Footsteps in the Snow: Following God

It's not a new idea, I know. But it hit me afresh last night when I took the trash out. Isn't it funny how the divine can strike you right in the middle of mundane tasks?

I cracked open the back door and peered out into the frigid black night, then noted with relief that there was a trail of husband-sized footprints leading out to the garage. Oh good. I wouldn't have to change into boots.

Of course, sometimes when one is cautiously stepping into deep footprints in the snow, one might not step perfectly into the print and wind up with snow in one's shoe. But one is more careful on the next steps.

Of course, it was my own fault that I got snow in my shoe. The footprints were plenty big enough to see, and there was plenty of room for me to put my foot inside the boundaries. But I wasn't careful enough. After several steps that worked out for me, I got careless and didn't pay as much attention. And yes, I learned from my mistake. It was too late to salvage my socks, but I could keep them from getting wetter.

Such it is with God.

Thank you, Lord, for giving me a path that is easy to see and follow. Thank you that the boundaries are clear and that if I am mindful, I can stay safe walking with You.

The Top Ten Things I Love About October

Yes, I know it's December. A mere less-than-two-weeks from Christmas. But in my harried mind, it is still October. The last two months have kind of gotten away from me. The days are zipping by at all-time record speeds this year. And the only post I really cared about getting up for October was the one in which I declare the many things I love about that orange-y month.

I think it will be easier for me to transition into December-themed blog posts if I don't leave any unfinished business.

So without further ado, I present you a throw back to our first lavish, glorious days of fall this year:

10. The leaves: on trees, falling through the air, gathered and tucked around my house for fuh-reee!

9. The pumpkins: on front porches, on dining room tables.

8. Apples...and the apple orchards. And the fresh honey.

7. The crisp air.

6. Autumn sunlight.

5. Woodsmoke.

4. Cookouts.

3. Bundling up in scarves just because I finally can!

2. Halloween candy.

1. Beginning my personal countdown to Christmas.

Thank you for bearing with me. I'll try to catch up to real time now.

All Things Harvest

Well, hopefully my harvest-y pictures from the other day got you into a fall-ish mood...because I'm suggesting you go look at some more. My dear friend Sasha is having a lovely little giveaway and I think that you would enjoy drooling over pictures of her home. I did. But then again, creamy yellow-tinted walls do that to me. And pumpkins, too. Knock yourself out.

http://www.lemonademakinmama.com/2010/09/giveaway-and-harvestizing-my-house-for.html

Interview with Edie

Note: the luscious locks pictured in this post are yes, indeedy, Edie's. Taken at a much earlier date and remembered at just the right moment.

What follows is an interview that will hopefully give all my/our faithful readers a peek into what our group camping experience was like. So turn down the lights, grab a sleeping bag, and snuggle up with a s'more. You have my blessing.

Hey, Edie, how many years have you been going on this annual camping trip?

As many years as I've been married. Let's see, that'd be fourteen. Unless it's Tuesday, and it's raining.

What was your favorite thing about the trip this year?

Allow me to be perfectly shallow and brutally honest. I had a great hair day. While camping, people. Do you have any idea what that means?

You have to understand that I have naturally-curly hair. Now, stop hating me. It's a fact, Jack. It just is. As such, my hair on any given day is organized chaos. Like it or not, I've learned to embrace this fact. Some days, I love it. Some days, I loathe it. It is what it is. Love it or leave it. And leaving it is not an option. I hope.

The one thing I've learned about my hair is it is unpredictable. ExtrEMEly. Although I'm not exactly sure of all the determining factors, weather plays a huge role in how my hair looks. Humidity or lack thereof, rather, is king.

On this particular day, Saturday, the eighteenth day of September in the two thousand tenth year of our Lord, if anybody is wondering. Ahem. On this day, my hair had met its perfect atmospheric conditions. What I had were soft, billowing tendrils the likes of which I've never seen before and can only hope to see again. I've tried to recreate what I had. Yes, I have. Only to be left in hopeless, frizzy silence. Despondent? Indeed. Great hope for a bright tomorrow? Indubitably.

But for one day, I had some seriously great hair. The likes of which every woman dreams about for her wedding day. Just to know it is possible makes me deliriously happy.

That was my favorite thing, I am ashamed to say. The best hair day of my life. Of. my. life.

