Sunday, September 02, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Monday, August 06, 2012
Sunday, August 05, 2012
Saturday, August 04, 2012
Friday, August 03, 2012
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
|the dining room floor after we pulled up the fake wood vinyl|
When Obama was elected, I started another letter to Isaac. He was three then. I got farther with it, but it's still not finished.
|dining room floor refinished|
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
|California poppy blooming in Massachusetts|
I watch the progression – my husband gets more and more exhausted as the week goes on and he continues to take on the brunt of the teething nights. At dinner, pasta with butter, (our farm box of vegetables rotting in the frig), he looks haggered, dark bags form under his eyes. Later, I retrieve him from our 7-year-old's room where he's fallen asleep doing bedtime and take his hand to lead him back downstairs where he squints in the harsh light.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Today the New Englanders are camping. With their pop-ups, their RVs, their tarped tents, with their American flags, their spinning frog lawn ornaments, their soda can airplane pinwheels for sale out front of their campers. Despite the signs warning of the practice's prohibition, they are riding their bikes down the campsite roads after sunset. Because it's summer time, time to let loose, go a little wild.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
This morning the New Englanders are walking their dogs. Old dogs, small dogs, dogs panting from the already 80 degree air, dogs pulling wheelchairs, dogs chasing chipmunks, baby-kissing dogs, dogs sniffing gardens, dogs barking at other dogs. The dogs all need to walk. And the New Englanders obey.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Today, the New Englanders are blurry through their screened-in porches. They are using power tools; they are sorting seeds; pixelized forms, bent, working. The New Englanders are always at work.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
So, other than his guest post recently, I haven't said much about the kid that started all this blogging in the first place. That little cell cluster that showed up 8 years ago and made me violently ill, acutely terrified, exceptionally tired and joyously happy.
Monday, July 02, 2012
|Rhys meets the pop-up|
|phone case in flight|
Friday, June 29, 2012
|trying to look innocent, eating corn flakes and sporting avocado-applesauce shampoo.|
|conducting. the world is his edible symphony.|
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
I have been on international flights where we landed at the same time we left. Time hovered, waiting for us as we soared some 40,000 feet in the sky. Nothing moved forward.
Is this an analogy for grief? A fantasy world for the mourning? Dickens' broken clocks and cobwebbed wedding dress? Or some free pass - the golden ticket in the chocolate bar wrapper?
It's two years today since we lost mom.
This morning Isaac arrives in front of me in the kitchen and announces he's going on a "nature safari,"then points to the camera hooked to his belt loop. It was my mother's camera. It still has her name and address label inside, still her pictures on the memory card, including the shots of her garden she took a couple hours before the ambulance arrived, the last ones she would ever take in a lifetime of picture taking.
We gave Isaac the camera when he turned 6 years old so he'd have something of his grandmom. He used it on the cross country trip/move, a little afterwards, but I he hasn't touched it or mentioned it for months. Until this morning.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
It is the Great Baby Escape 2012.
Life paths are funny things. Say to me 20 years ago - "You will have two kids and be excited when you haven't burned the lasagna!" And my 22-year-old self will laugh, "Screw off!" and skip carefree across the Ponte Vecchio while awaiting the end of the Italian train strike. Say it to me 3 years ago and I will laugh equally hard before zipping south on Highway 1 toward a writing retreat along the Big Sur coastline.
Rhys is 10 months old today. Unless you are adjusting for his four-week early birth. These days I think of it mostly in terms of getting a jump start on that sleep deprivation.
I am at a wall. This is hard. I am tired. More than tired. My friends are far away. I am sad.
Every day I encounter people whose paths I ponder.
The podiatrist who sees me for 7-minute meetings in a dingy little office every couple months and asks with a shrug and not a glance at my little piggies how everything is going but has never inquired about my lifestyle or factors affecting the issues with my feet and who can squeeze me in three weeks later when I'm in pain... is this what he dreamed of doing with his time on this earth?
The TV meteorologist who shudders at the rain in an Everyman kind of attempt at camaraderie and asks leading dramatically-presented, pre-commerical break questions such as, "Will we see any improvement by the weekend?!?" ...does he sleep well at night believing he's contributing to a better world?
The contractor, who you are supposed to imagine building something with tools and his hands despite his sharply ironed pink designer label button down and perfect hair, and who uses your name too much ("Kathryn, I'm glad we could meet today. Let me ask you a few more questions, Kathryn...")...what did he want to be when he grew up?
And me. Who knows. Who knows what I wanted. All I want now is sleep. But do remember this -- the world needs saving, people. Choose your Poptarts carefully.
Take a stroll into a flashback post...This time last year.
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
after Dan Albergotti's "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale," with thanks to Susana.
(italicized lines borrowed from Albergotti)
Pray it lasts. Put on tea. Drink it down hot. Look at pictures of the baby you took that morning. Count up all the submission deadlines you've missed in the past month. Hum. Eat cookies. Design an exercise regimen. Set the auto-correct on your phone. Text your friends nonsensical messages they won't get because they are currently trying to get their babies to nap. Research what happened to 80s one-hit-wonder bands on Wikipedia. Plant a garden. Water it. Miss your mother. Review each of your life's 10 million choices. Endure moments of self-loathing. Find evidence of those before you. Destroy it. Become convinced you've harnessed a finite list of universal truths. Hold imaginary press conferences to deliver the news to the outside world. Look unsuccessfully for your glasses. Write blogs about how you never have time to write blogs because the baby never naps. Be thankful you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Remember the first time you felt him kick, your hands going again and again to your belly in surprise.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
|California poppy and marigold seedlings in my garden|
|snaps with alyssum|
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
So, silence lately, yes. Difficult to find a moment. Please note, however, especially west coast peeps, that there is a new poetry event listed on the sidebar. We will be in California in April (SO EXCITED!!!!!) and I will be doing a reading at the Carl Cherry Center for the Arts.
Today I am thinking of my mama. Her 80th birthday would have been today. I miss her more all the time. I found this poem on my Writer's Almanac this morning.
Meanwhile, her grandbabies grow and grow.