I Have Moved!

Dry Bones is currently on hiatus until further notice.

I have made the move over to Motherly Fudge, a blog focusing on motherhood, self-care, and home decor.

A huge thank you to the followers and readers I have gained here for the past few years. I hope you will continue to follow my journey.


Tylyn Fry


Heading Out to The Falls

After weeks of icy weather and freezing temperatures, the boys and I were all feeling a little more than “stir crazy”. I’ve had cabin fever so bad that I think I’ve grown numb to the sounds of children and their mountain of needs and desires.

The other morning, my oldest asked me for a bottle of water probably twenty times before I actually heard him and understood what he was saying. My guilt was overshadowed by the elation I felt that he was asking for water and not juice. I still haven’t gotten over that excitement.

You can imagine why then, as soon as the weather shifted and the degrees rose high enough for comfort, the husband and I packed a cooler with lunches and snacks and crammed both boys into the van and took a short road trip to one of our most favorite Oklahoma places – Turner Falls and the Arbuckles!

We live in Norman and this amazing place is located in Sulphur, about an hour’s drive away – which is the ideal maximum time limit when you’re traveling with a two and four year old, or a hangry husband.

Hello, Old Friend.

Three years of a hiatus, and I am back. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be able to remember any sort of login information for any of my old blogs, but first try and here I am.

Since 2015, the last time I posted any sort of written anything of any medium, I’ve had my entire life upended – and not just once. In fact, I’d say at this moment, I am still in recovery. For the first time in my life I am seeing steady progress.

It’s 2018 and I have since left behind the woman that last posted three years ago. She was angry and bitter and becoming calloused and she needed a break and more sleep, and I am really happy to no longer be her.

This is Dry Bones – a very personal blog consisting of the trials and errors of a very worn out, albeit content, woman and mother.

The Search

Between being nearly eight months pregnant, caring for a one and a half year old, and moving from one city to another AND THEN back again within the span of four months, my brain is fried. I’ve had no motivaation for anything resembling creativity. My writing has been put on hold, both blogging and creative writing. Mainly, I’ve been exhausted. I’ve been sucked into the daily ritual of motherhood and trying to maintain every ounce of sanity that I’ve ever harbored in my body.

My writer’s block gave way just a little during a 4 AM bought of pregnancy insomnia. I apologize for the infrequent posts and I hope to get back to blogging very soon. Enjoy this original little snippet for now.

“She’s no lady.”

“She sings like twelve saxophones and a freight train, she wears about a pound of gold, the band just tries to keep up with her. She’s no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It’s called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts how true it all is. Imagine – the more interruptions, the higher the praise, like a real chorus. Picture Sweet Jessie Hogan at the Met. The best opera is just high-tone Blues.”

– Another excerpt taken from Fall on Your Knees, written by Ann-Marie MacDonald

I aspire to be this Sweet Jessie Hogan one day. 

Taken from “Fall on Your Knees”

I just finished one of the best books I have ever read in my short span on this earth. Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald is absolutely life-altering. I won’t go into any details regarding this phenomenal piece of literature because it is something I truly believe everyone should read and get to know on their own, but I can’t help but pull some of my most favorite written lines from this story.

“It’s a first-love conversation. Mouths can’t kiss each other enough or find enough of the beloved to be kissed enough. The invisible ocean holds the room and the bed and the lovers suspended and treats them like aquatic plants, arms can never stop moving, fronds in the liquid breeze, hands never stop waving slowly side to side, caressing the loved one, hello … fingers never stop fanning, tendrils in a ceaseless bouquet, all parts sway and sway sometimes violently sometimes almost not at all. A small grazing gesture ignites the need for closer, and breaks the surface of the water, never in you enough, gulping air, never contain you enough, on dry land now, never hold you enough, the desert heat, drink you, oasis lover shimmering under a palm, I will burn to ashes here then blow away – until that merciful peak is discovered, and once that is discovered, the slow tumble back down the hill, buckets of water spilling in slow motion, streaking the sand along their way until again the gentle sway, the ocean floor, the grazing touch that reignites the sea.”

If you like to be swept into and enthralled by foreign love and an epic, twisting journey, you should give this book a read. You won’t regret it.

