One foot in front of the other. Again and again. Fast. Running toward nothing, really, but the horizon in front of you, the vast stretch of blue, the trees reaching up and up, the white clouds, the silence.
Sometimes it's perfect, this running. Your muscles feel fantastic and your breathing is effortless and you have so much energy you can't believe it, and you are bounding toward that horizon, eyes fixed on it, and basking in it. Your mind is a perfect blank, a quiet space full of peace. That horizon is not so far away. You will get there.
And some days it isn't at all perfect, and nothing is working right. Your muscles are tired, your bones are tired and your feet are sore and you can't get your breath to work right and you are just distracted. Thinking of work and kids and the million things you should be doing right then, but here you are. Running. And on days like this you can't even look at the horizon, except maybe in stolen glances as you run. Mostly you train your eyes ahead of you, at some imaginary point in the sidewalk, and you go. You just keep moving. You can't even contemplate that horizon. But you will still get there.
Today was the latter. My feet hurt and my legs were tired and I was thinking about all the work I'd left undone before I stepped out for the run. But I kept running. This is for me, I told myself over and over. This is for me.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
She counts up until the 12th stone and then pauses, because this is where the cold snakes through the brown grass, there in the beating summer sun. It's the briefest of shivers, a sudden shudder, and it passes. The hair prickles at her neck and stays until the 16th stone, where she gets the feeling that the world has gone hazy, and this is brief, too, and she keeps going -- even though now everything is in sharp focus and too quiet, and there is the steady, ominous buzz of cicadas sounding from all around.
The 29th stone brings her to the front steps of the old building, and she is staring at the big yellow NO TRESPASSING sign, and the spray-painted red X on the door, and the jagged jaws of the building's stairs hanging open, ready to swallow a foot, an ankle, her whole self if she's not careful.
A normal person would not go inside, she thinks, before she climbs the stairs with ease born only from lots of practice, dodges the weaker parts of the porch, then plunges inside the feral building, daring it to eat her up.
The 29th stone brings her to the front steps of the old building, and she is staring at the big yellow NO TRESPASSING sign, and the spray-painted red X on the door, and the jagged jaws of the building's stairs hanging open, ready to swallow a foot, an ankle, her whole self if she's not careful.
A normal person would not go inside, she thinks, before she climbs the stairs with ease born only from lots of practice, dodges the weaker parts of the porch, then plunges inside the feral building, daring it to eat her up.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Mostly freewrite
It's a cool evening. It's been raining for the last three days, and the skies are a heavy gray, and the clouds are dipping low enough you could almost touch them. Everything is wet and mud, and there is a crisp, clean feeling in the air that stirs up all this melancholy in me, unbidden, an effect that brings me right back to 13-years-old, sitting on my bed with the windows open, the rusty-wet smell of the window screen filling the room, the soft quiet of the tucked-in neighborhood, porchlights glowing, TVs flickering in windows.
At that age, I was shy and quiet, and I filled up all my time with notebooks and a much-loved copy of a Sara Teasdale book I checked and re-checked from the library on a regular basis. This is when I started to really explore words, to understand their power, and to feel how comforting they could be.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And I am feeling sad, now, I think because there was this sweet little marriage of possibility and discovery happening then, the stuff where dreams can grow if you let them, and I never gave those dreams a name, never any words, but I kept writing, and I kept writing, and I kept writing, and then one day I all but stopped. It was magic one day and then it wasn't. And I had no words.
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Tonight Violet wanted to be a frog. "Ribbet ribbet," she said, that crazy-joy blooming in her smile, and she crouched down to jump but she can't figure out the mechanics yet, and so she crawled. I reached down to grab her and toss her up into the air. "Jump frog," I said and she squealed with joy, but when I sat her down she scurried down the hall, away from me, ribbeting all the way. A frog on her own terms.
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
How tiring to wrestle with yourself all the time, to feel so discontent because you feel you aren't doing enough, you aren't being enough, because you feel stuck. To feel sad that you didn't name your dreams when you were a 13-year-old girl. How exhausting. When will I learn that there is value in sitting still, to recognize that sometimes "stuck" is really a sign that you need to be still, if only for a minute. There is value in reflection, and you must lock yourself in a moment to reflect. You must be content where you are sitting.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There is comfort here. To recognize that this little life is so much smaller than I know. And bigger, too. I can fill myself up with the world, let myself fill it, it will not matter. Except what I make of it.
At that age, I was shy and quiet, and I filled up all my time with notebooks and a much-loved copy of a Sara Teasdale book I checked and re-checked from the library on a regular basis. This is when I started to really explore words, to understand their power, and to feel how comforting they could be.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And I am feeling sad, now, I think because there was this sweet little marriage of possibility and discovery happening then, the stuff where dreams can grow if you let them, and I never gave those dreams a name, never any words, but I kept writing, and I kept writing, and I kept writing, and then one day I all but stopped. It was magic one day and then it wasn't. And I had no words.
And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Tonight Violet wanted to be a frog. "Ribbet ribbet," she said, that crazy-joy blooming in her smile, and she crouched down to jump but she can't figure out the mechanics yet, and so she crawled. I reached down to grab her and toss her up into the air. "Jump frog," I said and she squealed with joy, but when I sat her down she scurried down the hall, away from me, ribbeting all the way. A frog on her own terms.
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
How tiring to wrestle with yourself all the time, to feel so discontent because you feel you aren't doing enough, you aren't being enough, because you feel stuck. To feel sad that you didn't name your dreams when you were a 13-year-old girl. How exhausting. When will I learn that there is value in sitting still, to recognize that sometimes "stuck" is really a sign that you need to be still, if only for a minute. There is value in reflection, and you must lock yourself in a moment to reflect. You must be content where you are sitting.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There is comfort here. To recognize that this little life is so much smaller than I know. And bigger, too. I can fill myself up with the world, let myself fill it, it will not matter. Except what I make of it.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Tentative
Here I am, standing in a small corner, looking out a giant expanse of possibility. It's wide and bright and I can't make out the details except what's in front of me, small things, 4 mile runs and vintage books and fresh coats of paint.
So I will take a step forward and name the things I see waiting before me, the things I can reach and hold or pass by and observe, but either way, moving forward.
Make books out of Mad and V's blogs.
Send children's story off to publisher.
Work on the Cactus Black and Cactus Pink story.
Become an expert in three different areas.
Go to Iceland.
Run a marathon.
Learn a language.
Create a living space for my family with intention, a place for us.
Take kickboxing lessons.
Institute Savory Sundays, where every thing we eat is delicious and thoughtfully prepared and good for you.
Have a garden that produces leafy greens, lots of tomatoes and onions. At least.
Get crafty again.
See Chris Bathgate live.
Tour the northeast at the peak of fall colors.
To be continued.....
So I will take a step forward and name the things I see waiting before me, the things I can reach and hold or pass by and observe, but either way, moving forward.
Make books out of Mad and V's blogs.
Send children's story off to publisher.
Work on the Cactus Black and Cactus Pink story.
Become an expert in three different areas.
Go to Iceland.
Run a marathon.
Learn a language.
Create a living space for my family with intention, a place for us.
Take kickboxing lessons.
Institute Savory Sundays, where every thing we eat is delicious and thoughtfully prepared and good for you.
Have a garden that produces leafy greens, lots of tomatoes and onions. At least.
Get crafty again.
See Chris Bathgate live.
Tour the northeast at the peak of fall colors.
To be continued.....
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I finish reading "The Geography of Bliss" while sitting on the bathroom floor at about 9 p.m., waiting for Madeleine to pee and/or have a bowel movement. Preferably the latter. As I read the last paragraph, Madeleine keeps making silly noises, kicking her feet and chuckling to herself. I look up from my book and scrunch my face at her. She stares at me in surprise for a second, eyes twinkling, then she bursts into delighted laughter. I smile and look down at my page. As I'm reading the last sentence, she asks me, "Are you happy, mama?" She asks the question like she knows I am.
"Well, yes," I respond, closing the book. "Why do you think I'm happy right now?"
"Because you're reading your book," she says.
"Yes, that's right," I say. "Reading this book makes me happy. But you know what else?"
"What?" She looks at me expectantly.
"I'm really happy because you are making funny noises, and when you laugh it makes me happy."
"Uh huh," she nods, like I was just confirming something she already knew.
I reach out and poke her tummy, and she laughs again. "I love you," I tell her.
"I love you, too, Ducky," she replies.
::::
My happiness is here, in this house, this bathroom, this moment where I am not angry because Madeleine is delaying bedtime, exasperated because she doesn't pee or poop, frustrated because I fully expect her to go back to her room and poop in her diaper. My happiness is just letting the moment be what it is, a quiet, gentle time that it is not at all ideal, but fine nonetheless. More than fine. Her brown eyes so bright they sparkle.
"Well, yes," I respond, closing the book. "Why do you think I'm happy right now?"
"Because you're reading your book," she says.
"Yes, that's right," I say. "Reading this book makes me happy. But you know what else?"
"What?" She looks at me expectantly.
"I'm really happy because you are making funny noises, and when you laugh it makes me happy."
"Uh huh," she nods, like I was just confirming something she already knew.
I reach out and poke her tummy, and she laughs again. "I love you," I tell her.
"I love you, too, Ducky," she replies.
::::
My happiness is here, in this house, this bathroom, this moment where I am not angry because Madeleine is delaying bedtime, exasperated because she doesn't pee or poop, frustrated because I fully expect her to go back to her room and poop in her diaper. My happiness is just letting the moment be what it is, a quiet, gentle time that it is not at all ideal, but fine nonetheless. More than fine. Her brown eyes so bright they sparkle.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
freewrite 3
There are dishes to wash and I just don't want to wash them. I keep returning to them over and over, washing one dish and then wandering away to do something else. So I guess I do want to wash them. No, that's not right. I want them clean, but I don't want to put in the effort. I think this is probably the root of every single problem in my life.
::::
Mad's wearing butterfly tights and Lightning McQueen rainboots. She's also wearing fairy wings. Violet's in purple plaid tights and cherry rainboots. Violet's running through the muddy puddle in the driveway, while Mad pokes mud nearby with stick, digging it deep, looking for worms. I'm on my back in the driveway, staring up at the sky - just turning blue again after three straight days of rain - and breathe in the air, the wind: it feels like fall again. A squirrel high in the tree above me keeps sending down acorn after acorn to hoard for the winter. He chatters at us.
