a beautifully laid table

I ponder this life I have been invited to live. I did not detail all of these little joys when I dreamed of it as a young girl, but I enjoy them so, and I feel honored to be here. I sit in my rocker in the evening, light a candle and sip wine while reading books, and I enjoy it. I play chess with my children on the front porch while scooping leaves out of the baby's mouth, and watch him stand on shaky legs and pound two blocks together and delight in his little world, and I enjoy it. I feel my husband's warm hand on my back as he squeezes my shoulder to let me know he's there, and he loves me, and I feel safe, and I enjoy it. There are so many of these small moments that I enjoy so deeply, knowing that this is the salt of life - all these tiny seconds of enjoyment sprinkled in, almost hidden, folded between the bigger things that demand my attention like chores and long car rides and financial decisions. 

And sometimes I fear the change that life brings. The change you can't avoid. For those of us who are blessed enough to have two parents who love us, we are all aware from childhood that someday we will have to live without them. It is inevitable, an awareness that doesn't pain us while we are young because it is a fact of life, the same sort of fact as we need food and water to survive and sometimes we fall and scrape our knees. But as age creeps up on me the reality of this fact is starker, more palpable. I take a moment to imagine the day when I will say goodbye to my mom and my dad, and my heart is tugged on, an ache creeps to my throat and I can almost feel my grief and sense of feeling lost in a world without the people who raised me - and I think, how will I survive? How will I manage being elderly and weak and lonely without my parents there to guide me? When my dad had covid last winter, and his oxygen was a little lower than what is normal, and I had just seen a friend lose her dad to the disease, all I could think was, "I'm am not ready for you to stop being my dad, I'm not ready for you to stop being my dad." The strangest phrase, but there it was, in my heartache and shock. (He made a full recovery, thankfully.)

I watched my mom lose her mother, and I'm not sure how she survived and managed to care for four children. Her world was turned upside down. Like a beautifully-laid table with Thanksgiving dinner atop an elegant table cloth, and then the whole thing just wham, flipped over, the entire table, all of it, and then she had to pick up the pieces and see what could be salvaged. That's all grief, I suppose. 

Grief. It is the single most terrifying thing to me.

The sweet mama I follow who just lost a baby. My friend from Washington who lost her husband and her father in just over a year. You must make do without the original feast you thought you were sitting down to, the sense of home and comfort, you no longer live a life in the bliss of ignorance, not knowing what grief tastes like. I pray daily that God will not take my loved ones from me, but I almost feel egotistical asking this, assuming I can somehow cheat the greatest fact in life which is that we all must die, at some point or another, some earlier than others, all in different circumstances. I would apologize for being maudlin, but I believe it's too late for that. It was probably too late by the time I was four and wrote a song about how I never got to meet my great-grandmother because she died when I was a baby. 

Anyhow.

I am very much interested in the topics of suffering as worship, finding beauty in a broken world, and trusting God with an unknown and sometimes scary future. I recently purchased the book This Beautiful Truth by Sarah Clarkson. This idea that things that hurt aren't hopeless or meaningless is very comforting for me, as someone who deals with invasive thoughts like these.

Those are my thoughts as I sit here in this house my husband and I might buy, our very own house. As my healthy children sleep peacefully in bed above me. As I hear the crackle of the candle beside me and before I turn back to my ghost story that has me in all the right vibes for fall. I love this life, and I hope I have the strength and grace to handle it ten, twenty, fifty years from now. Because that is right around the corner. All I can do is hold on to all this goodness, so tightly, breathe it in, full lungs, that beautiful scent. And be thankful. Thankful. Thankful.

the best weekend ever

Saturday: The sister who made me a sister! I hugged Tori, talked with her, cried with her - for the first time in almost a year and a half. We took the kids to the park and lay in the grass under a wide oak, discussed dreams for the future while the older ones played and the little one crawled around, gnawing on sunglasses and empty Starbucks cups drained of lattes. We stayed up late, sipping blackberry wine and talking in hushed voices while the children slept. I am so proud of her - that pride and sense of protection and utter love I felt in my chest as a young girl as I watched my baby sister run on young legs, her straight, dark hair whipping all around across her face, a fierceness in her brow and humor behind her eyes. It's the same. I love her. I want to protect her. I cheer her on. I adore her. I am so lucky.