Ahem. (smoothing clothes, scrunching hair)

However, I must say in all honesty that I also enjoyed the rousing and rugged hike on

the trails. That is the main reason I look forward to Turkey Run. The other highlight is the chatter 'round the campfire with my peeps. Those two things make camping worth every discomfort known to campkind.

The other fabulous thing -- and I promise this is the last thing until we move on to the next question. And thank you for sticking with me after that hair falderal. The other fabulous thing was having the sites filled with my peeps nearly as far as the eye could see.

You see, we get the very best sites in the entire park. (Why am I telling you this, Chris? You were a part of us.) Ahem. Fair reader, we get the very best sites in the park. It is a shady cul-de-sac. We had friends and family all the way around the bend and then some. It was reminiscent of my childhood days when we would invite friends and family camping. We didn't have much money, so when we did something, we did it big. We camped in a schoolbus. Yes, we did. Everybody who was anybody was there. A little slice o' heaven, let me tell you. Much like what we had at Turkey Run this year. It was sublime.

What was your least favorite thing about the trip this year? --if you aren't comfortable sticking whatever your answer is up on the blog, (lie like a dog and say something funny) skip it. Use that logic for any of the questions, actually.

The most frightening thing happened on Sunday morning. When it was too late to do anything about it, I knew I didn't have what it takes to make pancakes. I had many mouths to feed and only two-thirds the batter I'd used on days prior. So before that first ladle of batter was poured, I prayed over my provisions in earnest. A lot. I prayed without ceasing. I reminded God of how He fed the five thousand. I told Him I knew He could do it again if only He willed. (I wasn't really kidding.) Lo and behold, I fed more children that day than any other. Some of those pancakes were the finest camping pancakes ever to grace my camp stove. God had indeed made a way.

What was the best part about being the mistress of the pancakes?

Pancakes are crowd pleasers. Children hover around you in eager anticipation when you make pancakes. Little hands love helping. Pancakes make people happy, and they taste mighty good too. And pancake making gives Kellar a reason to hang out with me. What's not to love?

How was the hiking?

Never better. We found the Ice Box. We never find the Ice Box. Collectively we usually tromp right by it not knowing it is there and miss it entirely. One of the children -- Heaven bless them -- remembered where the Ice Box was and led the way. I knew we kept them around for something. The rest of the trail was exhilarating as well. Right down to the last chutes and ladders that we hoisted ourselves up and over and through. Oh my.

How was the sleeping?

Chilled to be sure. When coupled with the right mix of collective body heat, it was quite comfortable indeed. Let's hear it for the buddy system.

How were the campfires?

Toasty, smoky, oft surrounded by wieners, armchair politicians and geeks. Oh yes, and the smores were delightful. Don't ask me how many I ate. I may have lost count.

How was the ice cream?

Oh, now I'm all misty. Vacation just isn't vacation without a little bit of ice cream each day. It touches a place deep inside me that only peanut butter and chocolate can fill.

My favorite dairy treat was a cookie ice cream sandwich with amazingly soft chocolate chip cookies and a band of chocolate chips around the outside of the ice cream. It was a thing of beauty.

Describe your most amusing camp moment.

That had to be watching the horseback riders return from the ride. There was a lot of swankering and swaying going on. And some rubbing and grimacing.

Mind you, I've only been on horseback a couple times in my life, but I don't remember it being all that painful in the end, as it were. Ahem. Maybe I wasn't doing it right. Maybe I didn't tighten my haunches enough during the ride. Maybe I was in eminent peril, and I didn't know it. Or maybe I'm crazy. Crazy like a fox. Yes, that must be it.

A Camping We Shall Go

Lest you think I've just been lazy the last week or so, let me set the record straight:

I went camping for four days and three nights with four children.

Thank you.

Here's how I used my time during the last week and a half:

Planning

Panicking

Making lists

Buying food

Buying supplies

Packing clothes

Packing food

Packing supplies

Packing bedding

Packing the van

Driving

Getting directions

Driving

Arriving

Watching the kids while the men set up camp

Handwashing

etc etc etc

**Horseback riding--yay!!

Handwashing

Hiking

Handwashing

Braving the bathhouse

Handwashing

Washing children in the bathhouse

Getting children to sleep in the tent

Sitting around a campfire with friends

Keeping children warm through the night

Waking up cold

Dressing children in the cold morning light

Eating breakfast wearing a hoodie, huddled around the fire

Handwashing/Dishwashing

Changing children's clothes as the day got hot

Handwashing

More hiking

Respite from the afternoon heat in the GAME ROOM (yay, airconditioning!)