Even though I'm sure it will be hot tomorrow, even though I'm sure that summer's not gone yet, I can tell from this moment, this wind, that fall is coming, and it's enough. "It's a perfect day," I tell my girls, sitting up to help Mad find worms. I dig and dig, uncovering fat, squirming worms and tiny thin ones, and drop them one by one into Mad's waiting, eager hands. Violet picks up clumps of dirt and drops them into Mad's worm container.
I think this is probably the root of every good thing in my life.
::::
Mad's wearing butterfly tights and Lightning McQueen rainboots. She's also wearing fairy wings. Violet's in purple plaid tights and cherry rainboots. Violet's running through the muddy puddle in the driveway, while Mad pokes mud nearby with stick, digging it deep, looking for worms. I'm on my back in the driveway, staring up at the sky - just turning blue again after three straight days of rain - and breathe in the air, the wind: it feels like fall again. A squirrel high in the tree above me keeps sending down acorn after acorn to hoard for the winter. He chatters at us.
Even though I'm sure it will be hot tomorrow, even though I'm sure that summer's not gone yet, I can tell from this moment, this wind, that fall is coming, and it's enough. "It's a perfect day," I tell my girls, sitting up to help Mad find worms. I dig and dig, uncovering fat, squirming worms and tiny thin ones, and drop them one by one into Mad's waiting, eager hands. Violet picks up clumps of dirt and drops them into Mad's worm container.
I think this is probably the root of every good thing in my life.
Friday, September 11, 2009
freewrite
It's cliche to start anything with rain, so I'll start with the car, humming warmly in the onslaught. I'll start with the headlights in the gloom and the slices of drops they illuminate. I'll start with the sound of rain rushing over metal, shooooooosh, and all the quiet in between, and the still. My daughter spent half the night tonight trying not to sleep, working herself into a frenzy over thunder, and part of the time crying because I wouldn't let her return to the couch to watch TV. I curled with her on her bed, finally, and just let her scream and cry, and in short order, she worked herself down into quiet whimpers, turning in toward me with her eyes clenched shut, one hand over her nose and the fingers from her other hand in her mouth. She sucks on the tip of her pointer finger and I am surprised; I didn't know she did that. I rub her back in circles and she giggles suddenly. And again. She's decided that this tickles her and I don't cut it short, I let her laugh, her little giggles popping into the air over and over, legs kicking in delight, and she doesn't even hear the thunder now, or see the lightning, everything is okay.
And suddenly my perspective shifts and I'm not annoyed any more, and I just pick her up and take her to the computer. "Mad, they have pictures of the storms on the computer," I tell her. "We can just take a look and see if it's going to storm anymore."
I pull up the weather radar and see that we are squarely in the green. "See the red, Mad? That's the really big storm, with lots of thunder and lightning. And see the yellow? Those are teeny tiny storms, no big deal. You might hear just a little bit of thunder, but nothing super-loud. See the green? That's just rain. And here's where we are," I point. "Right there in the green. So it's just rain for us, and all that red -- the big storm -- is far away from us. No big deal! And Mad, that red is probably not going to come back, but if it does, I will come and get you."
And she is okay with this, and repeats it to me as I take her back to bed. "We're in the green," she says. "It's just gonna rain! But if the red comes, you will come and get me. And if the yellow comes, it will just be little thunder."
"Yes," I tell her, and tuck her into bed. And she is fine.
It's not graceful to end with rain, either, but I'll do it. It's still raining and pitch black, and there are lizards running up and down the windows, reveling in the moisture, hunting for bugs. Thunder rolls through, low and quiet, and lights flash dim in the distance. Everyone is asleep. Everything is quiet.
And suddenly my perspective shifts and I'm not annoyed any more, and I just pick her up and take her to the computer. "Mad, they have pictures of the storms on the computer," I tell her. "We can just take a look and see if it's going to storm anymore."
I pull up the weather radar and see that we are squarely in the green. "See the red, Mad? That's the really big storm, with lots of thunder and lightning. And see the yellow? Those are teeny tiny storms, no big deal. You might hear just a little bit of thunder, but nothing super-loud. See the green? That's just rain. And here's where we are," I point. "Right there in the green. So it's just rain for us, and all that red -- the big storm -- is far away from us. No big deal! And Mad, that red is probably not going to come back, but if it does, I will come and get you."
And she is okay with this, and repeats it to me as I take her back to bed. "We're in the green," she says. "It's just gonna rain! But if the red comes, you will come and get me. And if the yellow comes, it will just be little thunder."
"Yes," I tell her, and tuck her into bed. And she is fine.
It's not graceful to end with rain, either, but I'll do it. It's still raining and pitch black, and there are lizards running up and down the windows, reveling in the moisture, hunting for bugs. Thunder rolls through, low and quiet, and lights flash dim in the distance. Everyone is asleep. Everything is quiet.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
freewrite
Sticky hot, and miserable, my limbs are heavy and tired. My eyes are fuzzy; it feels like sand beneath my lids. Things are slightly out of focus and I have the stirring of a headache at my temple. I don't really want to be here, but I'm trudging along, trying to find my way through the muck, to find comfort in old patterns. It's not what I want to do, but I know it's what I should do, and that right now, when I feel this way, what I want to do is a trap. I don't want to get stuck there.
I want to smash through this fuzziness, plow through it, remember energy coursing in my muscles. Remember joy. Remember that life isn't this gross haze I've been slogging in.
My husband is walking just behind me with Violet; I am walking with Mad. Mad is carrying a clear plastic tupperware container, excited at the prospect of catching a lizard. I wonder at her dogged enthusiasm for the endeavor, and wonder at the stirring of excitement I always feel at the prospect of lizard-hunting. I'm sure that one day we'll find The Big One, meaning that we'll find some lizard, any lizard, and bring it home. Mad would be ecstatic.
Violet's been in a mood, but when she sees me ahead, she breaks into a smile and runs to me yelling "Mama!" And I am worried she's going to trip because she's still so....loose, her legs folding around each other, arms open outward, she's reaching for me.
But she makes it to me as I close the distance and I pick her up and swing her high into the air and she is all smiles, and I take a minute to appreciate her smile, the way happiness just beams from her face when she smiles, the way her eyes pop with joy.
We make it to the dead end and stop for drinks and Wayland and Mad go down a side path looking for lizards, and I peer worriedly down at them as they navigate a steep wall leading down to a chasm where the river is winding through. I don't worry too much, because I know Wayland would never let her fall, that he's careful, and then I wonder at my steady belief in that.
Violet is thrilled because Mad's leaving her stuffed cats unattended, and she's talking to them and moving them from cement block to cement block, sorting. I lean back on one of the cement blocks and stare up at the sky and wish I had my camera because the light is beating through the trees overhead in a different way. It's still summer and still hot, but it feels different somehow, less oppressive, and as the sun warms my skin and I rest and listen to Violet playing happily. I wonder why people feel compelled to take pictures of the sky, and I know it's not really so much an attempt to capture what they're looking at but how they feel when they look at it, that there are days when the sky and you match perfectly, the wide expanse, the sun the stuff of life and you believe in it, you feel it's blessing you: go ahead and hope. Really, it's why you're here.
And Wayland and Mad come back and they don't have a lizard, but they go to another side path and a few minutes later they come back out and Mad is holding her tupperware container out in front of her, looking triumphant. "Tell her," says Wayland and Mad is so excited she can't really tell me anything. She thrusts the tupperware container out and finally says lizard! And I am on my feet peering inside.
"She caught it herself," says Wayland. "I had nothing to do with it; she just plucked it from the ground and said, 'A SKINK!'"
I look at it. She was right -- it is a skink. I look at her beaming with pride.
In a few seconds the moment passes because Mad notices that Violet is playing with her cats and there is the usual fight over stuff. It is time to go home and the girls fall apart; Mad is tired and ignoring our directions, Violet is tired and crying, wanting to walk but not really wanting to walk, so the whole walk home is trying to make her okay with being held but mostly just juggling her weight, trying not to drop her as she thrashes angrily. And I am miserable in it, miserable again.
Life is that. A journey that is sometimes miserable, sometimes not, toward a goal that may or may not pan out. But you go, you do it anyway, because that moment of realization, that second of attainment - the smiling daughters, the caught lizard - is what you live for. It's what you ache for. It's what sustains you on the second leg of the journey, when all you want to do is run away, or at least stop moving, or just fast forward yourself to the next destination.
I want to learn these things, then remember I have to relearn them over and over again. I want my daughters to know these things. I want them to always look for lizards. I want them always to seize the moment, grasp opportunity, like Violet did when she played with Mad's toys. I want them to always stare up at the sky even when they are tired and restless and feel miserable, and recognize it, I want them to always want to take its picture.
I want to smash through this fuzziness, plow through it, remember energy coursing in my muscles. Remember joy. Remember that life isn't this gross haze I've been slogging in.
My husband is walking just behind me with Violet; I am walking with Mad. Mad is carrying a clear plastic tupperware container, excited at the prospect of catching a lizard. I wonder at her dogged enthusiasm for the endeavor, and wonder at the stirring of excitement I always feel at the prospect of lizard-hunting. I'm sure that one day we'll find The Big One, meaning that we'll find some lizard, any lizard, and bring it home. Mad would be ecstatic.
Violet's been in a mood, but when she sees me ahead, she breaks into a smile and runs to me yelling "Mama!" And I am worried she's going to trip because she's still so....loose, her legs folding around each other, arms open outward, she's reaching for me.
But she makes it to me as I close the distance and I pick her up and swing her high into the air and she is all smiles, and I take a minute to appreciate her smile, the way happiness just beams from her face when she smiles, the way her eyes pop with joy.
We make it to the dead end and stop for drinks and Wayland and Mad go down a side path looking for lizards, and I peer worriedly down at them as they navigate a steep wall leading down to a chasm where the river is winding through. I don't worry too much, because I know Wayland would never let her fall, that he's careful, and then I wonder at my steady belief in that.