Sunday: A three-hour drive home through (mostly) gentle rain and beautiful farmland. We stopped halfway at a gas station, grabbing snacks, sugar-laden and indulgent, and ran back to the car where it was parked at a corn field behind the mini mart. Rain fell on my back and we all giggled as I changed a twisty baby on the floor of the driver's side; he played with the gas and brake pedals - an interesting view. Then he slept the rest of the drive. We drove through Bird in Hand, Pennsylvania, past victorian bed & breakfasts, Amish furniture stores, bakeries advertising strawberry pies, hand painted signs for plump, fresh-picked peaches in the lawns of white farmhouses with forgotten laundry on the line. This beautiful land we live in never fails to fill me with such a sense of nostalgia and happiness. We arrived home just in time to attend the friends-and-family picnic on the grounds of the farm market where my sister Emma works, just down the road from our house. Brats and burgers were served, fresh veggies and pasta salad, tea and fresh-squeezed lemonade, with locally-made ice cream sandwiches and apple cider doughnuts for dessert. After a few games of Bingo, my girls got the autograph of Joe, the manager of the market, before we headed home. Joe has red hair and a warm smile as permanent as his freckles. They adore him, dissolving into giggles every time they see him. 

Monday: We perused the quiet, dusty aisles of an antique store in downtown Shrewsbury with Emma and her best friend Anna. My favorite find was a pair of butter-yellow leather baby shoes. I always wonder whose little feet wore the baby shoes of antique stores. A beautifully bound pocket-sized Victorian book, a work of fiction by Henry ---'s wife (I can't remember the last name). The woman had written the book 20 years after the death of Austen, and I mused the irony of the accomplishment of being a published female author at the time, yet still having to use her husband's name. I bought a vintage copper kettle, likely from the 50s or 60s, and a German porcelain Mary for my mom. I forgot to keep my eyes open for turtle things - Wilder's nick-namesake. We made our way down the block to a little coffee shop that takes up residence in a 19th-century bank. The kids shared a lemonade and I got myself a white chocolate mocha latte. We sat outside and enjoyed our drinks in the warm breeze under a large oak tree before walking home and having ground pork tacos for dinner.

based on a true story

We should get together every month!
I offered,
perhaps a bit too hastily
perhaps with a lilt of desperation.

I had found a community of women
with whom to hold hands.
To share life, share bread,
share laughter and possibly -
could I dare to hope? - share tears

Oh, but we do!
they replied
a momentary forgetfulness -
this was the first I'd been asked along

followed by a half-beat of silence, and
unspoken, it hung in the air
awkward and trembling:
while you have joined us this time,
please don't expect
to be asked again.

the birth of wilder ezekiel, part one

The roads that led to the birth center were nestled in golden hills and pockets of farmland. It was stunning. I looked forward to it every time.

Eight months later on a sultry, overcast June morning, I sat on my porch sipping cinnamon coffee and reading stories of birth and midwifery from the book Midwife in Amish Country when tears sprang to my eyes, as for the first time I was truly considering the journey of Wilder's birth. I was surprised by these tears; I hadn't once really sat with any feelings of disappointment over our experience. When my midwife Rebecca asked me at our two-week checkup how I felt about the birth now that I'd had time to settle into my role as mama to this precious newborn and had come out of the fresh-born haze that follows, I didn't know how to answer. "I feel... fine?" It was practically a question. "I feel... good about it. Yeah, it's good. Everything worked out really well." There was no emotion attached to my response.

After all, my labor with him was strikingly... normal. Average, in the realm of homebirth and subsequent labors. Different than what I'd experienced in a lot of ways, and at the same time, not that different. What was it about this memoir that was stirring up emotions that I had somehow buried deep into my chest, seemingly without even realizing it?