Panicking

"Saving" children from the ravine behind the playground; they weren't grateful

Handwashing

etc etc etc

Packing, packing, packing

Driving

Unpacking, unpacking, unpacking

Dealing with children who want to be outside all the time, but can't because we don't live in a tent.

Homeschooling while doing lots of wood-smokey laundry

One very unique aspect of this trip is that I didn't take a single picture. I had remembered to bring my camera, sure. And for the first day or so, I kept thinking I should be snapping away at all the beautiful trees, the well-positioned water spout, and the horses. But I just couldn't bring myself to do so. I was afraid that if I started taking pictures, I might be taking away from the experience. My personality is such that I find ways of disconnecting from groups of people and watching from an emotional distance as I do some other mental activity. Although I love people, love talking and interacting, the introvert side of me is very good at "hiding" emotionally, oftentimes without me realizing I'm doing it. So I kept my camera in the van and managed to feel like I'd actually been there. A revelation, for sure.

In lieu of having pictures to share, my plan is to post an interview with my camping buddy Edie.

She filled the role of Mistress of the Morning Pancakes. It should be quite enjoyable, as Edie often is. So wait with bated breath, faithful reader. Satisfaction is forthcoming.

Like a weaned child

Disclaimer: This post talks about nursing, but in fairly general terms. Just in case you men out there would rather not read about nursing at all. This has been a public service announcement.

Second disclaimer: Blogger is defying all my efforts to make my fonts and spacing normal. Try to pretend everything is normal. That is all.

Early this morning, Dawson, my just-turned-2-year-old couldn't get back to sleep. It was roughly 5 o'clock in the morning and his little molars were hurting and his tummy was empty. It took me more than a few moments to wake up enough to realize this.

The house was dark and everyone would be asleep for another two hours. I knew his tiny body needed more rest, so I shook myself awake and tended to his needs.

Let me back up a little bit. All of my four children have been the crawl-into-bed-with-Mommy kind. Right up until I would have my next baby, and then they'd have to transition to staying in their own bed more often. Only this time, I haven't had another baby yet, so Dawson is still a nightly installment in our bed. The other thing about him being the "baby" (read: youngest, not actual baby) is that he is still nursing. Just a bit.

I never expected to be the kind of momma that would allow a child to nurse much past his or her first birthday. All of my other children were done much earlier with "momma milk." But so far, I haven't had another baby. And the fact that he now asks for "one minute more momma milk" only endears me more to him, even though I know that means the time has come for him to be done. That's a lot of talking for a nursing child. At least, relatively speaking. I know some countries still nurse their babes for years longer, but here at Casa de Floyd, this means he's about done.

I think that we'll be able to painlessly finish the weaning process this weekend when we go camping. Being out of our normal environment should be all it takes.

Why am I telling you all this? Because at 5:28 this morning, while I was sitting with a finally-sleepy Dawson in my lap, I began thinking about this Psalm:

Psalm 131 (NIV)

A song of ascents. Of David.

¹ My hear

t is not proud, O LORD,

my eyes are not haughty;

I do not concern myself with great matters

or things too wonderful for me.

² But I have stilled and quieted my soul;

like a weaned child with its mother,

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

³ O Israel, put your hope in the LORD both now and forevermore.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When I first read this Psalm earlier this year, I found myself wondering over the symbolism of the weaned child. After all, Dawson was still nursing full-steam, and any time he was denied momma milk (as I tested the waters of weaning), he was heartily incensed at my lack of compassion for him.

How could a weaned child be quiet? After all, you couldn't use nursing as a soothing mechanism anymore. I mulled it over and just wasn't sure. Wouldn't a nursing child be more calm with its tender parent?

But this morning, a nearly-weaned Dawson sat sleepy and safe in my lap, covered by a soft blanket, and did not try to nurse. He leaned contentedly against me and finally fell asleep.

And I realized finally what the Psalm was pointing towards.