Violet is thrilled because Mad's leaving her stuffed cats unattended, and she's talking to them and moving them from cement block to cement block, sorting. I lean back on one of the cement blocks and stare up at the sky and wish I had my camera because the light is beating through the trees overhead in a different way. It's still summer and still hot, but it feels different somehow, less oppressive, and as the sun warms my skin and I rest and listen to Violet playing happily. I wonder why people feel compelled to take pictures of the sky, and I know it's not really so much an attempt to capture what they're looking at but how they feel when they look at it, that there are days when the sky and you match perfectly, the wide expanse, the sun the stuff of life and you believe in it, you feel it's blessing you: go ahead and hope. Really, it's why you're here.
And Wayland and Mad come back and they don't have a lizard, but they go to another side path and a few minutes later they come back out and Mad is holding her tupperware container out in front of her, looking triumphant. "Tell her," says Wayland and Mad is so excited she can't really tell me anything. She thrusts the tupperware container out and finally says lizard! And I am on my feet peering inside.
"She caught it herself," says Wayland. "I had nothing to do with it; she just plucked it from the ground and said, 'A SKINK!'"
I look at it. She was right -- it is a skink. I look at her beaming with pride.
In a few seconds the moment passes because Mad notices that Violet is playing with her cats and there is the usual fight over stuff. It is time to go home and the girls fall apart; Mad is tired and ignoring our directions, Violet is tired and crying, wanting to walk but not really wanting to walk, so the whole walk home is trying to make her okay with being held but mostly just juggling her weight, trying not to drop her as she thrashes angrily. And I am miserable in it, miserable again.
Life is that. A journey that is sometimes miserable, sometimes not, toward a goal that may or may not pan out. But you go, you do it anyway, because that moment of realization, that second of attainment - the smiling daughters, the caught lizard - is what you live for. It's what you ache for. It's what sustains you on the second leg of the journey, when all you want to do is run away, or at least stop moving, or just fast forward yourself to the next destination.
I want to learn these things, then remember I have to relearn them over and over again. I want my daughters to know these things. I want them to always look for lizards. I want them always to seize the moment, grasp opportunity, like Violet did when she played with Mad's toys. I want them to always stare up at the sky even when they are tired and restless and feel miserable, and recognize it, I want them to always want to take its picture.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Dear 29
Remember when we met? It was the day I ran my first 5K, which felt like it marked something triumphant. Like I had accomplished something. It did. I had. We had a few good months after that, but then things starting turning south. It seems to me, 29, that we never really recovered from that.
Look. I know any relationship will have turmoil. I know that a marker of a good relationship is how well you weather strife. So maybe this is all about me, because I just couldn't deal. I tried and tried for as long as I could, but I just got so TIRED of trying. You know? I mean, some things should be easy. Some things should feel natural and effortless, and after a while, nothing did.
Do you really want me to go there? The job. The money. The neverending illnesses and foot injuries and home repairs and my husband's job and family trouble and....I could go on. But I won't because I think the point is this: We grew stagnant, 29. We just never really got above okay after a certain point.
We gave it a good go, didn't we? I mean, we had some moments, even when things were tough. But I think for the good of both of us, we have to just let this one go.
And, okay, fine. I didn't want to go here. There's someone new. 30. This may be painful to hear, but I think we're on the verge of something great. It's all very unknown right now. The future is wide open, clear, and hopefully, full of promise. I think I have to choose that. For you, for me. We deserve something better than the bleak past we have between us.
Plus, also, I HATE YOUR UGLY FACE, 29. You SUCK.
Love,
Amber
Look. I know any relationship will have turmoil. I know that a marker of a good relationship is how well you weather strife. So maybe this is all about me, because I just couldn't deal. I tried and tried for as long as I could, but I just got so TIRED of trying. You know? I mean, some things should be easy. Some things should feel natural and effortless, and after a while, nothing did.
Do you really want me to go there? The job. The money. The neverending illnesses and foot injuries and home repairs and my husband's job and family trouble and....I could go on. But I won't because I think the point is this: We grew stagnant, 29. We just never really got above okay after a certain point.
We gave it a good go, didn't we? I mean, we had some moments, even when things were tough. But I think for the good of both of us, we have to just let this one go.
And, okay, fine. I didn't want to go here. There's someone new. 30. This may be painful to hear, but I think we're on the verge of something great. It's all very unknown right now. The future is wide open, clear, and hopefully, full of promise. I think I have to choose that. For you, for me. We deserve something better than the bleak past we have between us.
Plus, also, I HATE YOUR UGLY FACE, 29. You SUCK.
Love,
Amber
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
it was a buzz in the fist
then a stone in your throat,
it was nothing.
it was lips pressed,
stasis.
it was a whisper.
it was the dark thing that twists
the bright band of your iris
so they stop looking for the broken wires.
it was the electric,
the crackle of blood
seizing in a broken vein.
it was nothing.
I am not afraid of these spaces,
these breaths, but the tight places.
the child sleeping in my elbow.
then a stone in your throat,
it was nothing.
it was lips pressed,
stasis.
it was a whisper.
it was the dark thing that twists
the bright band of your iris
so they stop looking for the broken wires.
it was the electric,
the crackle of blood
seizing in a broken vein.
it was nothing.
I am not afraid of these spaces,
these breaths, but the tight places.
the child sleeping in my elbow.
Monday, July 20, 2009
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
gray clouds slumbering swells of summer
a crooked-winged bird limping on the gravel
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
how it lulls, how it fumbles every set intention
an earwig crawling from an orange pepper
a foot muddied, a puddle raveled up the curb
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
stiff-necked stare toward a slow wind, legs
lumbering. so it is how you grew tired.
and how you stretched your arms and scooped
air, and how you grew toward the burbling river.
gray clouds slumbering swells of summer
a crooked-winged bird limping on the gravel
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
how it lulls, how it fumbles every set intention
an earwig crawling from an orange pepper
a foot muddied, a puddle raveled up the curb
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
stiff-necked stare toward a slow wind, legs
lumbering. so it is how you grew tired.
and how you stretched your arms and scooped
air, and how you grew toward the burbling river.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Prescription for the (my) crazies: Get outside more. Exercise more.
Here's what you do. Walk down the middle of your street after a run. Pause next to the neighbor's magnolia tree and take a deep breath. Lift your face to the gray-blue sky and let the wind cool your sweaty skin. Remember: this is why you're here. Head home.
She's a good kid.
We had a great morning at the park until something changed, I don't know what, but I was faced with Madeleine running in one direction and Violet running in the other. Violet was okay -- she was headed toward the enclosure of the playground, which was near our car -- but Madeleine was bolting toward a vast open field and a parking lot.
"Madeleine," I yelled. "Come back! We're going back to the playground."
"NO," she shouted without looking back. She marched on.
I bolted after her, and as soon as I could, grabbed her arm. She immediately dissolved into hysterical tears. "NO," she cried. "NO! I WANT TO GO THIS WAY RIGHT NOW!"
"Madeleine," I said, my voice as even as I could make it. "We are going back to the playground. You can either come with me, calmly, or we can go home. Which one?"
"Go this way," she said petulantly, pointing to the parking lot.
I reiterated her choices and she followed me reluctantly, a few paces behind. Suddenly she stopped. "Madeleine," I said, turning back to her. "Come on."
And a look flashed in her eyes. Stubbornly resistant, yes, but mostly afraid. She stared up at me with big, serious eyes, and honestly, I felt so bad for her just then. You could see she knew how she was supposed to behave and just wasn't behaving that way, and she didn't like where it was leading. Like a little girl who really, just then, had no control over her actions. So vulnerable.
I scooped her up and carried her back to the playground and she cried and cried, alternating between pleas for apple juice and to wear her footie pajamas.
"Are we having a tough day?" I asked her gently, and she nodded, face contorted, tears pouring down her face.
Later, after we were home and she had on her footies and had just finished a big lunch, the park (at least in my mind) mostly forgotten, Mad curled up in my lap. "Sorry," she said.
"Sorry for what?" I asked her, surprised.
"Sorry for not listening at the park," she said.
"It's okay," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm hungry and tired, I don't want to listen either. And sometimes I just want to cry, too."
She stared at me for a second; I could see her calculating the weight of my words. Then she smiled and made kissy noises at my face.
"Madeleine," I yelled. "Come back! We're going back to the playground."
"NO," she shouted without looking back. She marched on.
I bolted after her, and as soon as I could, grabbed her arm. She immediately dissolved into hysterical tears. "NO," she cried. "NO! I WANT TO GO THIS WAY RIGHT NOW!"
"Madeleine," I said, my voice as even as I could make it. "We are going back to the playground. You can either come with me, calmly, or we can go home. Which one?"
"Go this way," she said petulantly, pointing to the parking lot.
I reiterated her choices and she followed me reluctantly, a few paces behind. Suddenly she stopped. "Madeleine," I said, turning back to her. "Come on."
And a look flashed in her eyes. Stubbornly resistant, yes, but mostly afraid. She stared up at me with big, serious eyes, and honestly, I felt so bad for her just then. You could see she knew how she was supposed to behave and just wasn't behaving that way, and she didn't like where it was leading. Like a little girl who really, just then, had no control over her actions. So vulnerable.
I scooped her up and carried her back to the playground and she cried and cried, alternating between pleas for apple juice and to wear her footie pajamas.
"Are we having a tough day?" I asked her gently, and she nodded, face contorted, tears pouring down her face.
Later, after we were home and she had on her footies and had just finished a big lunch, the park (at least in my mind) mostly forgotten, Mad curled up in my lap. "Sorry," she said.
"Sorry for what?" I asked her, surprised.
"Sorry for not listening at the park," she said.
"It's okay," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm hungry and tired, I don't want to listen either. And sometimes I just want to cry, too."
She stared at me for a second; I could see her calculating the weight of my words. Then she smiled and made kissy noises at my face.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
hitting bottom sounds like
a sharp crack and a dull thud,
shattered bones, so many
cells split, sluicing from skin
it looks like
a wide blue sky, arching
branches above me
we pick up,
we go,
of course.
this is what we do.
the going
smells like wild honeysuckle,
feels like the wind in your face
everyone moving forward,
everyone moving
we are
a sharp crack and a dull thud,
shattered bones, so many
cells split, sluicing from skin
it looks like
a wide blue sky, arching
branches above me
we pick up,
we go,
of course.
this is what we do.
the going
smells like wild honeysuckle,
feels like the wind in your face
everyone moving forward,
everyone moving
we are
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Listening: Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Now I'm a cage made of rosewood and steel
Pulling into the deserted gas station at night. This is a gas station that just encroaches miles of undeveloped land, near a park with a baseball field, with little kids in jerseys who pour out of minivans in the evening for summer games.
