If a 7 month old doesn’t need any resolutions, maybe I don’t either.
In places where history
perpetually confronts you
it is easier to remember roots
but harder to follow new seeds.
Where I grew up
there were no old buildings.Only old trees.
All I can remember
is counting their rings
and following their seeds
on the wind.
If there's a chance you'll forget
don't take it.
Slice clean through an orange
The veined lines are never straight
but nevertheless delightful.
To be perfect
is not to be precise
but to give delight.
You are flawless today;
Take two onions and compare:
full of water,
and increasingly inner
Never two alike.
To be perfect
is an absolute state
of infinite degrees.
No matter how you change,
you are always the choicest variety
of my happiness.
Huddle against the hurtling chill
the freezer breeze brings its own kind
candles in the night
early dark and slower Dawn
Christmas, cinnamon, steam
and all the hope we need to carry on.
When I was little my mom called me and my siblings “wallerbugs” when we couldn’t sit still and would move all over the place on her lap. These days, I’m starting to think that’s a great little name for one of my favorite nephews, since every time he sees Wesley, he wallers all over him with affection and cuddles.
So grateful for boys <3
We recently got to go visit friends and family in Boston. One group is technically family and one group is technically friends, but thankfully we can’t tell the difference.
Thanksgiving in Spokane
These outfits are 30 years old that my mom saved. I just love you two together, even though you won’t sit still or look at the camera at the same time. Alfalfa & Spanky Forever
I’ve thought about what you said almost every day since you wrote it: “Let your love for him convict you of how much you don’t love other people.”
When I first read that, I wasn’t all that convicted. While I was DOING a lot of loving things for Wesley, I wasn’t feeling that much love for him all that often. But I’m the sort that has to earn a feeling. And these days, when I cup that little face, stroke those little cheeks, watch those little eyes look out a window, hear that little giggle, press into that warm little embrace… these days my emotions are swept up like a tiny speck of dust caught in a hurricane.
In this case, six months is a nonsense measurement. It measures something mathematical that is entirely mystical. And I’m no mystic, as you know.
One thing I love about your friendship, is that while I’m tempted to write you some simple factual updates about my circumstances and histories, I’m much more drawn to write you some simple factual updates about my soul. If only these were the kinds of annual letters sent out this time of year. I’d read those.
So now that I’ve touched on that whirlwind romance that is motherhood, I’ll share about the other piece. The ugly not loving other people thing.
I’ve been reading about how I need to be less cynical in conflict. I was considering writing “with people” after “conflict” but I’m not sure it’s necessary. So I guess I’m saying I just need to be less cynical, since every day I’m in conflict. I wish had some way to tie that thought to a pithy advent quote but it’s just a plain thought unfortunately. I’m waiting to be made less cynical. I’d like to love people better by storing up hope for them. I have more hope stored for Wesley than I could fit into all the pockets of all the coats I’ve ever seen.
(From Black Rook in Rainy Weather by Sylvia Plath)
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles.
The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.
Christmas with you.
Not all stories.
Today's story did.
you will make,
will be made for you.
will shape you.
and then dying.
and then living.
for the story
that has dying
and then living
You haven't lived
until you've driven
just after the first snowfall.
Therefore, we paused
even as we moved at speeds
only common to mankind
for the last half century.
Restart the track. Raise volume.
Restart contemplations. Raise eyes.
The winter-dusted hills here are haunted
with hints of threat.
these behemoth boneyards
of some corrupted past:
they taunt the very thought
that we could ever last
The next turn brings new vistas,
or ice patches, or pain.
It takes no great metaphor to gain
knowledge of our frailty;
only great attention
to ensure that it remain.
As songs - written and recorded by someone else -
the stereos now recite
attempt to tune their tones to this time-torn terrain,
the razor-peaks pierce our souls with mixed scents
of our imperfections
and their pine.
I must ask again:
Between the crest-settled stars
and the divine,
can you identify the line?
The mountains demand their poetry of us;
the rocks make men cry out on their behalf:
Here is no boundary
no barrier to heaven
lest you misperceive it.
Here is summary of bounty,
but you disbelieve it.
There is no distraction, no matter how insipid,
you cannot be redeemed from.
Hell hath no fury
you cannot overcome."
What a life.
From Thanksgiving time last year :)