Toes, Piggies and Starting Again

Well.

It’s been a month or twenty since I’ve dusted off the old bloggy.

It’s Wednesday, so the kids have been dropped off at various church activities.  The Bible study I was taking has already ended for the semester.  So, here I sit on campus until my chauffeur duties resume.

In the empty church café.  All alone.  With a good hour and a half to myself.  Yep.

Yep.

Yeppers yep yep.

I kind of imagined this playing out differently tonight.  That immediately I would have some beautiful epiphany of meaningful, impactful words to share here.  That all the pent up ideas and thoughts would flow from brain to fingers to screen in some supernatural current of insight and wisdom.

You know what I can’t stop thinking about?

Toes.

How’s that for insight and wisdom? (Enter eye roll here.)

I have the café to myself so I’m chilling in a cushy chair, feet propped up on the coffee table.  And, since Texas weather is drunk and it’s still 80 degrees, I have a nice view of my piggies courtesy of some well-worn flip flops. And that’s what started this whole train wreck stream of consciousness:

Why do people call toes “piggies”? And what’s up with the “this little piggie” game we play with babies’ toes?  You know, “This little piggie went to market . . .” It is seriously weird if you stop and think about the words. Why would a pig be eating roast beef? Isn’t that against some kind of unspoken barnyard code?  And why wouldn’t he share?  GASP.  Maybe that little piggie had none because he was vegan. Or at least recognized the sickness of eating a fellow barnyard friend.  Perhaps he is the real hero of the story for standing up for peace between cows and pigs everywhere.

Well done, pig.  Well done.

(My mind is a convoluted place, y’all. My children can attest to this fact.)

Wrangling back my thoughts from peaceful pigs and barnyard politics leads me to this: 

I guess the bigger point here tonight (and can I get an Amen for a bigger point than toes?) is that sometimes the only way to start again . . . is to start again.

It doesn’t have to be perfect, polished or even mildly coherent.  Goodness knows this post falls into that category.

But, it’s a starting point.

And that’s enough to make a girl happy.

Or to make a pig go “whee whee whee” all the way home. 

(So cringey.  But that was completely impossible to pass up.)