Paint the world in joy

Dear Audrey,

Today you are one. You woke today as you usually do, babbling and laughing in your crib. We carried you into our bed and sang “Happy birthday” to you. You seemed to think that was the best thing ever. Later, presents, macaroni and cheese, the first taste of cake, and the resultant mid-day bath made this a pretty great day for you, I think.

You are boundless joy and determination at this age. You know several words, and are determined to learn more each day. I watch you consistently working through phonemes, and wonder when you really started to work out those first few words: “Mama”, “Dada”, “Cat”, “Hi”… It seems you may have started practicing those on day one. You practice all those things you really want to try; you often whisper a words for days before you say it, and you have spent the last month and a half almost walking. I’m fairly certain that you can walk at any moment, as soon as you realize you can. I also know that you will not be the child to quietly let go of our hands and take a few tentative steps — you will only be happy if you can suddenly stand up and cross the room on your own. So, I continue to offer my hand and wait until you are ready. And you grin and giggle as you stumble alongside of me. My big girl.

You love people; you constantly wave at strangers and you have an uncanny knack for finding those who will not only wave back, but will play with you for several minutes. You also love dogs of all sorts, and I occasionally worry that you will crawl up to one and begin chewing on it and petting it before we can explain to you that it may be less receptive than your dog, whom you call “Day-dee”.

We spend our days exploring the house, playing with your toys, and playing the piano. You are absolutely in love with music, and often sit on our laps while we play the piano so you can play a “duet”. You also sing to us, your silly songs of made up baby sounds, which occasionally echo the lullabies I sing to you and make me do a double take. Not much gets past you these days.

In all, the world is a wonderful place for you, and I am so happy for that. You seem to have fun no matter where you are or what is happening; you always find a way to play and learn, and your laughter and squeals brighten every room you visit. This last year has certainly had its ups and downs for all three of us, but I am so happy that you are here to show me how wonderful and joyful the world really is. You are my light.

Happy birthday, Spoonie. I love you all the way to the moon and back.

xo,
mama.

Letting go of the darkness.

It is 3:30 in the afternoon. I am sitting at my kitchen table, watching the golden glow creep over the back fence into my terrace garden, the way it does about 20 minutes before sunset. In two weeks, we will be on a plane en route to our new home. My schedule has not been so full in months. But for now, I am enjoying sitting here in a quiet house with a cup of very good coffee and watching the light fade.

I have been very blessed in this life. Even the really hard times have brought their blessings. I feel so fortunate to have the people in my life that I do, to be able to take my little family and go somewhere new, to be warm and safe, and happy. I am grateful every day for my little girl’s laughter, and the warmth of my sweet and very, very patient husband.

In a few hours, a dear friend will be joining us for dinner and to watch our daughter tear paper off her Yule gifts. (She will likely think that the paper is the best part.) We will drink wine and toast the sunlight. I will light a fire in the fireplace and with it we will burn all the fear and apprehension and regrets from the year.

In the morning, we will rise at dawn, shake the last of the darkness from our eyes, and take the last steps toward this new adventure.

I hope this finds you safe and warm, with the ones you love. Blessed Yule.

My world today

Trying to find hope in old farmhouses, the joy of holding my sleeping daughter all night, crossing things off lists, the gleam of my kitchen table, quiet holiday music, and lots and lots of coffee.

Trying to let go of fear, worry, exhaustion, and piles of discouraging news.

I spent last night holding Audrey while she coughed in her sleep, woke this morning to (continued) chaos in our house, made a tough decision to declaw our cat, scheduled everything, rescheduled everything, and quietly gave up. For today.

This feels as though it will all come together at once; similarly to the way my daughter is trying so hard to walk right now — clinging to our fingers, standing up on her own without realizing it, a few tumbling steps holding onto my pants leg, grinning all the while. One day, very soon, she will just stand up and walk. It’s the learning, with all its bruises and stumbles, that leaves me shaking.

Life Reboot, Take 3

I have not been writing. There are a hundred thousand things I need to say, and I have started several essays which I have abandoned. The book project, barely starting, has been on hold. Things here have been wonderful, even in their disorder and anxious swells. My tiny daughter, not so tiny any more, is trying with all her heart to walk, to dance, to speak the words that we speak to her. She gives sloppy baby kisses and waves goodbye, and squeals with joy. She is the embodiment of love for me.

We are moving in about a month — the exact date still up in the air. Aaron has accepted a job in Sioux City, on the Iowa/South Dakota state line. It should be a very good move for the three of us; for lots of reasons. For me, it sits like a promise in the tangerine sky of sunrise; a breath held in fear and anticipation and wonder.