The year 2020 was hard for everyone, but my hard came from a different place. Yes, the pandemic was stressful to navigate and the entire year felt like an emotional roller coaster - it was certainly the theme of my fourth pregnancy. But pregnancy in general wracks my body with illness, leaving me bedridden and unable to talk, hug my kids, or stand upright in the shower for three to four months, so it wasn't the pandemic that was the hardest. We had already been through isolation & misery during my third pregnancy - it was our normal. It was expected. Of course, this time we had the added stress of the pandemic and constant worry for our high-risk loved ones. 

Here's what was different: for the entirety of my pregnancy, I felt a loneliness I hadn't experienced before. John was unable to come to most of my appointments as he always had with our other babies, and the birth center where we felt safest had half a dozen midwives that cycled through, leaving a gap where before, I had had a close and trusting relationship with my care providers. During my first three pregnancies, visits with my midwives were personable and joy-filled, always lasting an hour or more and taking place in a cozy room of my midwife's home, or a beautiful, sun-filled Victorian-era house converted into a birth center. This time, the visits were short and felt clinical, and took place in a stark, bright room of an office with squeaky floors and silent, focused nurses in scrubs. 

I became fast friends with my midwife who cared for me and River, and of course, she was with me when I gave birth to Austen. And even though I was in a new city across the country when I was pregnant with Chase, I was lucky enough to already know my midwives from the birth center in Texas (they happened to move to Washington around the same time we did). Pregnancy and birth was always a warm, sacred, special experience. During my hardest months, I had the emotional support of my beautiful midwives to guide me and care for me. I sat in plush couches and discussed life with them, I cried with them, I laughed with them. They asked me questions like, "How are you? Not Whitney, the mama - but Whitney, the woman?" They held my hand, both physically and spiritually. Here in Pennsylvania, the midwives were all endearing in their own ways, but I wasn't able to develop any kind of friendship or camaraderie with any of them.

That's why this experience was so entirely different. It felt cold, distant, and clinical. My children couldn't attend appointments because of COVID restrictions. My husband couldn't attend appointments because of his demanding job. My sisters couldn't attend the birth, and even though my dad came to see the baby after he was born, he couldn't even enter the birthing room because of the restrictions in place. A pain tugs at my heart now as I write this, a pain I didn't know existed. And so I will acknowledge it and allow space for it in my experience. 

breathe in. breathe out.

And now, let's begin: eight months ago. The birth. Separate from all that. The beautiful birth of my sweet, quiet, calm, silly, precious Wilder boy.

I will publish part two when I gather the energy in my heart to finish it!

16 months later

What I'm listening to: Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell 

Sixteen months - a pandemic. A pregnancy. A newborn. And toward the end, a single car for a family of six.

There wasn't a desperate need to get John's car fixed since I knew we wouldn't want to be going many places in the dead of winter with a brand-new baby in the midst of a pandemic, but last month we finally did, and since then we have been out of the house nearly every day. I am starving for activity, much like I was starving for delicious food after I was deprived for nine months during my pregnancy with Wilder.

I've been finding such joy is the simplest meals lately. My body craves - endlessly it seems - strawberries, chocolate,

avocado, salmon, toast, eggs, and chai tea. So I eat them. At least one of them, every day. 

There were so many unknowns at the beginning of last spring; it was most disconcerting having no clue how long businesses would be shut down or how long we'd have to go without seeing loved ones. I missed doing simple things, like getting a coffee at Starbucks or walking from shop to tiny shop downtown. Joni said it best - you don't know what you got till it's gone.

And on top of those unknowns, what was most certainly known - that my early pregnancy would all but shackle me to my bed. I missed spring. As in I totally did not see spring last year. I went to my bed one chilly evening at the very beginning of the season before it had yet had a chance to show off, and when I returned to society, it was hot, muggy summer.