The gas station is closed, shuttered, with only lights above the gas pumps for people like me, tired moms driving back from the grocery store, stopping to get gas so she doesn't have to do it on the way to work in the morning.
The weather is perfect for windows down, for deep, even breaths, and long silences save the perfect song and the buzz of bugs that come out at night. I lean against my car, arms folded, and listen. And see. There is a late night game going on at the baseball field; I can just make out the dots of orange jerseys in the distance. Chris Bathgate's "Do What's Easy" is on in my car.
At my feet, ants are crawling along a crack leading up toward the gas pump, busy. Some are tussling with dead or dying winged bugs. I think of the article I just read about how ants don't have traffic jams, how even when you try to create a traffic jam for them, it doesn't trip them up. They have some innate sense of problem-solving, of anticipating an obstacle and working around it without much of a pause.
There are moths and other winged bugs flying all around me. A junebug is perched on the hood of my car. I look up, I remind myself to look up more often. Spiders perched in tattered webs, waiting for a meal. The crescent moon. The thick black sky, its wide-robed arms. Stars like freckles in the negative on quiet, still fingers.
The gas station is closed, shuttered, with only lights above the gas pumps for people like me, tired moms driving back from the grocery store, stopping to get gas so she doesn't have to do it on the way to work in the morning.
The weather is perfect for windows down, for deep, even breaths, and long silences save the perfect song and the buzz of bugs that come out at night. I lean against my car, arms folded, and listen. And see. There is a late night game going on at the baseball field; I can just make out the dots of orange jerseys in the distance. Chris Bathgate's "Do What's Easy" is on in my car.
At my feet, ants are crawling along a crack leading up toward the gas pump, busy. Some are tussling with dead or dying winged bugs. I think of the article I just read about how ants don't have traffic jams, how even when you try to create a traffic jam for them, it doesn't trip them up. They have some innate sense of problem-solving, of anticipating an obstacle and working around it without much of a pause.
There are moths and other winged bugs flying all around me. A junebug is perched on the hood of my car. I look up, I remind myself to look up more often. Spiders perched in tattered webs, waiting for a meal. The crescent moon. The thick black sky, its wide-robed arms. Stars like freckles in the negative on quiet, still fingers.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
My eyes sting with sweat and loveliness
Emergency Haying
by Hayden Carruth
Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 500 bales we've put up
this afternoon, Marshall and I.
And of course I think of another who hung
like this on another cross. My hands are torn
by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance. The acid in my throat
is only hayseed. Yet exhaustion and the way
my body hangs from twisted shoulders, suspended
on two points of pain in the rising
monoxide, recall that greater suffering.
Well, I change grip and the image
fades. It's been an unlucky summer. Heavy rains
brought on the grass tremendously, a monster crop,
but wet, always wet. Haying was long delayed.
Now is our last chance to bring in
the winter's feed, and Marshall needs help.
We mow, rake, bale, and draw the bales
to the barn, these late, half-green,
improperly cured bales; some weigh 150 pounds
or more, yet must be lugged by the twine
across the field, tossed on the load, and then
at the barn unloaded on the conveyor
and distributed in the loft. I help –
I, the desk-servant, word-worker –
and hold up my end pretty well too; but God,
the close of day, how I fall down then. My hands
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.
I think of those who have done slave labor,
less able and less well prepared than I.
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,
her father in the camps of Moldavia
and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers
herded to the gaunt fields of torture. Hands
too bloodied cannot bear
even the touch of air, even
the touch of love. I have a friend
whose grandmother cut cane with a machete
and cut and cut, until one day
she snicked her hand off and took it
and threw it grandly at the sky. Now
in September our New England mountains
under a clear sky for which we're thankful at last
begin to glow, maples, beeches, birches
in their first color. I look
beyond our famous hayfields to our famous hills,
to the notch where the sunset is beginning,
then in the other direction, eastward,
where a full new-risen moon like a pale
medallion hangs in a lavender cloud
beyond the barn. My eyes
sting with sweat and loveliness. And who
is the Christ now, who
if not I? It must be so. My strength
is legion. And I stand up high
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say
woe to you, watch out
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women
to the fields where they can only die.
by Hayden Carruth
Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 500 bales we've put up
this afternoon, Marshall and I.
And of course I think of another who hung
like this on another cross. My hands are torn
by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance. The acid in my throat
is only hayseed. Yet exhaustion and the way
my body hangs from twisted shoulders, suspended
on two points of pain in the rising
monoxide, recall that greater suffering.
Well, I change grip and the image
fades. It's been an unlucky summer. Heavy rains
brought on the grass tremendously, a monster crop,
but wet, always wet. Haying was long delayed.
Now is our last chance to bring in
the winter's feed, and Marshall needs help.
We mow, rake, bale, and draw the bales
to the barn, these late, half-green,
improperly cured bales; some weigh 150 pounds
or more, yet must be lugged by the twine
across the field, tossed on the load, and then
at the barn unloaded on the conveyor
and distributed in the loft. I help –
I, the desk-servant, word-worker –
and hold up my end pretty well too; but God,
the close of day, how I fall down then. My hands
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.
I think of those who have done slave labor,
less able and less well prepared than I.
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,
her father in the camps of Moldavia
and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers
herded to the gaunt fields of torture. Hands
too bloodied cannot bear
even the touch of air, even
the touch of love. I have a friend
whose grandmother cut cane with a machete
and cut and cut, until one day
she snicked her hand off and took it
and threw it grandly at the sky. Now
in September our New England mountains
under a clear sky for which we're thankful at last
begin to glow, maples, beeches, birches
in their first color. I look
beyond our famous hayfields to our famous hills,
to the notch where the sunset is beginning,
then in the other direction, eastward,
where a full new-risen moon like a pale
medallion hangs in a lavender cloud
beyond the barn. My eyes
sting with sweat and loveliness. And who
is the Christ now, who
if not I? It must be so. My strength
is legion. And I stand up high
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say
woe to you, watch out
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women
to the fields where they can only die.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
And a wee wah to you
Something beautiful:
After a long and grueling day, punctuated only by a brief bright spot playing with a friend and her kids on the lawn of the Kimbell Art Museum, Mad was doing her normal "resist bedtime" thing. Instead of being stern-go-to-bed-mommy, I took the night off and instead crawled into bed with her for a few minutes and tried a small version of that interview thing that's been making the rounds: here, here and here.
Mad, what makes you happy?
Edwin. (That's our cat, Sideswipe, who she has renamed a few times.)
What makes me happy?
Ummm. When I don't bite you.
What makes me sad?
When I bite you.
What do you think I do when you're at school?
You go.
What's your favorite part of school?
When you come back.
What makes you proud of me?
When we go to the zoo and we get the green snake.
Oh yeah?
Yeah, and it has goopy eyes. A wee wah.
What's a "wee wah"?
It's at SCHOOL! (This is her standard response to anything when we ask for clarification on.)
There's no "wee wah" at school!
And the yellow snake has the goopy eyes!
Okaaay.
I can bite you!
No, you can't. That makes me sad, remember?
(Tries to bite me, but jokingly.)
Okay, Mad, goodnight.
It was a great way to end the day.
Listening: Sarah White, "Apple in B Major"
After a long and grueling day, punctuated only by a brief bright spot playing with a friend and her kids on the lawn of the Kimbell Art Museum, Mad was doing her normal "resist bedtime" thing. Instead of being stern-go-to-bed-mommy, I took the night off and instead crawled into bed with her for a few minutes and tried a small version of that interview thing that's been making the rounds: here, here and here.
Mad, what makes you happy?
Edwin. (That's our cat, Sideswipe, who she has renamed a few times.)
What makes me happy?
Ummm. When I don't bite you.
What makes me sad?
When I bite you.
What do you think I do when you're at school?
You go.
What's your favorite part of school?
When you come back.
What makes you proud of me?
When we go to the zoo and we get the green snake.
Oh yeah?
Yeah, and it has goopy eyes. A wee wah.
What's a "wee wah"?
It's at SCHOOL! (This is her standard response to anything when we ask for clarification on.)
There's no "wee wah" at school!
And the yellow snake has the goopy eyes!
Okaaay.
I can bite you!
No, you can't. That makes me sad, remember?
(Tries to bite me, but jokingly.)
Okay, Mad, goodnight.
It was a great way to end the day.
Listening: Sarah White, "Apple in B Major"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It can be okay
Something beautiful:
Little blooms of possibility where I thought nothing was going to grow. Feeling the glorious sense of peace that comes with options. My new great wisdom. Options, the stuff of life. It's maybe not the most essential part, but darn if it isn't so very freeing.
Else:
The literal blooms of possibility in my little grow station. Tiny seeds shooting determined stems from the dirt. My favorite are the tiny tomato seedlings, the sharp, fuzzy curve the stems make as they push up from the dirt, almost folding in on themselves.
Also:
The unabashed joy of the family I passed on the trail today. The woman, who I guess was the mother/wife of the people trailing just behind her, doing a funny little walk as her family laughed at a joke I wasn't in on. We met eyes and she smiled wide and laughed -- such a refreshing change from the tight nods and flick of grin on the faces of everyone else, so intent on their fitness they forget to notice all the amazing things going on around them.
Listening: Chris Bathgate, any song because hot damn this is good stuff, but we can go with "Yes, I'm Cold"
Little blooms of possibility where I thought nothing was going to grow. Feeling the glorious sense of peace that comes with options. My new great wisdom. Options, the stuff of life. It's maybe not the most essential part, but darn if it isn't so very freeing.
Else:
The literal blooms of possibility in my little grow station. Tiny seeds shooting determined stems from the dirt. My favorite are the tiny tomato seedlings, the sharp, fuzzy curve the stems make as they push up from the dirt, almost folding in on themselves.
Also:
The unabashed joy of the family I passed on the trail today. The woman, who I guess was the mother/wife of the people trailing just behind her, doing a funny little walk as her family laughed at a joke I wasn't in on. We met eyes and she smiled wide and laughed -- such a refreshing change from the tight nods and flick of grin on the faces of everyone else, so intent on their fitness they forget to notice all the amazing things going on around them.
Listening: Chris Bathgate, any song because hot damn this is good stuff, but we can go with "Yes, I'm Cold"
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Abandoning my something beautifuls for a moment
Life, I am at a loss. What do I do with you?
