Still here.

I realize this space has been quiet for literally, months. I do apologize. I have been pulled in a dozen different directions; big projects and big scary things. A literal broken heart as opposed to a figurative one. Creating a tiny legacy in this cute little town where I’m living. Wondering how long I’ll live here. Thinking a lot about mothers and daughters; from both perspectives. Writing when I can. Completely shaken and glued to NPR during the last week of Boston madness. Trying to remember what stillness feels like, and trying to personify hope. A few essays scribbled into pages, the backs of napkins from the coffee shop while I sit in the car and she sleeps in the backseat. (the upside of growth spurts -> naps!) Life is chaotic and messy right now; all beginnings and the dust and mud and clutter that entails. I’m still trying to tease the threads apart, weave them into something tangible and strong; a rope I can hold on to. I’ll let you know when I sort it out. It may take a little while so bear with me, but know that I’m here in the corner, listening, taking notes when I can, and trying to memorize everything.

What keeps you going when the world feels stretched too thin?

Crib

I remember when I purchased it. It was a bargain price, and after months of searching, debating reading reviews online, I just decided it had to work . It was one of the most expensive things I had bought in a long time. I remember it took me nearly a half an hour to load into the back of my car; my belly already getting in the way, my back sore. I carried it upstairs to the room I had painted yellow, and started putting pieces together with the allen wrench and a set of instructions which didn’t match what I bought. After a few hours, he came upstairs to help, and we figured the thing out. It seemed solid, and I liked the idea that it converted into a full sized bed. She could sleep in it until she left for college.

After awhile, I turned it into a full bed; again with no directions, and with parts that didn’t quite seem to match. It rattled like an earthquake every time my tiny daughter climbed in or out of bed. I took it apart, added screws and wood glue, and still it shook. Soon she will figure out the wonders of jumping on the bed, and I decided I had enough.

I bought an antique bed frame from a woman hoping to move to Colorado, and loaded it into a pull behind trailer. My daughter helped me pick it out. It was beautiful and solid, and 1/6 the cost of the crib.

I called him on the drive home and asked him to take apart the bed which was in her room. He grumbled a bit, but agreed that it was a good idea as it was getting late and the trailer had to be returned that night. I told him where the screwdrivers were, and my bike tool for the allen wrench. Our conversation was all business, as it usually is these days. Did you let the dogs out? Yes, yes, Audrey’s fine. She thinks this is great fun. If you get hungry, there are leftovers and beer in the fridge. I’ll be home in less than an hour. No “I love you”, just “goodbye” and “see you.”

When I got home, he nearly had it disassembled. Some of the wood had been damaged when he took it apart. He tells me he isn’t sure it can be put back together again. She has fallen asleep on the way home, so I lay her on my pillow and pull the covers around her. She smiles in her sleep when I kiss her cheek. He finishes taking her old bed apart as I unload the trailer and set up the new one. She wakes just long enough to put on pajamas, brush her teeth, and climb into her new bed, grinning. “No more wobbly bed, Mama!” she shouts, and then she claps. “Yay!” We tuck her in, read a quick story, and turn off the lights.

We stand in the hallway for a few moments, staring at the pieces of her broken crib. “What do we do with it?”, I ask him.
“Throw it away, I guess.”
I make some excuse about wastefulness. I don’t tell him I planned to save it. I don’t tell him about the cloth diapers and tiny baby clothes in boxes in the basement. He suggests putting it in the spare room until I decide what to do with it. He thinks I will turn it into art, or a crazy garden trellis, or both. Or maybe he doesn’t want to let it go either.

His hand brushes the small of my back before he picks up the last few pieces of the crib to carry them downstairs. “Thanks.” I say. But it is met with silence.

The weight of today

Lately I have been thinking of resolve, Bodhisattvas, purpose, healing, and this song.