I missed the trees' transformation from skeletal and brittle to bursting with leaves like long locks on the heads of old women who know secrets. I missed the cool, blue-bright mornings damp with dew and watery sunlight. And the colorful parade of tulips and daffodils, adding charm to even the most dismal corners of the city. 

I so very missed spring, that this year, with the realization that I hadn't seen spring in two years, it was utterly enchanting. I planted my first garden this year and every sprout and leaf that has burst forth has been met with almost worshipful enthusiasm. How incredible that an entire plant can come from a mere, tiny seed! And I did it! I put that seed in the ground and watered it and talked to it (surely that must have helped) and witnessed its growth! Life is a miracle! 

 

There is just something magical about watching a tiny seed that you planted - you! who always claimed to have a black thumb! - sprout into a baby of a plant to a towering eight-foot flower-tree. (And then something else entirely to see that flower-tree knocked down after a night of wind and hard rain, ripped from its roots before the rest of those baby buds had a chance to open. But that's a sad story, and I'm here to tell a happy one.)

My carrot tops are bushy and untamed, but I'm not sure how many carrots I'll be able to harvest because I forgot to thin them out after planting. (Actually, I forgot to thin out all of my plants, except my cucumbers and squash.) My tomatoes have doubled in the past week - they are out of control! I'm not sure where to even begin in pruning them, but right now their wildness makes me smile. My beans are the infants of the group, reaching spindly arms to whoever or whatever will be strong and sturdy, then growing up and up, kissing the air with delicate white flowers, grateful and smiling.

I know they say not to personify nature, but I find the personification of my garden as my children a delight, pure delight. I find my actual children to be a delight, as well. Motherhood has been sweet.

We have already spent countless days swimming in my parents' pool. I realized a few years ago that I don't actually enjoy swimming, but even I have swam this summer. 

Mixing textures and patterns is one of my favorite aspects of home decor. Metallics, leather, fibers, curling leafy plants. It's something that happens effortlessly and beautifully in nature: the rough bark of trees, crumbly, dark earth, velvety petals of flowers. I think this is why the mixing of different textures works in home decor. We crave what occurs in nature. We are of the earth, after all.

I like how my big girl's long legs match the long limbs of the tree she is hanging out with.

I have plans to visit many parks this summer, although it feels that it is slipping away already, though it is only July. Do we really only have two more months left?

little things lately

mom & dad 

My dad's random visits to see us are a ray of sunshine upon my week. He demands his littlest grandchild in his arms, he rounds up all the walking ones to meander across the street for ice cream - I'm tempted think, oh how this military Chief Master Sargeant has softened through the years, but he's always loved babies.

Every Wednesday, Wilder and I meet my mom at a coffee shop and sit outside on the patio and talk about our heart thoughts lately. This is easily the favorite part of my week and I'm always reminded of how grateful I am for this wonderful woman I get to call my mother and best friend.

persnickety peanut butter 

For a decade I have chosen the no-sugar-added, impossible-to-stir (is that on the label? I feel like this should be on the label) peanut butter because apparently, I love being a healthy food martyr. I imagine the amount of hard, clumpy peanut butter I've thrown away could be measured in pounds, and I've seen many rose-colored suggestions such as, "store the jar upside down!" and, "just use an immersion blender!" Alas, these are but hopeful deceptions that lead you to ponder, maybe it's just me.

No, it's all of us. And now I want to give you the real - and only - solution to this problem. Always have two open jars on hand, using one slightly more often than the other (this works well if you live with a bunch of cavepeople who open new Things before previously opened Thing has been emptied) and when you get to the end of one of them, add the clumpy peanut butter to the newer jar. Then take a fork and break it apart and stir it around to the best of your ability. And there you have it - slightly less clumpy, sort of reconstituted peanut butter. Life-changing.

raising readers

I have been faithfully reading to Wilder since he was three months old, and yesterday was the first day he sat in my lap, still as could be, and gazed at the pictures and seemed to be entertained by the lilt of my voice. I read seven books to him before he grew bored and began arching his back as a means of escape. Of course, my mom mind is already dreaming up all the afternoons we'll spend cuddled together reading Narnia, Harry Potter, Misty, and Jean Craighead George.