I picture an electric cord, frayed at the end, little pieces of wire sticking out in all directions, searching for a connection. Every day I am puzzling over the pieces, trying to figure out how to fuse it all back together, or maybe cut some out altogether, or find someone who can help me put it together, a professional maybe. Feeling more and more that I need to just pitch the whole cord into the trash and buy a new one. Start all over.
But how do you start all over when you have a thousand other things that need power in the meantime?
My job is not connecting.
My extended family is not connecting.
My childcare situation is not connecting.
My health is not connecting.
My finances are not connecting.
My passions are not connecting.
My husband's job is not connecting.
My husband's health is not connecting.
My faith that things will get better is not connecting.
I am trying to maintain a positive attitude, to recognize that sometimes life is HARD, with all the whiny angst a cliche like that implies, and that living is equal parts staying the course while trying to figure out a better course in the meantime.
Right now, it's too much. I'm staying the course as best I can but it's all I can do, really. To keep going because I don't have a choice. In that, there's just no room to find a better course. I'm spinning my wheels, flailing. I don't know what to do but duck my head down and keep trying. To realize that sometimes trying will only lead to failure. And sometimes successes. I hope I can create a little magic soon, and I hope it's enough to sustain me when it seems like everything else is a giant fail.
Life, throw me a bone here. I appear to be stuck.
Something funny:
http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Zombies-Classic-Ultraviolent/dp/1594743347
Okay, okay. Here is something beautiful:
Thank goodness for my beautiful girls.
Listening: Delta Spirit, "People C'mon"
I picture an electric cord, frayed at the end, little pieces of wire sticking out in all directions, searching for a connection. Every day I am puzzling over the pieces, trying to figure out how to fuse it all back together, or maybe cut some out altogether, or find someone who can help me put it together, a professional maybe. Feeling more and more that I need to just pitch the whole cord into the trash and buy a new one. Start all over.
But how do you start all over when you have a thousand other things that need power in the meantime?
My job is not connecting.
My extended family is not connecting.
My childcare situation is not connecting.
My health is not connecting.
My finances are not connecting.
My passions are not connecting.
My husband's job is not connecting.
My husband's health is not connecting.
My faith that things will get better is not connecting.
I am trying to maintain a positive attitude, to recognize that sometimes life is HARD, with all the whiny angst a cliche like that implies, and that living is equal parts staying the course while trying to figure out a better course in the meantime.
Right now, it's too much. I'm staying the course as best I can but it's all I can do, really. To keep going because I don't have a choice. In that, there's just no room to find a better course. I'm spinning my wheels, flailing. I don't know what to do but duck my head down and keep trying. To realize that sometimes trying will only lead to failure. And sometimes successes. I hope I can create a little magic soon, and I hope it's enough to sustain me when it seems like everything else is a giant fail.
Life, throw me a bone here. I appear to be stuck.
Something funny:
http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Zombies-Classic-Ultraviolent/dp/1594743347
Okay, okay. Here is something beautiful:
Thank goodness for my beautiful girls.
Listening: Delta Spirit, "People C'mon"
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Feeling literary
Something beautiful I read today:
"The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present -- it's a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all of its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn't forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it's still going on, this very moment." -- from Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
Plus:
“Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment.” -- from Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra (which I read via The Happiness Project, which is SUCH a great site.)
Also:
(also found on The Happiness Project)
Listening: Imbris, "Just a Tree"
"The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present -- it's a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all of its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn't forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it's still going on, this very moment." -- from Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl
Plus:
“Sartaj was thinking about how uncanny an animal this life was, that you had to seize it and let go of it at the same time, that you had to enjoy but also plan, live every minute and die every moment.” -- from Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra (which I read via The Happiness Project, which is SUCH a great site.)
Also:
(also found on The Happiness Project)
Listening: Imbris, "Just a Tree"
Friday, May 1, 2009
It's all going on without you
Because I can't think of anything more beautiful than watching her grow:
Madeleine, lately, is this endless well of unbridled energy and extremes, full of questions, answers and demands. I see her soaking up everything with her curious eyes, can see things shifting and clicking in and out of place there, and it is, frankly, a little terrifying. She's moving so fast and I feel like I'm spinning in place and I can't keep up.
I sense her core, still developing, slipping out of my grasp, even while I frantically reach for it, understanding that there are so many lessons to learn and aware that I can never teach them all. Then the core is back and everything is solid again. I feel sure of the things I can show her, and unafraid of what I can't.
And then it changes again.
My sweet girl, I love watching you grow. But you're doing it so fast, and pulling me along for the ride. I'm doing all I can to hold on, and all I can to let go.
Madeleine, lately, is this endless well of unbridled energy and extremes, full of questions, answers and demands. I see her soaking up everything with her curious eyes, can see things shifting and clicking in and out of place there, and it is, frankly, a little terrifying. She's moving so fast and I feel like I'm spinning in place and I can't keep up.
I sense her core, still developing, slipping out of my grasp, even while I frantically reach for it, understanding that there are so many lessons to learn and aware that I can never teach them all. Then the core is back and everything is solid again. I feel sure of the things I can show her, and unafraid of what I can't.
And then it changes again.
My sweet girl, I love watching you grow. But you're doing it so fast, and pulling me along for the ride. I'm doing all I can to hold on, and all I can to let go.
Listening: Vertigo Smyth, "Breathless"
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Beckoning of Lovely
My something beautiful for today:
(via Mighty Girl)
Listening: To that song in the video, which is the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind theme, which I love, love, love.
(via Mighty Girl)
Listening: To that song in the video, which is the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind theme, which I love, love, love.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
To take a bite out of something
Something beautiful I experienced today:
Rain falling in heavy sheets, dandelions wilting to the ground, white in the gloom. Storm sounds echoing in the fireplace.
Also:
Floater
by Debra Nystrom
-to Dan
Maddening shadow across your line of vision-
what might be there, then isn't, making it
hard to be on the lookout, concentrate, even
hear-well, enough of the story I've
given you, at least-you've had your fill, never
asked for this, though you were the one
to put a hand out, catch hold, not about to let me
vanish the way of the two you lost already
to grief's lure. I'm here; close your eyes,
listen to our daughter practicing, going over and over
the Bach, getting the mordents right, to make the lovely
Invention definite. What does mordent mean,
her piano teacher asked-I was waiting in the kitchen
and overheard-I don't know, something about dying?
No; morire means to die, mordere means to take
a bite out of something-good mistake, she said.
Not to die, to take a bite-what you asked
of me-and then pleasure
in the taking. Close your eyes now,
listen. No one is leaving.
Listening: The Graze, "Maudlin"
Rain falling in heavy sheets, dandelions wilting to the ground, white in the gloom. Storm sounds echoing in the fireplace.
Also:
Floater
by Debra Nystrom
-to Dan
Maddening shadow across your line of vision-
what might be there, then isn't, making it
hard to be on the lookout, concentrate, even
hear-well, enough of the story I've
given you, at least-you've had your fill, never
asked for this, though you were the one
to put a hand out, catch hold, not about to let me
vanish the way of the two you lost already
to grief's lure. I'm here; close your eyes,
listen to our daughter practicing, going over and over
the Bach, getting the mordents right, to make the lovely
Invention definite. What does mordent mean,
her piano teacher asked-I was waiting in the kitchen
and overheard-I don't know, something about dying?
No; morire means to die, mordere means to take
a bite out of something-good mistake, she said.
Not to die, to take a bite-what you asked
of me-and then pleasure
in the taking. Close your eyes now,
listen. No one is leaving.
Listening: The Graze, "Maudlin"
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thunder shudders shaking branches
Something beautiful I experienced today:
I took the girls outside to play in the rain puddles, to look for bugs, to traipse the little rivers of rain running along curbs in our neighborhood. We walked along the curb in front of our house; I held Violet's hand while Mad ran ahead, kicking up the water, arms outstretched beside her. Suddenly she let out a tremendous screech of elation, "MAMA!" She turned to face me and ran as fast as she could. "MAMA, I FOUND A SNAAAKE! I GRABBED IT!" Her face was an utter paroxysm of joy.
It turns out, it was a little pink worm. "That's really cool, Mad," I told her. "It's a little pink worm, though, not a snake. They live in the ground and like to come out when it rains."
She stared at it seriously for a moment. "That is a worm snake," she said decisively. "I found a cool worm snake, Mama!"
Listening: Pictures and Sound, "It's You"
I took the girls outside to play in the rain puddles, to look for bugs, to traipse the little rivers of rain running along curbs in our neighborhood. We walked along the curb in front of our house; I held Violet's hand while Mad ran ahead, kicking up the water, arms outstretched beside her. Suddenly she let out a tremendous screech of elation, "MAMA!" She turned to face me and ran as fast as she could. "MAMA, I FOUND A SNAAAKE! I GRABBED IT!" Her face was an utter paroxysm of joy.
It turns out, it was a little pink worm. "That's really cool, Mad," I told her. "It's a little pink worm, though, not a snake. They live in the ground and like to come out when it rains."
She stared at it seriously for a moment. "That is a worm snake," she said decisively. "I found a cool worm snake, Mama!"
Listening: Pictures and Sound, "It's You"
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Spill your thoughts on the floor
Something beautiful from Friday:
Drummers who sing lead on songs. Sparkly orange drum sets. Bare feet on stage, plastic pink flip flops discarded near the microphone stand. Crazy-eyed lead singers who become the song they're singing, completely animated. Her side ponytail.
Plus:
The quote my friend sent about how whoever you want your child to become, you have to become yourself. After the Thao show on Friday, I have to figure out how to become Thao. I think it's going to be tough.
Then:
My husband took a "creative" route home and we drove through a ragged area outside of the stockyards. Row after row of abandoned buildings, dark, eerie lights shining from some of them. Grafitti on the walls.
Also:
Being up past midnight.
Listening: Thao with The Get Down Stay Down, "Bag of Hammers"
Drummers who sing lead on songs. Sparkly orange drum sets. Bare feet on stage, plastic pink flip flops discarded near the microphone stand. Crazy-eyed lead singers who become the song they're singing, completely animated. Her side ponytail.
Plus:
The quote my friend sent about how whoever you want your child to become, you have to become yourself. After the Thao show on Friday, I have to figure out how to become Thao. I think it's going to be tough.
