paint a picture of a person based off of a particular shoe. Like who would wear what type of shoe and so on.

For example, we just got these in:

First off, they’re a Dr. Scholl’s clog, and their official title is called “Dance.” I’m sorry, but to me, these shoes don’t say “dance.” To me, they say “late-50’s/early-60’s-white-female-tourist-whose-husband-wears-weird-khaki-shorts-and-Burks-with-socks.”

But maybe that’s just me.

Now take Converse:

When I look at Converse of any kind - be they plain colored, polka-dot, or like the latest kicks with superheroes on them (I dig those a LOT, btw) - to me they say “just plain old fun.” They say “hey, let’s go on a road trip just because,” or “you feel like walking to that bookstore with something good to drink? I do!” or “let’s play some feel-good music for a while - don’t bother with the time.”

I’m no over-fanatic about Converse (I only have one pair), but I like looking at them, and I love wearing them. It hit me just recently when I was looking at the Converse website; there’s a timeless air about them. Yes, a lot of the hipsters are forcing Converse into their genre, but whatever. They’re so versatile you can wear them with pretty much anything. I was inspired when I saw a little girl in a cute top, a frilly skirt, and Chucks - she was holding her daddy’s hand and looked absolutely thrilled to do so.

I see Converse as more than just shoes. I don’t think they make a statement so much as they signify life moreso than other shoes I’ve seen and sold. Sounds funny, I know, but bear with me here. You see all these other styles and brands constantly changing, constantly brightening their colors and enhancing their performance. Whereas here we’ve got Converse, still pretty much the same as when they were first made; they might’ve adopted more styles into their “family” but they’re the same shoe.

I guess it’s that originality that makes them such a wonderful shoe to me - that sense of unchanging stability in a world of constant change and millions of choices. So here’s to you, Converse: a brand that holds a lot of good memories for me in general.