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Saturday

· September 29, 2012

I’m listening to the early morning sounds of my babies waking up. My parents are here, so I’m given the privilege of sleeping in when they begin to stir. There are whispers of conversations because they know Mommy is sleeping. Or trying to. Soft and tender words spoken just to themselves and their imaginations, unaware and unhindered by self-consciousness. Something about sharing and lunch and babies. The little patters down the hallway rush to get this or that. Faint sounds of electronics let me know they are piled up in the living room — our Mario Bros and Transformer “tech” paired with some intermittent rattling I’m now convinced is a toy mixer. There’s that thick cough I’ve been concerned about. The on-and-off of the air conditioner briefly dims the sounds and now I can hear the Weather Channel forecasting the day. And maybe the dishwasher.

They are the sounds of normal. And so very daunting. I know getting up will get easier. I know moving will get easier. I know the fatigue will lessen and the sleep will become more sound and the rising of the sun will just get easier. But now it’s so daunting.

When I hear these sounds, I’m so intimidated and overwhelmed to face them. Yes, it’s intimidating to think of dealing with their grief in whatever unexpected ways it comes out and the sadness I know they feel. But, more than that, it’s their overwhelming normal-ness I’m not sure I’m ready for. They are SO glaringly normal. Their blessed youth and innocence of this life makes normal so much larger for them and unquestioned. They are still young enough to be a little confused by time and place. And absence. And so today is just Saturday, like most Saturdays. A new day.

They deserve this day. This new day. They deserve that great luxury called normal. And as I continue to listen — someone’s winning a race with Bowser and Baby Girl has chosen another puzzle — I can almost know the sound of normal in my own spirit. It’s only a faint rumble. And it brings this strange guilt and shame and sorrow and loss. Which I know is all, yes, normal. Hearing it, I can almost be ready for this day. This ridiculously normal Saturday. I can almost be excited for this new day with them. Almost. And almost is something. It’s something.

“The Lord’s mercies indeed never cease. They are new every morning. Great is His faithfulness.”

Categories : beautiful ordinary, widow's tale

We Are Alive

Posted by haley montgomery

· September 27, 2012

Is it ok to write about this? I’m asking myself that question — almost afraid to ask anyone else for fear their shock might escape. And I would hear their shush that this should be private. Because it is so unspeakable.

Is it ok to write about it? And expose such a gaping but multi-layered wound to the world’s scrutiny? My husband is dead. One week ago he ended his life. He chose to leave this world. And our three children. And me. And any hope of our family. Now I’m facing his choice after so many years of living and loving and moving and working and creating and answering and questioning and accepting and raging with him in this struggle. A struggle that made me hate him. And love him. And pressure him. And comfort him. Years of relearning and protecting and coping. Of being so proud of his effort. And so frustrated by his continued battle. At times with laughter and hope and the stretching of our faith. At times with silence and disappointment and stubbornness. All in a sea of thinking and thinking. So much thinking. Now his struggle is done. And mine is born again with a much larger and more daunting face.

Even as I write these things, I know it’s so much more complicated than what I can articulate. What I already recognize I’ll never know is so very much more complicated than anything I can say in these early moments. I’ve always used writing as a window to help me fling open the realities in my own soul. So that I could look at them. In some sort of logical way and glean some kind of larger truth or pattern. Now, in these days of realities that seem to defy any logic, I wonder. Am I able to write them? Do I have the courage to turn the screw in what I know will unplug a whole well of thoughts and emotions and realities and maybe truths? Can I give myself permission to embrace stigma and shame and sorrow to write these stories? I don’t know beyond today, but I do know one thing.

Our healing begins with this: We are alive. WE ARE ALIVE. And each day that we choose this precious life we’ve been given is a victory. Simply choosing to experience this life in whatever painful or joyous or even unspeakable way it presents itself may be the only victory I experience today. Just waking up and choosing to move may be my day’s only victory. But, I’ll take it. I’LL TAKE IT. And use it as fuel to claim the next one. Until that which I know without question is true replaces the doubts. Until I conquer each demon that dominates my thinking. Until I peel away each and every layer of all these complicated emotions. Until I see them surpassed with new joy and new hope and new living. Until the very best I know of this kind and gentle man called Mike rises to the surface to live in our memories. Until we laugh and run and leap and shout and sing. Until I KNOW. And believe. And embrace this one profound fact: WE ARE ALIVE.

Categories : widow's tale

tiny messages . From Here

Posted by haley montgomery

· August 13, 2012

“Look over there!
I can see the beach from here.”

