Go ahead. Sweeten your Salvage.
Why do we do it? This Sweet Salvage trek every month.
Maybe we're tired.
Tired of someone sitting in a corporate office, telling us how to decorate.
Cookie cutting dictation.
So, we're hanging our slips. Wherever we like it.
Born crosses get tucked.
And our own past gets kept.
And we can make something from the unexpected.
We play.
We serve.
We work.
And we'll rest, when we need to.
Or just because.
Life gets messy.
And our homes need warmth sometimes. Even in the desert.
And we'll strangely remember our family...who makes chocolate in the basement of a burrow with precious molds.
And we'll find beauty in the ordinary. Even when no one else sees it.
Because this messy life wears some of us worn around the edges.
So maybe we're feeling right at home with this rust and old.
And the once so ordered letters and numbers, well they don't seem so orderly anymore.
But it's o.k. Because each line and curve tell the story of our hearts.
And we'll leave the baseballs out.
Only if we want to.
And the tussles on the table.
Our sweepers can sit.
While we file away the notions.
In the tool box if we want to.
And no one can delete anything here.
And we'll do this with our own style.
On our own time.
As many times, as we want.
And we might even keep the light on.
For as long as we'd like too.
Maybe we're tired.
Tired of someone sitting in a corporate office, telling us how to decorate. 
Cookie cutting dictation. 
So, we're hanging our slips. Wherever we like it.
Born crosses get tucked.
And our own past gets kept.
And we can make something from the unexpected.
We play.
We serve.
We work.
And we'll rest, when we need to. Or just because.
Life gets messy.
And our homes need warmth sometimes. Even in the desert.
And we'll strangely remember our family...who makes chocolate in the basement of a burrow with precious molds.
And we'll find beauty in the ordinary. Even when no one else sees it. 
Because this messy life wears some of us worn around the edges.
So maybe we're feeling right at home with this rust and old.
And the once so ordered letters and numbers, well they don't seem so orderly anymore.
But it's o.k. Because each line and curve tell the story of our hearts.
And we'll leave the baseballs out.Only if we want to.
And the tussles on the table.
Our sweepers can sit.
While we file away the notions.
In the tool box if we want to.
And no one can delete anything here.
And we'll do this with our own style.
On our own time.
As many times, as we want.
And we might even keep the light on. For as long as we'd like too.
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