…

Yellow

I wrote no more judgment, no guilt, no fear
And then folded them up in a note
Threw it on the fire on the eve of New Years
And said goodbye to the rising smoke

I wrote that note with the simple hope
That by putting it all out there
I could let go of the voice that says ‘no’
There’s no way you will ever compare

Take a minute, take an easy step back
There’s no secret password, no code to crack
It’s not a race or a contest, but if you’re still keeping score
You will always have less, they will always have more

We all can get caught up in our half empty cups
In all the little things that seem to go wrong
Your dog pees on the oriental, you can’t rent your rental
And it’s been three months since you wrote a song

Soon it’s all about you, all the errands to do
All your flaws you wish that you could improve
Like the way you wear makeup, the mood you’re in when you wake up
How when you’re nervous, you never keep your cool

Take a minute, take an easy step back
Look at all that you have and the time that you lack
It’s not a race or a contest, but if you’re still keeping score
You will always have less, they will always have more

Your eyes are all red, you’ve got the blues in your head
You look around but can’t find your halo
So you stay up too late watching TV you hate
And fall asleep on the couch wrapped in yellow

Take a minute, take an easy step back
There’s no secret password, no code to crack
It’s not a race or a contest, but if you’re still keeping score
You will always have less, they will always have more

Holding still

I have started a new project with the new year. I am knitting what is called a “sky scarf” — maybe you’ve heard of it? Essentially, you knit one row on your scarf for each day of the year, choosing the color of yarn you have which most closely matches the sky. It actually a great exercise for me, because it forces me to slow down at least once per day, look up, and memorize the color of the sky. Sounds simple enough, but when was the last time you stopped for several moments and memorized the sky? Or anything else for that matter? Your child’s face? The warm, sweet scent of the chicken coop in winter? The movement of cold milk poured into fresh coffee?

It is a nice reminder to me to stop at least once a day, hold still for a moment, and observe. I often forget the transience of this life, and often forget to catalogue it in my mind, or my writing. Such a wonderful, simple zen practice.

I have been thinking more about the book, as well. It seems to be morphing into something slightly different… Or perhaps I am. Needless to say, I will continue on it’s path. In between that and the endless list of daily minutea will be the smell of oil paints, the warm yeastiness of rising bread, the feel of spun wool sliding through my fingers, the stillness of a winter morning.

2013

I have been quiet online the past few months, and quiet off line as well. I haven’t been writing or painting much at all. I am ready for this year, and for the changes it will likely bring for me.

This next year, with any luck and determination, will be a year of healing for me. Healing of body and spirit, which for me seem to be so interlinked. I’m not totally sure how it happened, but I got a bit derailed the last few years, and I have been gradually in the process of getting back to where I should be. I spent over a year and a half without sleeping, and am finally getting somewhat regular sleep again — thanks to the help of modern chemistry and better habits. It is a victory which really began in September of 2011. I am now sleeping several hours a day, thankfully with only the occasional help of Ambien. Since September of 2011, I have lost around 45lbs. I still need to lose about 20lbs to be back at the weight I was when I was running, climbing, kayaking, and lifting before I was pregnant.   In the last three months, I have been running more regularly; usually at least 4 times per week. It’s a far cry from where I was three years ago, but it will do for now. Thanks to a recently discovered heart issue I am no longer drinking coffee, which I fueled myself on for a solid two years; drinking 5 or more cups per day. I still sometimes really miss the caffeine in the morning, but I know I am much better without it.

I have learned a lot about myself in the last few years, which I suppose is normal any time you have major life changes. I have learned that as much as I love my daughter, I need an hour or two alone every other day or so. I have remembered how important it is for me to be outside and moving, preferably every day but failing that, as often as possible. I have learned that I have a pretty strong and pretty harsh habit of editing and critiquing my work before I’ve even begun, which can be crippling. I have learned I am my own limiting factor in many endeavors and relationships.

This year, I plan to focus on getting outside more. Running more. Finally reaching the point where I can honestly say my body is healthy and strong again. I plan to paint more. I will write without reading or thinking about what is written until I have finished. I will focus on healing some much-neglected relationships. This year, I will focus on becoming healthy — and not in the traditional new year’s resolution way of saying I will lose weight, though that is a small part of it. 2012 was all about tying up loose ends and taking big risks for the sake of my family. 2013 will be all about healing.

 

Two.