As young Christians (read: dependent on the milk of the Word, rather than the meat) we are often restless, unsure of God, hoping that He will always be there for us. Still searching for many unanswered questions. But as we get to know God better, we start to feel safe with God. True, there may always be some unanswered questions (my two year old may not be nursing soon, but I betcha he'll still throw a fit when I tell him it's time to leave the park because he doesn't understand he needs a bath before bed...orwhy that's necessary.) but we'll get to the point where we can trust God more fully.

We can lean on Him contentedly, not demanding that He give us everything the easy way.

My baby, learning to go to sleep with a book.

My baby, learning to grow up.

Roasted Pears with Feta

I peered into my refrigerator at lunchtime today and hoped for something adventurous. Something that would rocket me past an ordinary peanut butter and jelly sandwich and into a slammingly productive afternoon. I saw a small container with a few crumbs of feta cheese. I saw a pear. The back part of my mind told me that it had once seen a recipe combining these two ingredients. The front part of my mind said "Ick. Why would anyone put those two together? That's a little too adventurous for today." But nothing else looked inspiring, so I did a google search on "pears feta" and came up with a very simple recipe: Roasted Pears with Feta. The reason I ultimately tried it was because it's stupid easy and didn't have any extra, fancy ingredients, only the ones I already had.

I halved the pears. I cored them, messily. I didn't have cooking spray, so I slathered the fronts and backs with a bit o' butter. I sprinkled them lightly with pepper and salt, all the while wondering why I was going along with this crazy nonsense. Pepper on a pear??! Unheard of, at least, in my little world. I popped the halves into the oven and waited for 20 minutes, listening to the butter pop and crackle and wondering again if I would have the nerve to actually crumble the feta over the top before eating them.

The timer went off. I pulled out the baking sheet and stuck it on top of the stove. I studied the pear. I sniffed it. I rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and transfered it to a cute plate. I cracked open the container of feta cheese and crumbled it artfully over the fruit. At least it will make a pretty picture, even if it tastes gross, I thought.

I procured a fork and knife and sat the plate gingerly on my computer desk. Siiiiiiigh. Okay, taking a bite...

Oh my.

That's not bad.

In fact (nom nom nom) that's pretty good.

But don't take my word for it:

Roasted Pear with Feta

1 bosc pear

1 1-inch cube of feta, cumbled (or it's container equivalent)

salt and pepper to taste

1. Preheat the oven to 425. Wash, halve, and core the pear. Spray each half with cooking spray (or slather with a bit of butter). Place on baking sheet, skin-side down. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Bake for 20 minutes.

2. Remove from oven. Allow to cool slightly, and then sprinkle with feta.

3. Eat, while feeling incredibly gourmet.

Apples to Apples

A couple of weeks ago, I was invited to pick a boatload of not-quite-ripe apples from a neighbor of my mother-in-law. It sounded enticing, picking apples from a tree. I succumbed and soon brought home two grocery bags full of beautiful apples. Apples that I didn't know what to do with because, like before mentioned, they weren't quite ripe. And because they were much smaller than I prefer. Everything I usually do with apples involves peeling and slicing, even just eating them raw, because the kids don't like peels. And who wants to peel and slice a bunch of really small apples? Not I.

But I soon decided that they were good for something else--decorating. They really are beautiful.

So I piled them in one of my new vintage baskets and in no time flat, I had a new centerpiece. I felt brilliant. I felt creative. I felt very Country Living.

I started noticing how the wire of the basket matched the wire on my chandelier...and how that matched the wire on my lanterns. Oh, I was feeling really full of my own magnificence now. So coordinated was I that I could hardly stand the coolness.

Until suddenly, I awoke to one small flaw. My really cool centerpiece, full of not-quite-ripe apples, was irresistible to my two-year-old boy. And because I knew that we wouldn't be eating them, I hadn't washed those beautiful apples. Thus they were still possibly covered in pesticide. And spotted with insect holes here and there (those were undoubtedly the ones my children had "helped" me pick--right off the ground, probably). Basically, they were food, but food that shouldn't be consumed. But a two year old doesn't know that. He just sees a huge basket of summer's bounty, finally placed within his reach. And he thinks "Yay Mama! You're so smart!"

So after two or three times of catching him with a small sliver of apple core, I gave up and removed them from their adorable place on the table. Sure, I could just wash all ten or fifteen pounds of them. But the insect holes would still be there. And two year olds don't know how to check for insect holes.

I am happy to report that my two year old is still healthy, with no apparent signs of poison.

