Writing Prompt: Write about an item you have that isn't expensive but means a lot to you.
 
I ponder the treasures that fill our home and weigh the importance of each one. Maybe my most prized possession is my childhood favorite, now raggedy stuffed polar bear, appropriately named ‘Polie’ (so creative, I know). Or perhaps I’d choose the postcards from my dad to each of our kids, detailing his cross-country adventures and piquing their curiosity for travel. Certainly it could be the glass Christmas ornament filled with dried flowers from my wedding bouquet.

But I settle on a small box filled with recipes that have been handled and referenced dozens, if not hundreds, of times. This simple little box is delicately detailed with birdhouses and flowers, a few of the things my old soul is quite fond of. However, the value of the box lies not in its exterior packaging, original price tag or value to the world, but rather what’s inside - the words, the history, the memories.

Each card inside contains a recipe, most of which came from family – the one I was born into, the one I married into, friends I consider family, even distant relatives. They’re fan favorites to whip up for a Superbowl party or a baby shower for a friend. They’re comforting casseroles, simples salads, decadent desserts.

Some of the recipes are messy, requiring countless kitchen utensils. Some are laborious, taking time and patience (both of which I typically lack). Some are simple to memorize, while others take up two cards front and back (Grandma's peach pie). Bent corners and rough-cut edges make our favorites easiest to grab. Small stains often coat my dessert recipes, a drop of vanilla or almond extract that dribbled on its way to the mixing bowl.

But above all else, what I treasure most about this little box is the handwriting on each card. Recipes from my mother – a love note of sorts – to ensure I am well versed in the names of herbs and spices, knowledgeable on how to blanch vegetables, and keen on cutting butter into flour. There are cards with both my grandmother's handwriting, their cursive swirling and elegantly outlining each step. And the handwriting of my mother-in-law, imparting on me the recipes which delighted her children, and hoping they will someday delight mine.

We have a sign in our kitchen that says, “If you feed them, they will come.” A slightly humorous décor piece, given we have three boys that are sure to someday eat us out of house and home, but truthful nonetheless.

It’s not expensive taste that impresses new friends. Price tags don’t comfort those in times of trial or loss. Not wealth or fortune convinces family to gather around a table each night. It’s food. GOOD food. Recipes passed down through generations because they’re that good. Mouth-watering meals and deliciously sinful desserts. Even snacks that make children squeal and come running.

Try a new recipe, or an old one for that matter, and see if I’m right. The proof is in the pudding, after all. Maybe even literally. 

​Inspired by Jennifer Floyd’s creative exercise, “Still Motherhood.”
 
“These inanimate objects, exactly where they are, tell the story (of an age-old cliché we all roll our eyes at) that we really will miss this someday. The little corners of our home and treasures under the couch tell the story of a life filled with very loved children—where they create, learn, love, and rest. Take a moment to stop and capture these little moments of still motherhood – and remember the beautiful life you live and love.” – Jennifer Floyd
 
***
 
There’s no mistaking the fact that kids live in our home.
 
Our windows are speckled with hard water spots from the most recent water gun fight. Flowers fall victim to little feet in a furious game of tag. Grasshoppers and frogs find solace in the sand box turned mud pit, greeted every evening by the 6-yr old. And at any given moment, our backyard is littered with snack wrappers and socks left outside the trampoline – a true rager by any kid's standards.
 
Inside the house, clutter gathers on the counter which acts as a beacon to any artwork, AA battery or lost item without a “home.” Special treasures are found intentionally placed on benches and stair cases by the 4-yr old. He pleas, “Save my toys for later,” as if they’d go anywhere while he’s away.
 
There’s a constant internal battle between keeping the house clean and keeping the peace. Is it worth stopping the kids when they drag the Christmas tree out of storage on the last day in July and adorn it with every ornament we own? Or is the mess later worth the hour of quiet now? Will the memory of “making Christmas” on that blistering hot July day be one they treasure and look back on and smile?
 
I have been stopped in my tracks before, by the collision of the daily grid meeting the innocence of childhood. I’ve snapped photos of plastic scorpions on the bathroom floor and superhero figurines dangling from the tree branch out back. The evidence of their lives is sprinkled throughout, despite my best efforts to keep life neatly tucked away and organized. But maybe on occasion it’s ok to let things linger where they land and simply admire their existence.

“I need a shower. I’m covered in dirt,” I say to my husband as I slide open the patio door, a subtle warning that he’s on kid-duty while I step away to rinse off. The freshly-weeded flower bed looks back at me happily.
 
I, on the other hand, need a hose-down immediately.
 
***
 
The garden in our backyard came about somewhat spontaneously, born from my inability to say no to plants (especially free ones).  If I catch the scent of a curb alert or neighbor splitting perennials, I’m over with a shovel faster than you can say, “crazy-plant-lady.”
 
“Where are you going to put those?” my husband nags. I bat my eyes at him, “I don’t know yet, but a garden would look really nice right there…” I’m keenly aware that this is an easier task with his muscle. Our agreement historically has been – he digs; I plant/care/water/weed. Win-win (win/win/win).
 
***
 
As I step out of the shower with no dirt in sight, I feel refreshed. But it’s more than just a post-shower squeaky clean refreshed. My soul feels new. At peace.
 
I ponder the source of this feeling and decide I have to give credit to the gardening.
But dirt is just…dirt. How can something so ordinary create such a sensation?
 
Generally speaking, dirt is a major nuisance.
Pesky grains of sand in the heel of every shoe we own.
Muddy dog paws waiting to be wiped after an April rain.
Under kids’ fingernails and on the knees of their pants.
So much MESS.
 
But despite the headache…in that moment I’ve decided,
there’s extraordinariness in dirt.
 
***
 
Dirt is forgiving, adapting to what we ask of it.
It accepts what we plant, providing solace and safety.
It sustains life, promoting growth from below.
 
Dirt is a leader, of adventure and fun.
To bubble baths after mud has engulfed entire children whole.
And to car washes, with giggles emerging as the rainbow soap sprays.
 
Dirt is a treasure map for little hands to explore.
Finding worms from the garden for fishing with dad.
Sifting in strainers for buried shells at the beach.
 
Dirt symbolizes transitions, stages of life.
We build homes full of memories and families on top.
Say goodbye to loved ones, furry friends down below.
 
For me, it's dirt that renews my spirit.
It’s cathartic to start fresh, plant new, and pull weeds.
The messy hands and sundrenched skin are soothing.
 
There’s extraordinariness in dirt. So dig in.
 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Ordinary Inspiration".