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Rushing, howling, whispering, humming
Let’s be at peace for just a moment, here. In this moment. Quiet tinkering of blocks and books. French toast sticks, which are served on the table, not on the plate. Because the plate is for syrup. And yes, French toast in the middle of the afternoon, because your boy is sick, and on sick…
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By heart
I used to know the pattern of my parents’ stairs—how many before the landing and the left turn, where the squeaks were and how to navigate my way silently through a century-old house in the dark. I used to know instinctually when we were coming to the right turn on back country roads, not because…
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Please have a seat
I’ve got some news. Are you sitting down? It seems your son has been in an accident.Mom, I’m pregnant.I want a divorce. Why is it easier to receive big news in the seated position?Or is it just that they’re worried you’ll faint?Or maybe that you’ll reach out and smack them? Fighting, fighting has to be…
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Wise little sister (1/10/13)
Clearing. I think that’s what yesterday was about. Brush away. Clear, clear, clear. I left feeling a bit unsettled. Like maybe some expectations hadn’t been met. I didn’t dive in and share myself the way I always expect to. My little sister was there. I was at ease, having done the retreat last year and…
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Anger
What makes you angry? I’m asking about anger because it is so powerful. A lot of slam poetry is angry. Anger leads us to the things we must fight for or against. It’s some kind of gauge. A barometer of the soul. Often when we’re angry we must follow the root line as it worms…
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Wrapping (1/7/13)
We are wrapping up the year. Wrapping it with bows and ribbons, and placing it under the tree and letting it get coated with pine needles. And we are unwrapping. We are unwrapping the new year. Unwrapping hopes and intentions. You never start something new with a premonition of the grief that will come. Only…
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Jacks
We all know that Legos are a son of a bitch to step on barefooted. Now imagine stepping on jacks. The old metal kind from decades ago, when you’d bounce a ball and pick up as many as you could. This story hurts me to tell. Physically hurts. When we were young, my older sister,…
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The best of times / the worst of times (1/7/13)
Cusp. I love that word. It’s better than edge or ledge or rim or brim. Well, better for what it is. Maybe the best of times and worst of times isn’t so much cusp. Maybe it’s more being completely steeped in something, feeling it all. Greater joy, greater sadness. Greater humanity. But cusp is coming…
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Zeneca Christmas
Christmas makes me think of a big breakfast for lunch. Bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, juice, chocolate milk, and, hell, toast. We’d sleep in. Except Libby, who never could. One year we agreed she could play Christmas songs on the piano to wake us up — after 9:00 — on Christmas morning. She took requests. Still…
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First job
My older sister had a strong entrepreneurial spirit. When she learned to sew pillows in Home Ec, she made herself into a pillow-producing fool. She borrowed some of my painting grandmother’s booth space the weekend of Old Settler’s to try to sell these pillows, as well as coloring books of animals she’d drawn squarely on…