I am good at leaving. It’s funny, though, how much this feels different. The last seven years have been about gathering, building, holding on tightly — sometimes when it didn’t feel best to do so. I feel as though there is a lot binding me here. We have dear friends and family nearby, which is wonderful, but I also feel bound by stagnation, and fear, and logistics, and stuff. So. Much. Stuff. I am gradually sorting through it, giving it away and selling it, trying to get all of our earthly possessions down to a reasonable volume for the move. (And after.) I am sorting through the last seven years of my life and abandoning anything that has not been present in the last two, nor will it be present in the next ten. I am caught up in craigslist and freecycle, and searching for apartments and real estate agents and moving companies. It feels like quite an orchestration. It feels, in a way, like growing up.

Needless to say I have been, and likely will continue to be a little quiet on line lately. But I am still reading. I am just a bit tongue-tied right now. I will be back in January, if not before.

The quickening

This time of year always feels as though the whole world is holding its breath. The nights are growing colder, I turn the porch light on in the evenings, and beside my doorstep anemones bid welcome to autumn as everything else dies back.

I am never ready for fall. Having grown up where summers are hot and long and dry, I always crave just a few more warm days. This year, I am especially unprepared for fall. Brandywine tomatoes sit on my counter, waiting for jars. My tomatillo plants are still heavy with fruit, my corn is starting to die back, ears still on the stalk. There are potatoes to harvest, and applesauce to be made. We have no wood for the winter, and the heater is still broken. I would give anything for one more month of sun right now.

I have been dreaming again. Dreaming of a new chapter for my family. Dreaming of projects bigger and scarier and more wonderful than anything I’ve ever done. I have lost 16 pounds in the last two weeks — the first bit of weight I’ve lost since Audrey’s birth. I have been working on essays. I have been thinking about what we value as a culture. About what I value. About what I need. And what, exactly, defines bounty in one’s life. I am especially engrossed by that last question.

Autumn begins this year on the nine month anniversary of my little girl’s birth. I plan to spend the evening on the back deck with a glass of wine, in front of what may be the second and last outdoor fire of the year. (Really, I just need one more month of warm days. One more crop of tomatoes. A dozen more fires in the fire pit. A camping trip…) I also will probably say a little prayer, and remind myself that the universe will give us exactly what we need in this life — whatever that may be. I will probably burn a little sage. I will hold my breath as I pull everything in closer to me, and ready myself for winter.

 

Oh, hello.

I haven’t forgotten you, I promise. I have been caught up in so many things… big projects and big dreams and lots of the nuts and bolts of everyday-ness.

I have been busy giving up on using my car for transportation (which involves building a bike for Spoonie and I to both use). I have been busy harvesting and trying to preserve various foods which I hope to someday be able to eat, rather than just look at. I have been busy harvesting moments: My little girl’s squeals when she eats still warm wild blackberries. Our puppy tearing through stands of bear grass, barking as loud as she can. Long conversations and rebuilding. Japanese anemones beginning to bloom next to my front doorstep. The smell of a dirt road I drive on my weekly trip to the dairy.

Things have moved inward a bit here recently. A sort of spiraling toward the center. Letting go of things. Rethinking.

I have been (and may be) a bit scarce for a few more weeks. But I’ll stay on the periphery, I promise. And once things settle down a bit, I’ll be back.

Seven.

Dear Spoon,

I am writing you this letter nearly a week late… having spent the last week frantically chasing shadows and your laughter. You are seven months old now.

This last month has been busy for you, filled with first experiences and new skills. You are easily feeding yourself, and drinking from a sippy cup on your own. You love cheese right now, and also bananas. You would live on those two foods exclusively if I let you. Mainly, you have decided that you have no use for bottles, nor for anyone else feeding you. You are determined to do it yourself.

You are also learning to crawl right now. You are working very hard at it, scooting around forward and backward on your belly, and rocking back and forth on your hands and knees. As soon as you put the two together, there will be no stopping you, and I think you know it.

You know quite a few words now. In addition to “Mama”, “Dada”/”Daddy”, you say “cat”, “hi”, “dog”, “yum”, and “bye-bye”. You have been very cautious with your words, often mouthing them for days, then whispering them the first few times you say them. You are very tentative with them, but love to talk, and the result is a happy stream of babble.

We took our first big road trip as a family this last month, driving down the California coast to Tucson for your Great-Grandfather’s 100th birthday. You two hit it off famously, and I daresay you are both very fond of each other. He is definitely high on your list of favorite people right now.

When we got back, the three of us adopted a puppy. We named her Sadie. And while it makes for a somewhat chaotic household right now, she will be a good friend to all of us, and the two of you adore each other. The three of us often walk to the park during the day so that you can play on the swings. I hope I never forget the joy on your face every time I push you in the swing, each pendulum forward punctuated by a smile, and followed by a cascade of laughter.

Last weekend we went hiking and to a puppet show — your first. You were the youngest kid there, and I was a little apprehensive, but you seemed to love the puppets with their funny voices and jerky movements. I can tell there will be more puppet shows in your future.