I am sad to report that I haven't found any local place that is selling pumpkins yet. And that even when I do, a pumpkin probably won't look quite as cute in my basket as the apples did.

It's a hard knock life. mock dramatic sigh

A spicy little interlude

I think is about where we started with the spice rack yesterday.

My spice rack came from a garage sale as well. Many years ago, I was sorting through a variety of somewhat-uninspiring items when I came across this unique little shelf. At the time, it was greenish or grayish or some less-fresh color. The tag said "10" and since I was a novice garage saler, I planned on forking over the full ten dollars for my treasure. As I prepared to pay, I was startled to hear the woman ask me for ten cents. I checked the tag, looked back at her face (sure that she was pulling my leg) and then asked that most intelligent of questions, "What?" She repeated, I handed her a dime, and walked away with a goofy grin and thrill in my heart. Matt spray painted it white and it lived in our bathroom as a shelf for my bath products for several years.

When we added a different mirror to the bathroom, complete with built-in shelves, I decided my vintage darling needed a new home.

Sometime after the relocation, Grandpa Kimble gave me part of his huge bottle collection. More than half of it is still safely in its box. The other half gained acceptance as part of my spice collection. I happily applied some labels I'd been saving and starting the grueling task of transferring all the spices to their new homes. Really, what is better than being able to find a way to use a collection in some practical way? I love being able to use old things. (Which is why it took me so long to plunge into collecting delicate teacups I'd probably never use. But I'm a tea drinker, darn it, and I'm going to celebrate it in my decor.)

Doesn't it just do your heart good to see all those little bottles, filled up with spices? happy sigh

Thank you for ignoring my finger shadow. Oops. Made you look.

Attack of the Teacups

This is the first of my many new acquisitions from a two-day binge at a local garage sale. My wonderful husband agreed to accompany me the first time, and then the second day, I snuck out at naptime (yes, even Matt was sleeping). I've had requests to show off the goods and I am nothing if not a people pleaser. My favorite thing about these vintage wire baskets is the way they mix practicality with adorability. (Yes, I know that's not a word.) I don't know what to do with all of my baskets yet, but just you wait.

This one demonstrates the beauty of having sides you can see through: perfect for piling textiles in, in this case, summer scarves and flowery hats.

My copper teapot has been a well-loved member of the family for a couple of years now, as has the silver tray. But the tiny creamer and the teacups are all new.

Oh right, the spoons. I have a huge bag of interesting spoons that I don't know what to do with. Most of them have state names on them, but a few are just pretty.

All of my tea cups were 25 cents each. The blue ones below have a castle inscribed with the word Heirloom on the bottoms.

This one is pastoral, but has no markings on the bottom.

I've got two of these darlings from England. I love how so many of my teacups have designs on the inside.

This one is cracked but it's from Bavaria and who can pass that up?

This blue-flowered dame is also unmarked, but struck me as a perfect present for someone close to me, so she got to join the others.

This one appears to be from Japan, and hopefully not in the typical "made in Japan" way. But even if it is, the cup can at least pay homage to Matt's heritage.

This baby is half the size of the others and claims to be fine bone china from England.

This plate is unmarked, but I love tea saucers with a little personality.

I didn't think to take a picture of the delicate pink-flowered French number that I gave away to a dear friend, but trust me, she was the shining star of the bunch. I would've even shown you a picture of the bottom mark, it was so...French.

And finally, a side-ways picture of my spice rack which refuses to turn. Noteworthy are the wildflowers I've so artfully shoved in my hanging basket. My children just have no appreciation for such refreshment, as demonstrated by the way they complained loudly and with vigor when I repeatedly stopped on the way home to gather more Queen Anne's Lace.


And now, some appropriate quotes to close:

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. ~Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

Another novelty is the tea-party, an extraordinary meal in that, being offered to persons that have already dined well, it supposes neither appetite nor thirst, and has no object but distraction, no basis but delicate enjoyment. ~Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste

The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose. ~George Gissing, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft

Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors. ~Alice Walker

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things. ~Saki

As the centerpiece of a cherished ritual, it's a talisman against the chill of winter, a respite from the ho-hum routine of the day. ~Sarah Engler, "Tea Up," Real Simple magazine, February 2006

The perfect temperature for tea is two degrees hotter than just right. ~Terri Guillemets

Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company. ~Author Unknown

The library

I love the library. I have always loved the library.