Then:
My husband took a "creative" route home and we drove through a ragged area outside of the stockyards. Row after row of abandoned buildings, dark, eerie lights shining from some of them. Grafitti on the walls.
Also:
Being up past midnight.
Listening: Thao with The Get Down Stay Down, "Bag of Hammers"
Thursday, April 23, 2009
It's tough....so tough
The last few days I've felt like I've been walking around with dark, scratchy clouds floating above my head. You know? Picture an imaginary cord in your brain that can plug into the world around you. Now picture that cord all tangled up on itself, all useless and wasted. That's been me. Life! You are on notice. Get better.
Something beautiful:
At the grocery store this evening, smack-dab in the middle of suburbia, Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" comes on the loudspeakers. Woah Woah Woah Wuh-Wuh-Woah Woah Woah Tommy used to work on the docks....There are three people in line in front of me and the cashier is singing along under her breath and laughing intermittently. She's dancing a little as she rings purchases. I realize when I am checking out that the cashier is laughing at the customer service woman who has come out from behind the customer service desk to dance and lip sync to the song.
Listening: Bon Jovi, "Livin' on a Prayer"
Something beautiful:
At the grocery store this evening, smack-dab in the middle of suburbia, Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" comes on the loudspeakers. Woah Woah Woah Wuh-Wuh-Woah Woah Woah Tommy used to work on the docks....There are three people in line in front of me and the cashier is singing along under her breath and laughing intermittently. She's dancing a little as she rings purchases. I realize when I am checking out that the cashier is laughing at the customer service woman who has come out from behind the customer service desk to dance and lip sync to the song.
Listening: Bon Jovi, "Livin' on a Prayer"
Friday, April 17, 2009
The wind is trying to tell you something
Something beautiful:
Driving in the downpour, in the loud, cozy darkness of gray, windows shut tight everywhere, doors closed, people tucked in at home. Neko Case's "People Gotta Lot of Nerve" is on and it's the perfect soundtrack for this day. We drive by the Hudson Family Barber Shop, and it's a warm, glowing gem in the gloom, packed with men getting haircuts in old-fashioned barber chairs. The barber shop pole by the door spins blue, red and white.
Else:
My head had just settled into my pillow last night when the name for the novel I have yet to write popped in my head. And the first line of the novel. And the opening scene. Lights have been dim lately. It's a good time to start something.
And:
Madeleine ran to me this morning, holding her hands up. "Mama!" She shouted. "I can't open the door! My hands are too shashy!" "Shashy?" I echoed. "Yeah," she said. "They can't open the door!" Why the word "shashy" doesn't already exist in our lexicon, I don't know, but I'm glad Mad invented it.
Listening: The Coach and Four, "girls arms redux"
Driving in the downpour, in the loud, cozy darkness of gray, windows shut tight everywhere, doors closed, people tucked in at home. Neko Case's "People Gotta Lot of Nerve" is on and it's the perfect soundtrack for this day. We drive by the Hudson Family Barber Shop, and it's a warm, glowing gem in the gloom, packed with men getting haircuts in old-fashioned barber chairs. The barber shop pole by the door spins blue, red and white.
Else:
My head had just settled into my pillow last night when the name for the novel I have yet to write popped in my head. And the first line of the novel. And the opening scene. Lights have been dim lately. It's a good time to start something.
And:
Madeleine ran to me this morning, holding her hands up. "Mama!" She shouted. "I can't open the door! My hands are too shashy!" "Shashy?" I echoed. "Yeah," she said. "They can't open the door!" Why the word "shashy" doesn't already exist in our lexicon, I don't know, but I'm glad Mad invented it.
Listening: The Coach and Four, "girls arms redux"
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Borrowing beautifuls
Something beautiful I experienced today:
Hands down, it's Dallas Clayton's "An Awesome Book." You can read the whole thing at that link, but here's a page:
Hands down, it's Dallas Clayton's "An Awesome Book." You can read the whole thing at that link, but here's a page:
It made me cry it was so good.
Plus:
Best birthday party EVER.
Blue Sky + Balloons.
Listening: Still Flyin', "Good Thing It's a Ghost Town Around Here"
Monday, April 13, 2009
My mom says I should keep an eye on it.
Something beautiful I experienced on Easter Sunday:
It was late in the afternoon and neither of my girls had napped, so they were acting a bit erratic -- thrilled to be alive one second; the next, they were bemoaning the misery of existence. I was sitting on the couch with both girls clamoring at my knees. Violet let out a sudden cry of frustration and rubbed her face into the top of my thigh, then bit, HARD. I yelped (loudly) and said sternly (also loudly) "Violet! NO! BITING!"
She promptly wailed, mouth open, vicious little chompers gleaming, eyes full of fat, woeful tears, and tried to climb into my lap. Mad, too, burst into tears, face squinched with despair as she successfully climbed into my lap, knocking Violet out of the way and crying in my face, "Mama, are you HAPPY? Maaaamaaa! Are. You. HAAAAPYYYY?"
I stared for a second in bewilderment, wondering where to even begin. I decided Mad was the easiest to calm, so I looked her in the eye and said (falsely), "Yes, Mad, I'm happy. See? It's okay!" And she stopped crying.
I grabbed Violet and pulled her into my lap, and after a moment, she calmed, too.
Less than a minute later, they were both settled comfortably, Mad at my left, Violet on my right. Mad said, "Lightning McQueen," with a contented sigh. (Lightning McQueen is currently my alter ego, according to her.) Violet was fast on her way to dozing off.
I decided this was the perfect metaphor for motherhood, all pain and angst one second, all tender and sweet the next. Sometimes all at once. It's a wonder we don't split at the seams, too full of extremes. It's a wonder that these threads that tie us are strong enough to withstand that, the constant flux of great and terrible, of that middle ground where nothing is sure except that you are theirs and they are yours and it's enough to keep you going. More than enough.
Later, I checked the bite and saw that rabid little monster drew blood with that bite, THROUGH MY JEANS. This is the same little girl that spins in circles in the living room, saying, "Wheeee" over and over again. What are you gonna do?
Listening: happy apple, "Calgon for Hetfield"
It was late in the afternoon and neither of my girls had napped, so they were acting a bit erratic -- thrilled to be alive one second; the next, they were bemoaning the misery of existence. I was sitting on the couch with both girls clamoring at my knees. Violet let out a sudden cry of frustration and rubbed her face into the top of my thigh, then bit, HARD. I yelped (loudly) and said sternly (also loudly) "Violet! NO! BITING!"
She promptly wailed, mouth open, vicious little chompers gleaming, eyes full of fat, woeful tears, and tried to climb into my lap. Mad, too, burst into tears, face squinched with despair as she successfully climbed into my lap, knocking Violet out of the way and crying in my face, "Mama, are you HAPPY? Maaaamaaa! Are. You. HAAAAPYYYY?"
I stared for a second in bewilderment, wondering where to even begin. I decided Mad was the easiest to calm, so I looked her in the eye and said (falsely), "Yes, Mad, I'm happy. See? It's okay!" And she stopped crying.
I grabbed Violet and pulled her into my lap, and after a moment, she calmed, too.
Less than a minute later, they were both settled comfortably, Mad at my left, Violet on my right. Mad said, "Lightning McQueen," with a contented sigh. (Lightning McQueen is currently my alter ego, according to her.) Violet was fast on her way to dozing off.
I decided this was the perfect metaphor for motherhood, all pain and angst one second, all tender and sweet the next. Sometimes all at once. It's a wonder we don't split at the seams, too full of extremes. It's a wonder that these threads that tie us are strong enough to withstand that, the constant flux of great and terrible, of that middle ground where nothing is sure except that you are theirs and they are yours and it's enough to keep you going. More than enough.
Later, I checked the bite and saw that rabid little monster drew blood with that bite, THROUGH MY JEANS. This is the same little girl that spins in circles in the living room, saying, "Wheeee" over and over again. What are you gonna do?
Listening: happy apple, "Calgon for Hetfield"
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Nothing could be prettier than this
Today was tough.
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Typing out everything that sucked about today, then deciding none of it really matters, and deleting it.
Because there was a dearth of good stuff today, I will borrow the rest of my something beautifuls:
How to be an explorer of the world.
Pink dresses.
Yours and yours and yours. Encores.
Also:
Orange dresses.
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Typing out everything that sucked about today, then deciding none of it really matters, and deleting it.
Because there was a dearth of good stuff today, I will borrow the rest of my something beautifuls:
How to be an explorer of the world.
Pink dresses.
Yours and yours and yours. Encores.
Also:
Orange dresses.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Easy enchiladas
One beautiful thing I experienced yesterday:
The phrase "crippled summer" and the lyric "anatomy to me is a homesick stomach and a broken heart" from these guys. See also: "naked swan-necked girls, your arching backs to the sun."
Plus:
The lying spring day. From the inside, all you see is deep blue sky and an abundance of green. Outside, it's all cold wind that makes you gasp and little daughters laugh at the way their hair whips in the onslaught.
And some more:
Wild onions dotting side trails at the park.
Also:
Enchiladas for dinner - leftover mesquite-roasted turkey, onions, salsa and cheese. So easy and so very yum.
Listening: Hexes & Ohs, "Wildfire!"
The phrase "crippled summer" and the lyric "anatomy to me is a homesick stomach and a broken heart" from these guys. See also: "naked swan-necked girls, your arching backs to the sun."
Plus:
The lying spring day. From the inside, all you see is deep blue sky and an abundance of green. Outside, it's all cold wind that makes you gasp and little daughters laugh at the way their hair whips in the onslaught.
And some more:
Wild onions dotting side trails at the park.
Also:
Enchiladas for dinner - leftover mesquite-roasted turkey, onions, salsa and cheese. So easy and so very yum.
Listening: Hexes & Ohs, "Wildfire!"
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Small dreams too big
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
The cashier at Target, who had to be some kind of clairvoyant. As she rang my items, she said, "You have two kids, yes?" Since I was flying solo just then, I stared at her in surprise. "Yes, how did you know?" She gestured vaguely to my items, as though they had clued her in. I had purchased a package of empty Easter eggs and some candy.
A few minutes later, she was handing me $10 cash back. As she pressed the bill into my palm, she said, "You aren't going to cook; you're going to buy some food with this." Again with the shock, because I had gotten the $10 so I could buy a hot dog from the cafe.