She said it about 30 miles from home. And a good 5 hours from the beach. That’s my Baby Girl. She hasn’t quite grasped the concepts of time and distance. She’s still young and innocent enough to live her days unhindered by the sequence of things like days and hours. Anytime before right now could have been yesterday. And probably was. Anywhere but here might as well be where we just were. And probably is. A special and exciting place could very easily be right over there. And probably is. I think what Baby Girl actually saw might have been a factory, and what made it bear a resemblance to the beach, I don’t know. Still, she got my attention from the back seat.

We were driving home from a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama filled with no schedules, lots of sun, and new experiences. That week, Baby Girl saw the beach for the first time. Up until this trip it had been something we should do one day or something we were planning for or waiting for. The beach was this place of anticipated fun, filled with all the things only her imagination could conjur. The beach was something she knew she should be excited about. And she was.

I don’t know if the actual experience of the beach measured up to her imagination. In actuality, Baby Girl’s beach was filled with getting knocked over by waves and standing up again. Meticulously constructing sand castles. Gathering shells and shell parts. Testing her courage (and mine) in the swimming pool nearby. Riding up an elevator to our “beach house.” Staying up until wee hours. Driving past goofy golf for pancakes or chicken nuggets or a walking through the souvenir shop. The one with the big shark mouth at the doorway that made it the “shark store.”

Baby Girl has been to the beach now. She’s seen it and played in it and experienced her own version of it. Yet somehow it must still exist so vibrantly in her imagination. She brought it home with her in some combination of experiences and anticipations.

We were coming home still bathed in the beach’s spell. Yet, my mind, at least, was shifting into transition mode. “Reality” mode. Some of the trip had been twinged with melancholy, the call of struggles from home reaching us even there. At least reaching me and my staunch desire to keep it from reaching anyone else. And I knew we were coming home to some changes — changes it would be my job to process and interpret for my little beach babies.

I don’t know what she saw that night on the way home when she shouted, “I can see the beach.” I wish I did. I wanted to ask her what looked like the sand or the surf or the waves, but I knew she couldn’t tell me. I knew it was just something — something in her thoughts and her special view of life. Something she knew she saw. And everything in me wanted to cry, “it IS right there.” “I can see it too!”

I’ve been thinking about that drive and Baby Girl’s little declaration for the three weeks since we returned. I’ve been thinking about her perspective. And searching for it. A perspective outside of time and space, released from the boundaries they often place on our hope and joy. I wonder if it is in these Baby Girl moments that we are most like God, in whose image we are made. Most able to think like him. To grasp His perspective. The unbounded view. To see with certainty that precious place of peace and joy and anticipation and hope. Regardless of time or distance or circumstance. And the miles they take us.

I wonder.

Look.
I can see it from here.

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with my gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

Categories : mother's heart

Simplicity

Posted by haley montgomery

· May 26, 2012

Some journeys are longer than they are. The road from my door to the farmhouse door is some forty miles, but it always takes me so much further.

Yesterday evening, the kids and I drove down to the farm for an extended Memorial Day weekend. I’ve written often about this place before — almost every time we come here, I guess. It’s a plot of modest acreage in Noxubee County where my mother was raised. Only forty miles, but as I said, some journeys are longer than they are.

The farm and I go way back. For me, it has always been a place that symbolizes simplicity — simple times, simple fun, simple experiences. Life more easily boils down to what matters in this place. At least what matters to me. My largest experience with the farm has been in unscheduled days. The days punctuated only by our own whims, or by the rest from having fully enjoyed them.

When I was a child, we sat in metal lawn chairs under the canopy of a huge pecan tree in the backyard. We drove to town to talk to Grandaddy’s friends over a Nu-Grape and a package of salted peanuts. We mixed up pecan pies with white Karo and butter. Forking the crust was my job. We watched Lawrence Welk on ETV with the ladies dancing in their cotton candy-colored long ruffled dresses. We laughed with Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show as he entertained his guests. The best moments were always when he couldn’t keep himself from laughing. Like us.

Back then, we only had four channels for entertainment. Plus the sunshine. The pasture. The Nu-Grape and peanuts. The pecan pie.

Now the farm still draws us into simpler notions even though we come armed with DVDs, Nintendo games and iPads. We get more channels. We bring more channels. But, we don’t need them. The sun and the water hoses and the walks on the road seem to have a stronger pull. And the laughter. The funniest moments are when we can’t keep ourselves from laughing. Still.

The farm pulls us simply to do what we want to do without the distraction of other obligations. We immerse ourselves in our own thoughts and our own whims. It’s a luxury of freedom that, perhaps, isn’t appropriate most of the time, but becomes necessary at least sometimes.

My heart undergoes a transition when I’m preparing to visit the farm. Tangibly, I begin rearranging and recording the calendars and task lists of work activities so that the joy in doing what I love emerges again. And in so doing, the freedom to leave it unattended without worry emerges. It’s my own process to move myself toward simple, to shed the projects and schedules and bills that circumvent my thinking. As I pack our pajamas and bathing suits, I begin to peel away the burdens that sometimes hijack my whims and the desire to chase them. The place of simplicity calls when my spirit needs to lay down those burdens of stress and worry and frustration crowding my joy in simple things. Simple experiences. Simple places. Stress is a serious problem if you don´t control it on time, you can visit this site to find a simple way of doing it.