little house on the prairie

I bring everything back to the Ingalls family. Ma is practically my personal patron saint of homemaking. If I feel like I am making the same meals again and again, I remind myself that Laura and Mary often ate the same dinner of cornbread, pork, and squash on countless nights. If the kids are complaining about being bored, I remind them that Mary and Laura had no idea what Disney Plus was, and all they had one summer was a corn husk doll and a pig bladder ball. If I'm feeling the slightest guilt over not being the type of mom who sits down and plays with her children (but trust me, this guilt does not surface often) I think of Ma Ingalls. Ma would not fathom playing dolls with her children! Read to them, play games with them, and teach them, yes - but imaginative play, she did not. When the cows needed milking, and the floors needed sweeping, and the wheat needed harvesting? Who could imagine, indeed!

The other day, our power went out for an hour and a half. At first (the narrative always goes), this was met by grumbles and big eyes pooling with tears, asking "what if the power is out for a week? What if I can't fall asleep tonight without white noise? What will we eat for dinner? But tomorrow is media day!" We were practically transported to the 1800s on the prairie. I sat in my rocker (just purchased second hand - how appropriate!) holding the sleeping little one, and tsked my tongue. "You'll just have to think of things to do. We will light candles and play games. We'll have bread and glasses of milk for dinner. Maybe the fireflies will finally come out tonight, and y'all can catch some in a jar - that will be fun!" Inside, I was secretly filled with glee.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), the power eventually came back on, which was met with an equal amount of grumbling as when it went out. But it was an enjoyable 90 minutes of complete quiet, absent even of the hum of a fan or the computer in the next room, and the endless possibilities of what could fill our unplugged hours, our imaginations feeling the expanse left by the vanished boundaries of technology. 

And the fireflies did come out that night.

coffee and flowers

Currently listening to: Haven by Nova Amor

In another life, when we had our water cut off people asked (ever helpful) Well, do you buy coffee or make your own? as if denying myself a $2 cup of coffee once a week would have paid the water bill. If only they knew how those paper cups of coffee (handed to me under the dim, comforting lights of the cafe the hushed murmur of voices the chair's crackled leather seat cool on bare Texas legs) were one of the only things that made me feel human after having to leave the five-dollar package of dishrags back on the shelf at the supermarket because to buy them felt too indulgent. Now I buy paper cups of coffee whenever it suits me but only recently have I allowed myself to buy the flowers. It feels decadent like asking for another slice of chocolate cake or staying out late with a friend without paying attention to the time. There's so much I could say about things like fresh coffee and fresh flowers, but I will start with: when it's hard to go to bed at night because you know you'll have to wake up to another day full of hard things it's okay to do the little things that makes you feel human.

dissonance

my problems now, so trivial:

when they leave the screen door open

welcoming summer's heat

into my air-conditioned home,

and flies that land and vomit

on our fruit bowl

filled with nourishing foods

how unfortunate!

the heat, the flies, the spoiled food.

i trip over shoes in the doorway

dirt and grass clippings gather in the corners

i must mop, yet again!

this woman's work.

mop, sweep, diaper, comfort, cry.

these never-ending, silent expectations

could they ever understand?

we know them as numbers

but she knew them by their names

carefully chosen as she swept a hand over her swollen belly

as knees that dimpled and shook with a first step

as the sweet faces that lit up when offered their favorite food

as deep, brown eyes that cried

liquid and endless

when they fell and scraped an elbow

as hands that held hers

soft and plump and trusting

now they lie in rubble and dust

blood and glass

small, broken bodies

taken for the sake of 

politics and religion 

freedom and control

they are the sacrifices

but she was never offering

this is the dissonance:

sometimes i cry because the living room is a mess

and sometimes i cry because another woman's children are dead

writing poetry

sometimes my words slip out of me -

like petals slip silently through idle fingers

like water trickles over soft beds of moss

like light cascades gold between dark branches 

making dust appear as though fairies have been there

and sometimes

my words feel like

stones being

tossed into

a placid lake

under the 

hot sun

and shadeless 

dead tree

or like the

awkward silence

after an argument 

with a person

you haven't

loved long

she's a reader

I was recently listening to an episode of What Should I Read Next in the shower (as one does) in which the guest was describing herself as a slow reader: She said some things along the lines of, "I relish books. I like to savor the words. If I find a sentence beautiful I want to go back and reread it. I will reread the entire sentence to consider its full context." 