I wanted to clutch her hands and beg, "Tell me, how does it all end?" But I decided it was better not to know.
Other:
We took the girls for a walk today and navigated the rocks and mud to traipse in the creek bed. Where the dirt was dry, the ground was cracked and dusty; closer to the water, the ground was thick and sticky. Grasshoppers flew all around us; little aphids scattered. Tadpoles and minnows mingled near the shore of the creek and little frogs jumped everywhere. Baby snakes slithered from the shore and cut fluid, winding lines through the water.
I lumbered awkwardly to the ground, walking boot thrust in front of me, already caked with mud. I had planned to look for "shark" teeth, those tiny little fish teeth that hide in the sandy ground near creeks just like this one. I pulled a rock from the ground for digging, and as the dry dirt flaked in clumps where the rock was, a smell wafted up to me, a low, sweet smell of decay, of dirt, of stagnant water, and for that second I was nine-years-old again, alive with the possibility of finding something amazing there in the dirt, maybe a petrified jaw with many teeth on it, maybe a tooth as big as the bed we were standing on.
Listening: Samantha Crain and the Midnight Shivers, "Rising Sun"
The cashier at Target, who had to be some kind of clairvoyant. As she rang my items, she said, "You have two kids, yes?" Since I was flying solo just then, I stared at her in surprise. "Yes, how did you know?" She gestured vaguely to my items, as though they had clued her in. I had purchased a package of empty Easter eggs and some candy.
A few minutes later, she was handing me $10 cash back. As she pressed the bill into my palm, she said, "You aren't going to cook; you're going to buy some food with this." Again with the shock, because I had gotten the $10 so I could buy a hot dog from the cafe.
I wanted to clutch her hands and beg, "Tell me, how does it all end?" But I decided it was better not to know.
Other:
We took the girls for a walk today and navigated the rocks and mud to traipse in the creek bed. Where the dirt was dry, the ground was cracked and dusty; closer to the water, the ground was thick and sticky. Grasshoppers flew all around us; little aphids scattered. Tadpoles and minnows mingled near the shore of the creek and little frogs jumped everywhere. Baby snakes slithered from the shore and cut fluid, winding lines through the water.
I lumbered awkwardly to the ground, walking boot thrust in front of me, already caked with mud. I had planned to look for "shark" teeth, those tiny little fish teeth that hide in the sandy ground near creeks just like this one. I pulled a rock from the ground for digging, and as the dry dirt flaked in clumps where the rock was, a smell wafted up to me, a low, sweet smell of decay, of dirt, of stagnant water, and for that second I was nine-years-old again, alive with the possibility of finding something amazing there in the dirt, maybe a petrified jaw with many teeth on it, maybe a tooth as big as the bed we were standing on.
Listening: Samantha Crain and the Midnight Shivers, "Rising Sun"
Thursday, April 2, 2009
When spring is cold and uninviting
Beautiful things:
Winds so strong baseball caps are snatched from heads; a bald man chases his through the parking lot.
Other:
When I asked my daughter what she wanted to have for dinner, she thought for a moment, then shouted, "Gummy worms!"
And then some:
Listening: Buck 65 feat. Jenn Grant, "Paper Airplane"
Winds so strong baseball caps are snatched from heads; a bald man chases his through the parking lot.
Other:
When I asked my daughter what she wanted to have for dinner, she thought for a moment, then shouted, "Gummy worms!"
And then some:
Listening: Buck 65 feat. Jenn Grant, "Paper Airplane"
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Ghost lights
It is the kind of spring day that speaks softly, that makes promises of beauty that goes on forever, trees that keep on flourishing, a sinuous joy in the air, through the blossoms, in the bird sounds. We're going for a walk, because how could we not, walking boot and all. It's the first walk we've gone on in a while and the girls are besotted with all the life around them, mired happily in the details: tiny rocks, bugs that blend with the dirt and pavement, abandoned snail shells. Mad spots what Google tells me is a six spotted tiger beetle. "Look, Mama!" She shouts. "It's a ghost ant!" The only thing "ghost" related in her world right now is the Halloween pumpkin train with ghost passengers that we got from Target and is now serving as a nightlight in her room. It features brilliant green, purple and orange lights, and it really does look like a piece of magic in the dark. I love that in her world, the brilliant green of that beetle is equal to the magic of that light in her bedroom at night.
Listening: Kele Goodwin, "A Kiss for Your Eyes"
Friday, March 27, 2009
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
The man walking across the parking lot at Whole Foods. My daughters and I were still in the car, and I was mustering up the courage to get us out and into the suddenly blustery, chilly, overcast day. For the millionth time, I cursed the walking boot strapped to my right foot. That was about when the man walked in front of the car, wearing a bright blue, sheer, short-sleeved button up shirt, bright white shorts that reached maybe mid-thigh, sandals, a gold bracelet and a hot pink purse. It was just such a bright, incongruous vision in the cold gloom, and I thought, Well, if he can do it, so can I, and got us out of the car.
Listening: manipulator alligator, "nina simone"
The man walking across the parking lot at Whole Foods. My daughters and I were still in the car, and I was mustering up the courage to get us out and into the suddenly blustery, chilly, overcast day. For the millionth time, I cursed the walking boot strapped to my right foot. That was about when the man walked in front of the car, wearing a bright blue, sheer, short-sleeved button up shirt, bright white shorts that reached maybe mid-thigh, sandals, a gold bracelet and a hot pink purse. It was just such a bright, incongruous vision in the cold gloom, and I thought, Well, if he can do it, so can I, and got us out of the car.
Listening: manipulator alligator, "nina simone"
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Country/ambient/minimalist
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Sending an e-mail I'd been putting off, making an important phone call, then stopping to stare out of my dining room windows for a bit. It's not raining yet, but the sky is heavy and there is stillness to the air that has turned everything green into gray. Everything is pulling downward, trying to root itself into the ground in the face of the looming storm. My children are sleeping and the street is quiet. Perfect.
Other:
Deciding to use the word "lovely" more often, and in an unironic way.
Listening: Brothers and Sisters Get Together, "magpie"
Sending an e-mail I'd been putting off, making an important phone call, then stopping to stare out of my dining room windows for a bit. It's not raining yet, but the sky is heavy and there is stillness to the air that has turned everything green into gray. Everything is pulling downward, trying to root itself into the ground in the face of the looming storm. My children are sleeping and the street is quiet. Perfect.
Other:
Deciding to use the word "lovely" more often, and in an unironic way.
Listening: Brothers and Sisters Get Together, "magpie"
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Also: The next time you say "forever," I will punch you in your face
Today my something beautiful will just have to be this quote by Neko Case, from an interview on Pitchfork, about having more than one tornado-related song on her new album.
"I was either going to have to go Less Tornado or More Tornado, and I decided that the ridiculous More Tornado might be kind of fun."
Listening: Neko Case, "People Got a Lotta Nerve"
"I was either going to have to go Less Tornado or More Tornado, and I decided that the ridiculous More Tornado might be kind of fun."
Listening: Neko Case, "People Got a Lotta Nerve"
Monday, March 23, 2009
Find somebody who believes in you
When my neighbor said to my daughter, "Go out of the street, child" when I was standing right there next to her, I turned to Mad and said, "Yeah, child," instead of turning to my neighbor and saying, "Thanks, mom."
In day of constant movement, all go go go, Violet cocked her head to the side at dinner, looked at me and said, "Hi mama," in that indescribably sweet voice of hers. "Hi hi hi." Mad's deep brown eyes, always.
My husband, knowing I had had one of those days, brought home tiramisu from La Madeleine.
Mothers, daughters, legacies. All the pain and anger and growth gnotted between them.
Listening: M. Ward, "Sad Sad Song"
In day of constant movement, all go go go, Violet cocked her head to the side at dinner, looked at me and said, "Hi mama," in that indescribably sweet voice of hers. "Hi hi hi." Mad's deep brown eyes, always.
My husband, knowing I had had one of those days, brought home tiramisu from La Madeleine.
Mothers, daughters, legacies. All the pain and anger and growth gnotted between them.
Listening: M. Ward, "Sad Sad Song"
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Looking for something brighter
My achilles tendon has torn away from my heel bone and some other tendon did some straining, and some nerve between the two decided to get in on the action. I'm wearing one of those sexy walking boot/cast things.
My daughters are not happy girls lately, and really, is there anything more crushing than that? I don't think so. They're sick and whiny and emotional and generally dissatisfied. Though I know it's mostly not my fault, and mostly to do with the fact that they just don't feel good, it doesn't really stop the mommy guilt from striking up a parade in my head. Damn gloomy parade.
I'm constantly nagged with the feeling that I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing at any given time, rather than just STOPPING for a second and realizing that everything is okay. I'm doing okay. Really.
::::
The old woman in the waiting room at the podiatrist's office. She was so small, thin, wearing a loose, faded dress, face marked with blotches and age spots. She was wearing a green shamrock pin even though St. Patrick's Day is over. Violet was toddling around the small room and kept coming back to the old woman, ducking down to peer at her face through the bars of her walker and smiling. "Hi hi hi," Violet said in her sweet voice, and the woman played along, ducking down to smile back at her, leaning forward to say hi back. Violet would walk away, come back, walk away, come back. Just before I got called into the room, Violet was standing near her again and reached for her shamrock. I pulled Violet away, apologizing, and the woman said in a quiet, sincere voice, "Your girls are beautiful."
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Violet's few years next to the woman's many, and everything a returned greeting can stand for. The small, precious question of a lifetime in Violet's "hi," the echoing affirmation in the woman's reply.
Listening: Jacob Perkins and the Nobody, "Rico Symphony"
My daughters are not happy girls lately, and really, is there anything more crushing than that? I don't think so. They're sick and whiny and emotional and generally dissatisfied. Though I know it's mostly not my fault, and mostly to do with the fact that they just don't feel good, it doesn't really stop the mommy guilt from striking up a parade in my head. Damn gloomy parade.
I'm constantly nagged with the feeling that I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing at any given time, rather than just STOPPING for a second and realizing that everything is okay. I'm doing okay. Really.