The journey to simplicity is often longer than it is.

It’s the distance between schedules and whims. Between crowded and joyful. It’s the distance from on to off, between closing the laptop and opening the book. Between “when I have time” and “yes, right now.” It takes us further than we expected.

Categories : southern stories

oh happy day . Mommy’s Office

Posted by haley montgomery

· May 18, 2012

Oh Happy Day! It’s Friday, and that means celebration in my world (like it does in yours, I’m sure). The anticipation of the weekend was already in bloom as the kids were getting ready for their “it’s a school day” routine this morning. Friday mornings have become more relaxed for me lately. I often start the day with a photo field trip of some kind — the product of which usually ends up on my design blog — followed by a frappacino breakfast before settling into my office for real work. It’s a blessing and boost to creativity to take some time looking at something new or seeing something familiar in a new way every once and a while.

Now that I’m back in my office after this morning’s jaunt, looking at the piles through the lens of having shirked them for a few minutes, I’m actually relishing this place that has become my daily familiar. It’s been a full, but good week. I’ve been blessed with confirmation on a couple of new projects. We’ve celebrated Bug’s four-year-old kindergarten graduation. I joined Little Drummer Boy on his end-of-the-year field trip. Balls were miraculously caught in tee ball games. And, hallelujah, Baby Girl was able to take her white fuzzy dog for show and tell today. It’s good to reflect on accomplishments, big and small. And my office is a good place to do it. It’s given me the opportunity to reflect already this week.

I’m in my office. Like I am a lot. And somehow they all end up here. The kids, I mean. This place of wonder where Mommy spends her days and keeps her computers and displays art treasures has become somewhat of a magnet for curiosity. Maybe it’s just a peaceful, but less-used place for them.
Maybe it’s the place that holds me during the days when I’ve assured them I miss them every minute. So, they feel compelled to fill it with reminders of themselves. Maybe it’s the small items sitting everywhere — quirky toys and objects I’ve picked up through the years that were introduced into their lives when I began working from home. Maybe it’s because sometimes they’re not allowed to play here. They just somehow all end up here.

I came down the five steps of our enclosed breezeway to my office one evening this week while they were playing outside, like I often do. A typical night. I was putting away some straggling parts of the work day, as my habits seem to dictate. One by one, they made their way in.

They know where the colored paper lives, and they pull it out to choose their pleasure. They know the skinny marker cup and the fat marker pot and the zigzag scissors holder and the way to drag the chairs so they all have a corner of the work table. And the tape. Baby Girl loves the tape.

They explored and created while I put things away. And, in the process, I found new places for their scribbled gifts and listened to their excitement as background noise.

“This smells nice.”
“What is this?”
“Mommy DON’T look at this!”
One shared letters and spelling secrets with another, coaching out some covert message. Scribbles spilled over from the red and purple paper onto the butcher block tabletop. I’m so glad washable markers don’t wash out completely from wood. I don’t know if I could work each day without the reminders of their slippage outside the lines.

I was thinking the other day how difficult it’s been to muster writing topics — how devoid of profundity I seem to have been lately in this season of ballgame schedules and end-of-school activities. How I’ve been searching for the will to compose meaningful thoughts in the face of busy project lists.

I read the phrase “joy of life” in an article this week. It was something a writer had recognized while paying attention to an unexpected walk through a London park. Just like what I find looking around my office on an evening like Wednesday evening. Not a birthday or a holiday, just a Wednesday evening. When I listened to the secret conversations and found places for the zigzagged hearts decorated with “I love Momy” and exclamation points and fives — lots of number fives.

Three test cases for joy and profundity staring me in the face. Their brilliance so blinding that I can scarcely believe I’m so fortunate to be able to see it.

Oh Happy Day.

Categories : oh happy day!

Hello & welcome! I’m Haley Montgomery, and I’m the designer and owner of Small Pond Graphics. I sometimes fancy myself a frog kisser— a documentarian coaxing poignant moments from unexpected places. This blog has evolved from those moments.

The small Pond FIELD GUIDE is part diary, part sketchbook, and part wish list – an archive of ordinary wonders. For years, this space has housed my stories – creative ideas, vintage inspiration, our forays into curious places, and the simple artifacts of quiet of conscious living. Through watercolor, photography, and illustrated tales, these pages uncover the blessing of ordinary days and the wonder found in authentic places and pursuits.

I invite you to open the boxes.
Peek into the drawers.
Rustle through the pages.
I’m honored to have you here.