I thought, that's me! That's why I am a slow reader.

I am a very slow reader, but I've always reluctantly given this information in a self-deprecating way. I am a slow reader, so it takes me forever to get through a book. I am a slow reader, so I don't read nearly as many books as my reader friends can in a year. I am a slow reader, because I have such a hard time focusing, even on books I love. But this guest was talking about her slow reading in a positive light: Savor. Beautiful. Relish. 

And it led me to think: what other neutral characteristics do I have that I tend to diminish, or that lead me to think poorly of myself? What if I look at these character traits as good things, rather than negative - what if I look at them as God-given? As aspects of my personality that God sprinkled in because he thought, "this will make an interesting human!"

She will so enjoy reading that she will want to savor every word. She will re-read sentences just because they are beautiful. She will only read a few books a year, but those books will touch her heart and bring light to her life. They will form her. Yes, she's a reader.

my pen, the butterfly

Flitting from thought to thought,
each a distraction,
barely pressing tiny feet upon one petal
before floating off to another,

sometimes pausing just long enough
to sip from the nectar -
its sustenance, joy of its existence.
But it is tossed by the gentlest breeze.

How many times do I try to catch it!
Cupping my hands upon emptiness,
swinging my net toward air,
but my net is frayed and torn,
my hands, too clumsy and slow
and sometimes, the butterfly's flight too lofty and bold.

It becomes a speck as it gets lost in
the endless indigo sky.

I sit defeated with chin in hand
and all around me: the warm summer air,
the silence, but for the rustling of leaves,
the poignant perfume of a million flowers,
the worm's work below, secretive, 

beckoning roots to reach deep
into dark, rich soil,
and raise flowery heads high toward the sun,
wings spread as if in flight,
mimicking perfectly the dearest hobby of their friend,
the butterfly.

I am awed by their ability to persuade it
just by being,
just by showing off their gaudy colors
and casting fragrance that collides into passing olfactory nerves
without even asking.

They are still,
confident in their calling
to merely sit with the silence
and accept with openness
those tiny feet
and curling tongues.

So I wait like the flowers.
I let the breeze stir my whisps of hair,
lick my lips and feel it cool upon them.
I consider the heat, the rustle, the worm -
the beauty of these simple things
that ask for no attention,
but just be what they are meant to be.
I rest, silent and unassuming

and upon my knee! - a butterfly:
timid, accidental
mistaking me for a flower.

I need not net nor hands,
just stillness and breath
And my colors
(which come naturally).
Nature calls her to be bold in flight, 
I must be bold in trust.

This is what I am made for -
just as the flower is made for the butterly,
and the butterfly for the flower.
Now I know.

And so it is with this knowing
that I walk into an open field,
root myself in soil and sun
and become a dandelion.

sunflowers and thistles

What I'm listening to: Cover Me in Sunshine by Pink and Willow Sage

hearts that are content
don't wander to greener sides
analyzing nuances of grass length 
and soil quality
or compare spots of sun and shade
determining whether it is preferable that
sunflowers or thistles grow there, that
moths or butterflies land there
(only that they do)

reading is rest

I go through seasons when it is really hard for me to sit in stillness and read. Not just because I have four kids and stillness is in short supply around here (it is) - but even after all the small humans have been tucked into bed and kissed on the head, I tend to scroll mindlessly through Instagram or Facebook rather than nestle into the corner of my overstuffed couch with a book.