Dear Spoon,

Now you are two. This is such a wonderful, joyful time for you. You are huge – already wearing size 3T clothes, and with grins equally over-sized. Your joy takes over a room, and your goofy laughter is infectious. You engage everyone you meet as a playmate. Just yesterday when we went to the grocery store, you were insistent on walking beside me instead of riding in the cart, just so you could run up to each person we encountered and shout out, “HI!” You later told me that they were all your friends.

Nearly every morning, you stumble across the hall from your bed into my room, mumbling, “I want to be in Mama Daddy bed.” I tuck you in next to me with your head under my chin, and hold you while you sleep for another hour. I love this time, even when I long for more sleep myself. You still like to snuggle but it has become more rare, so I try to soak up every minute I get with you like this. I’m certain it won’t be long before you are asking me to drop you off a block from the mall so none of your friends see us together.

You are growing up so fast, and want so much to do “big girl” things. You asked for a clock for your birthday, and wanted to learn how to tell time. You also asked for a tea party. Where most kids want Dora or Thomas the train, you wanted “little sammich”. I made sure to also put out a giant paper table cloth with crayons and a dozen sugar cookies to decorate. You are incredibly verbal for a kid your age, speaking entire paragraphs (often all day), and walking up to people and introducing yourself.

You are beginning to imagine when you play. Your play dough blobs are specific items which you have carefully sculpted — You tell me they are bunnies, dogs, frogs, flowers. Though one day when you handed me a carefully layered stack of play dough of different colors and I asked you what it was, you looked at me strangely, then said, “Mama, it’s clay.”, which I still laugh about. You love having tea parties with your stuffed animals and the cat. You are obsessed with reading and with making art. Your best friends in the world are Noah and Ella, who live next door. They are five and seven, respectively. Sadie is also still at your side constantly, as I imagine she will be for at least a dozen more years. You love taking her for walks, and will cry if you wake up and she is not asleep on her dog bed next to your bed.

When you look back at this time, I hope you know how creative and joyful you are at this age. How the world is such fun for you, and how much sweetness there is in your life. I hope you know how willingly you share all things, but especially your joy. You fill my days.

Nearly every day, I wish I could put this time in a box and keep it forever. I wish I could keep you this small for the rest of my life. So I lock each day up in my heart, and pray that when the time comes that I need this sweetness, it will still be there. I’m nearly certain it will.

I love you right up to the moon and back, Little One.

Mama

Manifesting the Universe

I have known several people who believe that if you send energy out into the universe asking for the life you want, it will appear. Some do this through prayer, some through manifesting some karmic link to their past, some through writing, and some just wish on stars. No one has this worked so well for than Duane, whose easel now sits in my kitchen, awaiting a permanent home upstairs in the office. With it are several dozen oil paints, a thin wooden pallette, and a 71 year old box full of brushes.

I am going to begin painting again. This time with oil, which I have never used. I am hoping it will go well, though I know I have so much to learn.

I am home now. While my daughter sleeps upstairs, I alternately read about repairing home coolant systems, and about thinning oil paint without muddying it. Money is tight, the list of projects and repairs here keeps growing, and I am spending my spare moments daydreaming about the changes I want to make in my life. A morning run, a quiet coffee, games with my little girl in the (as yet mostly unplanted) garden, a nice dinner with my family, a couple of hours at the easel or the computer, then knitting on the front porch swing with a cup of tea and fireflies. I want to make our clothes, grow our food, and create beautiful art and writing which will pay for those things when I am too old to make them myself. There is a lot which stands between where I am now and that life which I am hoping for, but each day is a step closer, and I am putting it out to the universe — a wish that I hope will manifest itself.

In the meantime, I will turn over more soil, build a fence. I will fix the coolant system, and hook up a dishwasher. I will plant flowers, and place rocks around them to keep them safe from the dog’s eager digging. I will play my dulcimer, and knit another row on my sweater. I will take heart in the plumbing repairs I did yesterday; knowing that I am capable of all of this, it is not impossible, though it may be slow.

And maybe, I will mix a few paints. I will learn to properly stretch my own canvas. I will be brave enough to share my work, and strong enough to use criticism for repairs. I will send these wishes out into the universe. I will hope for Duane’s luck. And then I will pull back my hair, and get to work.