It’s been far too long since I worked on this:

I love my scrapbook. Working on it is almost like meditating — there’s no rhyme or reason. Just pretty pictures, pasted onto paper.

It gives me a place to hold on to all of those random tea bag quotes I keep saving, and all of the National Geographic photos I’ve had in ziploc bags for years.

Usually the TV is a constant presence on weeknights, but every now and then we turn off Seinfeld, and Kelly fiddles around on his guitar and I start tearing photos out of magazines. It’s productive — but at the same time, it’s not. The lack of urgency makes it soothing.

For whatever reason it always makes me think of how the Wilders in Little House on the Prairie must’ve spent their evenings. Is that weird?


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