good morning friends!
i am posting a series of videos in my instagram story this morning (which you won't be able to see online, you'll have to go into the app!) so be sure to go watch those, you can find me @agirlnamedleney!
i made them to talk more about my heart behind this event i am hosting with The Village Magazine and Jacqueline of BoldHeartMama on July 29th here in my home city, Richmond, Virginia.
well, this is the middle.
the in-between and un-done.
i know you get uncomfortable here.
but it's necessary.
for you can't get to the end without going through a middle to get there
i am so very excited to announce that i will be cohosting a slow living event with friends from The Village Magazine on July 29th here in my hometown of Richmond, VA and you are all invited!
what is slow living and what will we be doing at this event?
(well, for an initial introduction into what slow living means to me you should head to this page on my site.)
The Art of Slow Living.
it’s a phrase that’s becoming more mainstream, hashtagged and popular these days, but what does it really mean?
what does it look like to #liveslow?
the vessel of me— i often think of my body in this way.
as a container.
as something that is capable of holding and harboring and keeping but also having the ability to be empty and having things poured out of it.
namely thoughts, actions, emotions.
but i also just love the word vessel— as it’s another name for a ship.
our priorities aren’t what we say they are, but rather what we do.
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i ran.
and i ran and ran and ran.
the driving feeling that manifested physically beat inside me repeatedly until i acted on it.
i constantly wanted to run away.
runrunrunrunrunrunrun.
the feeling i had, which i interpreted as a need, was constant.
and yet even when i acted on it, even when i did run in some form or another, arriving never eased the command.
it didn’t let up.
“you still need to run” something inside of me would say.
“you have to escape”
“you don’t belong here”
wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.
the history carried within things is much more evident within their imperfections.
of objects. of ourselves.
by which i mean:
it is by the worn deck of a boat that you can gauge how many storms it’s weathered.
the lines by a woman’s eyes that tell of how many times she’s smiled because she’s chosen to see the good in life vs. the bad.
the calluses on a mans hands that showcase how hard he’s worked at his craft.
leaving here a small collection of imperfect photos, that i took with some expired film, that make me happy.
perhaps exactly because of their imperfection.
and perhaps also because of:
the dirt of our hurt.
it’s a phrase that’s been running across the mainframe of my brain on repeat ever since it came to me a week or so ago.
i’ve been sitting with it, knowing i have something i need to process and write involving the ideas around it, but i've been running away from doing so.
distracting myself. thinking of other things. or not thinking at all.
evolving is a balancing act.
to both hold contentment (without being stagnant and stale) in one hand and a desire to grow and experience new-ness (without being restless and unappreciative of where you are) in the other is hard for me.