What I want you to know about yourself most of all this month is how much fun you are having with life. You wake up talking and laughing most days, and it (usually) continues until bedtime. Whenever we go places, you smile at people or babble at them, and are delighted when they play along. You are fascinated by what I call your “physics experiments”: dropping things, stacking things, and knocking things over. Cause and effect is big for you right now. You are independent, determined, and seem to really enjoy every minute in which you can interact with the world; whether that is playing with your cousins or with other babies at the library, piling up your toys in the living room, watching your dog run, or making a stranger laugh. I feel very lucky to know someone who approaches the world as a wonderful place in which to play, and I hope you never lose that quality, because it makes my days magical.

I love you always, Spoon.
mama

Becoming…

I am still here; stumbling rag-tag and bewildered after a never-ending list of menial tasks, piecemeal dreams tumbling over each other like bubbles, little breaks of sunshine, and laughter from family which both shocks and thrills me.

Lately, I am a thousand pieces glued haphazardly together: a snatch of melody from a lullaby I have sung every day for seven months, the smell of fresh sourdough, pullets pecking in the strawberry patch, a dream of the next big thing, thoughts of suits and heels, the persistent rhythm of my running shoes on pavement, a glimpse of acceptance and forgiveness.

This month, a road trip, an anniversary, a new best friend for the three of us. I need to put this all together into something tangible, to find the words to describe it all, gather the fragments into a shape without gaps or holes. Soon. Maybe, soon.

Feeding the child.

You carry her, grinning, into the kitchen.
Pull the highchair out with one hand,
Slide her into it, rearrange her feet, help her to sit.
Untangle her fingers from your hair.
Standing, you push her chair closer to
The honey-glaze of the heavy wooden table.
You remember cutting each board.

Next blocks, a rattle, a wooden spoon.
Keep her busy while you locate a bowl.
Every morning is oatmeal. Mixed quickly and microwaved –
Grateful to find a use for the thing.
From across the room she drops the spoon,
Bursting into a cascade of baby chirps and giggles.
Gravity is hilarious this week.

You hand her the spoon, kiss her forehead,
Sit beside her at the table. She smells like sunshine.
Every morning oatmeal. She likes hers with cinnamon –
And with bananas on the side.
She smiles between spoonfuls, and mushes her fingers in
It is paint, it is sculpture, it is joy.
Oatmeal covers her face and hair.

You’ve given up on burp cloths.
Mop her face with a kitchen towel.
Sneak sips of coffee between messy bites,
Gently move her hand away from your cup.
She grabs your hair, pulls your face closer to hers,
Oatmeal kisses.
It is time for a bath.

Hope. And omlettes. And coqu au vin.

I should make something clear here, before I offend someone. While I keep chickens, my chickens are not pets. This has been made very clear to all parties involved from their first days in our family. We started with three laying hens, nestled into a surprisingly spacious coop in the corner of our 100 square foot backyard. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know what I do. Please excuse the poor web design… that is not something I do. Though I am trying to learn. Web developers in Portland interested in bartering, give me a call.

Anyhow, back to the chickens. I intentionally chose breeds which would lay prolifically for a reasonable amount of time, and still be palatable meat sources when the time came in which they no longer provided us with eggs. I have no delusions here: chickens are made of meat. And while I don’t eat meat myself, my family does, and meat is meant to be harvested when needed. However, these little stew hens have been pecking around my back deck for a couple of years now. We’re… you know… not friends, but we’d buy each other a drink if we happened to be in the same bar together. Don’t get me wrong — I’m pragmatic enough and detached enough that if you called me tomorrow and asked me to butcher your hens, it would be no problem. But my hens? Well… I don’t know.

And it is time. Only one is still laying eggs reliably — about 4 a week. A second will lay 1-2 eggs a week. The third has become a mean old biddy who no longer lays eggs, but bites and sits on the nest, determined to hatch something. The long and short of it is space is a commodity, and chicken feed without eggs gets to be expensive. At least two of our old girls must go.

Last week, I hired their replacements. I have a large rubbermaid tub with little peeping balls of fluff in it who will be laying eggs within the next two and a half months. At which point, I will definitely need to move at least two of my old ladies to the freezer. And ideally, I will do it before then.

Here’s the catch — I’m hesitant to do it. Especially because it seems like a lot of work for only two birds, that are likely too thin and stringy for anything other than sous vide or coq au vin. I think I am beginning to understand how people have four dozen hens, and not an egg in their house. I also hate to admit that if I had a couple of acres, I would probably let them be lawn ornaments until I had a half dozen others to add to their ranks. In the meantime, I am simply pouring chicken feed into these creatures and getting precisely nothing in return. It makes for a pretty expensive dinner.