Let me back up. I should not be writing right now. I have places to go, things to do. My children want blueberry pancakes, because they never eat enough breakfast. I have no time for writing right now.

But it's been so long, and I've so wanted to write. So I'm throwing caution and time management to the wind. Besides, I happen to know that the two adults who will be waiting on me if I'm late would really like to see a fresh post on this here blog. In fact, they've probably long ago given up hope that I will ever type another line again.

On we go.

The pictures on this post do not come from the library I'm writing about. I didn't take a single picture, although I wanted to. But there were so many exciting things to do, that I didn't get a chance.

There are two library branches in our town: South Branch and Main Branch. I've almost always gone to the Main Branch, especially in the last ten years or so. But then my good friend Edie told me how wonderful the recently-remodeled (ahem, as in ten year ago) South Branch is. So last week when rain seemed imminent, I packed up the children and headed off to investigate. But I was a little skeptical that anything could surpass my own Beloved Main Branch.

I must say, in general, that I would probably love any library. The shelves and shelves of books, the quiet tables, the children's section. But my Beloved Main Branch has that special smell. Do you know what I'm talking about? Maybe it's just me. I know I'm extremely scent oriented. I especially love the smell of their elevator.

So when I entered the South Branch, I knew that none of those special smells would be there, and I assumed that this would stunt my experience. But then I saw the gleaming wooden shelves, the brilliant organization (which I'm also a sucker for), and the children's section. There was a tree in the children's section. A TREE. (Yes, it was pretend. But it reached the ceiling and looked real.) And a two-level clubhouse that had built in bookshelves, cushions for reclining on, and an observation deck. I never wanted to leave. Oh yeah, and the kids loved it too.

The windows of this library (and I'm guessing, the light fixtures as well) had been inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, and did a fabulous job of bringing the outside in (that's a Country Living term: "bring the outside in." I'm practicing to be a caption writer for that magazine. Or maybe Better Homes and Gardens.) And unlike my Beloved Main Branch, this library was surrounded by grass, trees, and sky. Not buildings and streets. It was enchanting. Did I mention I never wanted to leave?

There was even a Snack Zone, which seemed so amazingly rebellious to me, because at my Beloved Main Branch, you were never allowed to enter the library with so much as a stick of gum. Cokes were right out. To have an actual Snack Zone (yes, I understand the importance of protecting books from snacks. Yes, I know how many parenthesis I've been using. Yes, and italics. I feel strongly about libraries.) seemed so progressive, so too-good-to-be-true. Because really, is there any better combination than books and food?

Time is getting away from me, just like it did there. The kids have eaten their pancakes and now need to be dressed.

All right, I think I'll end this renegade post with another plug for the dreamy children's book The Library, by Sarah Stewart. All of her books are somewhat magical, but this one is my absolute favorite. Even adults like having it read to them. Go check it out today.

Nelleigh's Room

I have this adorable teenage friend named Nelleigh. She has the coolest room. She picked the boldest, most glam color of purple for her walls, henceforth renamed Audrey Eggplant (nod to hannaH).

A while back, Nelleigh gave me permission to pretend I was a photographer from Better Homes and Gardens (or Country Living, if that's more your style--yeehaw!) and snap away at her stunning digs.

Black and white photographs pop against the bold wall color while the hydrangeas keep everything balanced.

Her shoes match her room, and incidentally, bridge the gap between playful girl and sophisticated young woman.


Another brief glimpse at the little girl lingering within...

More clean white adds freshness and pop.

Can anyone else feel the love of all things Paris?

Other than the thrilling purple walls, one of my favorite parts of her room is her converted closet. The inside walls have been painted with chalkboard paint and filled with personal chalk inscriptions:

Behind her bedroom door, her necklaces multitask: organization meets decor. Ah now, here's a girl after me own heart.

A curved mirror tops off her antique dresser, both of them helping to balance all the white accents. Near her ceiling are painted Bible verses, keeping them within sight at all times. I love the way the pink paint of yesteryear is allowed to seep through and create a perfect vintage patina. Love.it.

A glowing Eiffel Tower and some white Christmas lights create an ethereal atmosphere.

Ah Nelleigh, thank you dear, for letting us peek into your room. I know that I'll be back whenever I need a little aesthetic refreshment.

"Paris is always a good idea." ~Audrey Hepburn