Even if we don't think of social media as particularly relaxing, it's what many of us choose to engage in during our still moments; perhaps this is *because* we think of it as mindless. I once read an article that explained that even though reading a book (as opposed to skimming an online article) takes more sustained attention, a study showed that the brain is much calmer after 15 minutes of novel-reading, versus 15 minutes on social media. Reading actually provides our brains REAL rest, while mindless scrolling through social media provides a false sense of relaxation, though parts of our brain are in overdrive!

I have been trying to sit down for a few minutes every day to read. I love audiobooks and know they are just as valuable to my reading life as a physical book (and I have Words about how discriminating against audiobooks is elitist and actually ableist), but it's what I choose to do during my still moments that is in question here: will I waste precious energy on my phone, or will I pick up a book, knowing that the book is actually doing my mind some good?

Treat yoself by sitting down with a book today. Offer your mind a chance to rest and be still. 

my boy

what I'm listening to: Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson

my
gummy-grin-and-drooly-chinned,
smiles-only-now-and-then,
don't-you-dare-put-me-down
boy 

my
curls-dark-and-soft-as-silk,
smells-of-sleep-and-sweat-and-milk,
belly-warm-and-soft-and-round
joy

my
tubby-toed and ticklish-thighed,
kissed-his-girl-and-made-her-cry,
no-mercy-on-this-mama's-heart
son

my
ever-reason-to-write-a-song,
haven't-i-known-you-all-along,
wishing-will-not-pause-this-part
last one

poetry tea time

Afternoons are for tea and poetry,
A sip of words and wit.
The silver will be polished
and the beeswax candles lit.

Fetch Mama's floral table cloth,
Grandma's dainty cups,
The brand-new teapot Daddy bought,
And fill the kettle up!

Shake out embroidered napkins
And lay them for us three.
Gather yellow daisies from the yard
with purple chicory.

The milk glass vase is found
Among cobwebs beneath the sink.
Fill it from the tap and give
The flowers something cool to drink.

Fumble through the books
that line the bookshelf walls.
Frost, Wheatley, Dickinson -
Our friends have come to call!

The smell of sugared scones
Wafting through the air
And the whistle from the kettle
Beckons us to our chairs.

Chamomile, my dear, or would you
like to taste the chai?
Will milk and honey do, my dear?
Does lemon satisfy?

Chatter, like a smile:
Pass the cream! Pass the jelly!
Teaspoons clink, teacups clatter,
We begin to fill our bellies.

Then, soft words ask for silence.
A cadence, like a song,
A rhythm without music -
My tongue plays along!

Page by page, line by line,
We pick our favorite verse.
The ones that feel like home,
The ones we have rehearsed.

A spill upon the tablecloth
The candle's melting low
Baby's lids grow heavy
And the tea no longer flows.

Smokey curls from candlesticks
Crumbs upon the floor,
Honey-laden finger
And a heart that's full, once more.

watercolor eggs

 

I've seen these beautiful watercolor Easter eggs floating around Pinterest, achieved by rolling the eggs around in shaving cream and several drops of food coloring, but the idea of using shaving cream was kind of icky to me, since egg shells are porous. So I googled to see if the project would be successful using cool whip, and sure enough! (I figured real whipped cream would probably destabilize.)

I soaked the hardboiled eggs in vinegar and water for about 10 minutes, then dried each one off before rolling it around in the whip. We used two 8 oz. containers of whipped topping and several drops of food coloring. I made sure to put colors that would look okay mixed beside each other, to avoid brown or gray eggs: yellow, then red, then blue, then green.

We are so pleased with the final product! They all have lovely pastel colors. Afterward, the kids dipped strawberries in the leftover cool whip and uhh.. hey, I'm not saying I'm judging but... I'm judging.

I have my Papa's eyes

What I'm listening to: Duet by Rachael Yamagata and Ray Lamontagne 

I have my Papa's eyes
My Papa's eyes live on in me, my sister, my father,
my son and my daughter.
I wear them with pride, my favorite part of me
I wink and peek and peer into the mirror 
And see his eyes wink back at me,
That mischievous smile he wore 
When he teased me 
"I am going to hang you by your ears!"
I giggle and picture my ears all stretched out,
hung by clothespins
on my grandmother's line,
alongside the white sheets and beach towels
breezy and billowing
and smelling warm like sunshine.