What it is to be a “cynical dreamer”

I’ve always thought of myself as more of a realist than a pessimist, though if you ask my mom she’ll have a much different answer than me. She’ll tell you I’ve been negative my whole life; always waiting for the worst case scenario to happen and preparing for the worst, expecting the worst in people before I’ve given them a true chance, disliking most things that most people like, and also most people. 

And all of that is totally true. I’m still that way to this day. I’ve been on my own spiritual journey for a few weeks now and I’ve learned that I’m not going to be able to just change those parts of myself. They are what I am. And to be honest, I like those parts about me. Those parts don’t let anyone get too close unneccessarily, whether in my life or in my physical bubble of space. Those parts give me the guts to speak up when something is wrong or to defend myself the way I need to. Those parts are the fighting parts of me, the ones that propel me forward and force me to love harder and deeper and therefore fight harder.

I would get upset when my mom called me pessimistic, even though I knew it was true. Now that I’m older I understand that it is because I could never explain the but’s or the why’s of my negativity and it was frustrating. Back then, I only saw that I wasn’t happy and optimistic like I was “supposed” to be and that was wrong. I was bad because I couldn’t force myself to see the world through bright beams of sunshine. 

And what’s worse is that I am a dreamer. I am the worst kind of dreamer. I dream big and bold and my dreams sit in a place in my heart where they ferment and I ache to pull them all out at once and admire them, ache to change my life in the hundreds of ways I have stored in my mind. I am forever haunted by hundreds of foreign places and songs and people, haunted by the beautiful places that exist outside of myself because I will never visit them all. I will never see everything that I want to see, meet every person I want to meet, become every woman I’ve wanted to be, and it is torture.

Not only that, but I am fiercely loyal and passionate, about certain things, almost to a fault. I am the worst kind of lover. I love hard and soft, like an anchor settling into a bed of sand. I have no expectations, I love with an open mind and an open heart, and it has backfired before. I am more careful with my love but my loyalty has never been swayed. I know where I belong and with who I belong, and that is what I live and fight for. I love for forever, and once you have my love, it is incredibly hard to let go of, for the both of us.

Yes, I am often cynical. Someone has to be around here. For the most part, we suck as humans and nobody wants to admit that out loud, but I will. We suck. I also know that there are moments when we don’t suck so much and that is usually when the best parts of humanity can be seen. I’d say I’ve found a pretty decent balance between my cynicism and my ability to hope.

I am lighting candles, whispering blessings, kneeling in prayer in a room filled with blossoms. I am walking a rocky coastline with jagged edges all around and the crush of the ocean below me, completely at peace. I am cooking dinner in a wide open kitchen with every door and window open, and I can hear the crash of the ocean in the breaks between my children’s conversations as they are fed, while my husband and I smile silently, knowingly at each other. I am on stage with my fingers wrapped around the neck of my guitar, singing about love and the loss of it. I am floating through emerald green valleys, the music of a creek nearby. I am dancing alone on a stone terrace to something slow and sad, twirling in gauzy layers of skirts that open and close like the petals of a flower.

I can see it in my mind, can taste it with my soul as if I were there and not planted on my couch in the Midwest of America in my comfy clothes eating watermelon with my son. I am a cynical dreamer because I remember that most of these dreams are unlikely to come true and if I were to say that to someone like my mom, they would tell me that I am just thinking negatively. In reality, I am just being realistic. I will probably never go to India but I daydream about it all the time. I’d love to see China some day and think about it often but I also know that it’s pretty unlikely I’ll ever voluntarily take a trip there. (No offense, China. You’re beautiful but your population makes me feel claustrophobic.)

There are others like me. I’ve had the most interesting, satisfying conversations with them. Most that I’ve met are surprisingly close to my age. Maybe you acquire optimism as you grow older and I’m okay with that. I’ve certainly grown less negative over the years. Of course having babies makes you mushy, physically and within your personality. I think a large part of it is also just simply not giving a shit anymore. There is so much peace in not giving a shit and I wonder if that’s the secret that you’ve got to discover as you age. Some things just aren’t worth worrying yourself over and you’ve just got to choose what to give a shit about, similar to choosing your battles. Otherwise if you’re anything like me, you will give too much of a shit about everything and you will stress yourself into temper flares, crying jags, and sleeplessness nights and you’ll lose all of your shits and start binging on breakfast cereal.

And nobody needs to see that.