::::
The old woman in the waiting room at the podiatrist's office. She was so small, thin, wearing a loose, faded dress, face marked with blotches and age spots. She was wearing a green shamrock pin even though St. Patrick's Day is over. Violet was toddling around the small room and kept coming back to the old woman, ducking down to peer at her face through the bars of her walker and smiling. "Hi hi hi," Violet said in her sweet voice, and the woman played along, ducking down to smile back at her, leaning forward to say hi back. Violet would walk away, come back, walk away, come back. Just before I got called into the room, Violet was standing near her again and reached for her shamrock. I pulled Violet away, apologizing, and the woman said in a quiet, sincere voice, "Your girls are beautiful."
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Violet's few years next to the woman's many, and everything a returned greeting can stand for. The small, precious question of a lifetime in Violet's "hi," the echoing affirmation in the woman's reply.
Listening: Jacob Perkins and the Nobody, "Rico Symphony"
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Your arching backs to the sun
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Thorny branches jutting into blue sky that starts at my fingertips and ends at the pulse that thrives behind cloudless days.
About five minutes later, I sprained my ankle. Or something. I still can't walk on it.
Listening: Frontier Ruckus, "The Latter Days"
Thorny branches jutting into blue sky that starts at my fingertips and ends at the pulse that thrives behind cloudless days.
About five minutes later, I sprained my ankle. Or something. I still can't walk on it.
Listening: Frontier Ruckus, "The Latter Days"
Monday, March 16, 2009
The business of sadness
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Shadows, because of what they do to light in an overhang of trees. The light is softer, gentle, even in the beating heat. The green it illuminates is softer because of it; light that invites rest and reflection, shadows as sweet as an apology to silence.
Other:
Music that makes you see the world in movie frames: yellow caution tape torn away from a muddy, flooded trench; the obstinate scowl of a boy who doesn't want to turn around on the trail and follow his mother; the old woman in the green shirt with the word "slave" on the back; the thin slice of a bicycle tire in mud, the onion blossoms dotting the trail.
More:
Heat, sun on my shoulders because it reminds me what it feels like to be in the moment, to live, to enjoy.
Listening: Bon Iver, "Bracket, WI"
Shadows, because of what they do to light in an overhang of trees. The light is softer, gentle, even in the beating heat. The green it illuminates is softer because of it; light that invites rest and reflection, shadows as sweet as an apology to silence.
Other:
Music that makes you see the world in movie frames: yellow caution tape torn away from a muddy, flooded trench; the obstinate scowl of a boy who doesn't want to turn around on the trail and follow his mother; the old woman in the green shirt with the word "slave" on the back; the thin slice of a bicycle tire in mud, the onion blossoms dotting the trail.
More:
Heat, sun on my shoulders because it reminds me what it feels like to be in the moment, to live, to enjoy.
Listening: Bon Iver, "Bracket, WI"
Sunday, March 15, 2009
And I'm actually sore!
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Running. I wasn't going to at first; my foot is still sore from straining a tendon there -- but when I put on my tennis shoes to get ready for a bike ride, I thought, "My feet feel okay," and so I went for it. The trail from the end of the cul de sac that connects to the park was thick with mud and blooming green everywhere; those weeds with sticky bristles and tiny drops of leaves covered the ground and trees were bursting with new buds. I navigated the mud carefully and hit the paved trail on the other side. And about twenty seconds after I started pounding the pavement, I felt the feeling I have been sorely missing the past three weeks, a sense of puzzles locking into place. Contentment. I am never content anymore, but then I was, despite the vague soreness in my foot. It was just too easy, the sun drenching the leaves above, rays of light making their way through the green, the cool, sweet air, even the burn of my lungs as I tried to figure out how to be a runner again. Passing the other trail-goers: the woman walking her tall brown poodle, her four kids running out in front of her, the old man on his bicycle. Following the guy in his white shirt and red shorts as he flew far in front of me.
I only went about half a mile. It was enough.
Listening: Winter Gloves, "Factories"
Running. I wasn't going to at first; my foot is still sore from straining a tendon there -- but when I put on my tennis shoes to get ready for a bike ride, I thought, "My feet feel okay," and so I went for it. The trail from the end of the cul de sac that connects to the park was thick with mud and blooming green everywhere; those weeds with sticky bristles and tiny drops of leaves covered the ground and trees were bursting with new buds. I navigated the mud carefully and hit the paved trail on the other side. And about twenty seconds after I started pounding the pavement, I felt the feeling I have been sorely missing the past three weeks, a sense of puzzles locking into place. Contentment. I am never content anymore, but then I was, despite the vague soreness in my foot. It was just too easy, the sun drenching the leaves above, rays of light making their way through the green, the cool, sweet air, even the burn of my lungs as I tried to figure out how to be a runner again. Passing the other trail-goers: the woman walking her tall brown poodle, her four kids running out in front of her, the old man on his bicycle. Following the guy in his white shirt and red shorts as he flew far in front of me.
I only went about half a mile. It was enough.
Listening: Winter Gloves, "Factories"
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Silence is perfect sometimes
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Six hours of quiet time at home, with no children and no husband and no work knocking around in my brain. That's right; I cleaned and listened to music and cleaned some more. There is such satisfaction in order and cleanliness, of everything in your life sorted just so, especially when it was particularly messy before. It's good, honest work, too: chipping dried squished blueberry, now purple-black, from the dining room floor, vacuuming crumbs, washing, drying and sorting all the laundry, getting rid of every last bit of trash.
Maybe it's not poetic, but it's the most content I've felt in quite some time.
Listening: He's My Brother, She's My Sister, "Tales That I Tell"
Six hours of quiet time at home, with no children and no husband and no work knocking around in my brain. That's right; I cleaned and listened to music and cleaned some more. There is such satisfaction in order and cleanliness, of everything in your life sorted just so, especially when it was particularly messy before. It's good, honest work, too: chipping dried squished blueberry, now purple-black, from the dining room floor, vacuuming crumbs, washing, drying and sorting all the laundry, getting rid of every last bit of trash.
Maybe it's not poetic, but it's the most content I've felt in quite some time.
Listening: He's My Brother, She's My Sister, "Tales That I Tell"
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Purely a trick of the eyes
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Rain falling thick and blending with the heavy gray skies and bleak markers of construction everywhere. It is as cold as it looks, the whole world blanketed in a wet shiver. It's a day for balling yourself up under covers and resting, but I was tucked into my car on the way to work. At a stoplight, I am in front and facing cars waiting at the light opposite me. In the car headlights, rain glances down on the street and bounces up, catching the light, creating a bright shimmer.
Other:
This afternoon, it is already dark enough for buildings to turn on their outside lights. One bank, bulky and brown, has several flood lights shining up to illuminate trees around the perimeter. The cold rain hits the hot bulbs and white steam billows from the lamps. It looks like magic is taking place inside, some great alchemy being performed.
Listening: Jessica Lea Mayfield, "Kiss Me Again"
Rain falling thick and blending with the heavy gray skies and bleak markers of construction everywhere. It is as cold as it looks, the whole world blanketed in a wet shiver. It's a day for balling yourself up under covers and resting, but I was tucked into my car on the way to work. At a stoplight, I am in front and facing cars waiting at the light opposite me. In the car headlights, rain glances down on the street and bounces up, catching the light, creating a bright shimmer.
Other:
This afternoon, it is already dark enough for buildings to turn on their outside lights. One bank, bulky and brown, has several flood lights shining up to illuminate trees around the perimeter. The cold rain hits the hot bulbs and white steam billows from the lamps. It looks like magic is taking place inside, some great alchemy being performed.
Listening: Jessica Lea Mayfield, "Kiss Me Again"
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Not really a writer
I'm a writer by trade, so technically, I get to call myself a writer.
I'm not a writer.
A writer is someone who experiences life and translates it on paper or screen or what have you. A writer is someone who feels; who observes the world and has interesting or unique things to say about it.
I used to be that.
Now I am a mom and a wife and an employee and someone who is constantly juggling and failing and flailing and mostly, way down underneath it all, completely miserable. I know why: I don't allow myself time for introspection. At least, the meaningful kind, where I sit and consider important things, make sense of things, find peace in things, enjoy beautiful things. I feel like I am perpetually in problem-solving mode.
No introspection means that my creative muscle has grown and weak and flabby. Enough of that. I was a writer, and I used to be a good one. I need to work this out, so here I go.
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Coming home from picking up the girls from preschool, the sky is gray and heavy. The kind of pre-spring day that feels tangible. You could dip your fingers in these clouds, you could taste the wet air, smell the early buds popping from the bare branches above you. Our driveway is splattered from yesterday's painting activity; thick red strewn in a heavy spill up the cement, almost completely obscured by the thick layer of whatever bud the tree is casting down. Violet runs to it, touches the red, before scurrying off into the neighbor's yard.
Other:
When I close my eyes and consider what else stands out about this day, I only get a picture of the back of Violet's ankle, which is red and streaky in and around the chubby fold where her calf meets her foot, with a few little white bites scattered throughout. She must have been bitten by something, I think, but I didn't see it happen and she never complained about it.
Listening: I Read Her Journal, "Oh Maybelline"
I'm not a writer.
A writer is someone who experiences life and translates it on paper or screen or what have you. A writer is someone who feels; who observes the world and has interesting or unique things to say about it.
I used to be that.
Now I am a mom and a wife and an employee and someone who is constantly juggling and failing and flailing and mostly, way down underneath it all, completely miserable. I know why: I don't allow myself time for introspection. At least, the meaningful kind, where I sit and consider important things, make sense of things, find peace in things, enjoy beautiful things. I feel like I am perpetually in problem-solving mode.
No introspection means that my creative muscle has grown and weak and flabby. Enough of that. I was a writer, and I used to be a good one. I need to work this out, so here I go.
One beautiful thing I experienced today:
Coming home from picking up the girls from preschool, the sky is gray and heavy. The kind of pre-spring day that feels tangible. You could dip your fingers in these clouds, you could taste the wet air, smell the early buds popping from the bare branches above you. Our driveway is splattered from yesterday's painting activity; thick red strewn in a heavy spill up the cement, almost completely obscured by the thick layer of whatever bud the tree is casting down. Violet runs to it, touches the red, before scurrying off into the neighbor's yard.
Other:
When I close my eyes and consider what else stands out about this day, I only get a picture of the back of Violet's ankle, which is red and streaky in and around the chubby fold where her calf meets her foot, with a few little white bites scattered throughout. She must have been bitten by something, I think, but I didn't see it happen and she never complained about it.
Listening: I Read Her Journal, "Oh Maybelline"
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