I have my Papa's eyes
and every sunrise I see reminds me of him.
"Can we watch the sunrise together, Papa?"
He gently wakes me while it is still dark.
He makes orange smoothies,
juice and berries and vanilla ice cream,
a perfect breakfast
in a color that matches the spilled creamsicle of the sun.
We set beach chairs side by side on his green lawn,
the cool morning-misty air kisses our skin,
we are met by his nodding flowers,
those that he so lovingly grew,
red and purple and white and blue.

I have my Papa's eyes, but I wish I had his thumbs as well.
They were green and from them, miracles sprouted
splashing color and painting life
onto his plain dirt patch in the suburbs.
He introduces us, 
teaches me each name,
crushes delicate petals under fingertips
and beckons me to breathe in the scent
of rosemary, sage, mint,
aloe, rose, petunias, and honeysuckle sweet.
Don't step in the ivy,
for it is there that the snakes find their hiding places.
We eat Chinese plums from the tree with wide, stiff leaves and he says
here, let's plant this one.
Put it in the ground and see what will happen.
So I pick a spot in the sun
right next to the clothesline with the billowing sheets.
He made me believe in the miracles I hold in my own hands.
It is my tree, and it grows,
its branches splayed.
It is stout and wide,
with a perfect branch for sitting
and perfect plums for eating
under the blinding summer sun.
While eyes are inherited, maybe green thumbs are not,
but someday I hope to whisper to the heavens,
see Papa? I have made my own garden,
with the miracles in my hands,
and it was inspired by you 
and your love for all things
that grow and blossom
and shade and heal
and offer beauty to the world

He asked me to sing him a song,
and when I sang
he lifted his hands toward heaven and closed his eyes
and cried.
I'll never forget.
It was a song I'd sung a hundred times before
and a hundred times since
but it will always mean something different to me now, forever.
How great is our God
who created my Papa's gentle gray eyes,
his strong hands and miracle thumbs,
his deep caramel skin, his creativity and his wit,
his Spanish tongue and playful smile,
and the legacy he left,
as a man who saw an angel and believed
that he was created for better things.

in-between

What I'm listening to: Stable Song by Gregory Alan Isokov

I don't need to tell you that the older you get, the faster the years go by. I am left breathless by them, all at once dazzled and frightened by time. The other day Austen said, "I can't wait until Wilder can crawl!" and I replied, "But we don't want to wish away the time we have now, because he'll never be this little again. Just like we'll never hold tiny, 6-pound Wilder again, we'll never again have a chance to enjoy him as a little 3-month-old who needs to be carried everywhere and can't roll over or crawl yet. He'll never be this small again!" I could see the recognition of that truth in her eyes. (Just a few days later, he started rolling over like a pro.)

So it's with this lens that I've been perceiving our days lately. Knowing that in a blink (one blink is approximately ten years - I know this because I have had a 10-year-old and will have another by the years' end, so I am an expert at blinks) I will have two adult children. I remember when my sister Sky was a baby, I would take the ten years between us and come up with a timeline in my head, complete with little embellishments: someday I'll be 22 and Sky will be 12 - maybe I'll be a mommy. We will go shopping together and I'll help her do her hair. And just like that, it happened. In a single blink.

At times I consider Charlotte Mason's words that children are born "whole persons," and I wonder at the little humans my babies are, the memories they will hold someday as adults. I know I feel the same as I did as a child, some of my memories feeling existing as vividly as what I wore yesterday, or just as significant as how I feel presently, which is hungry at 3:10 pm on a Sunday afternoon while my big kids play video games and the tiny one sleeps beside me. Will I remember this moment ten years in the future? Will my babies? How will they judge me as a parent when they have had the life experience and analytical skills to do so? At what point will I shift in their minds from "best mama ever" to "she could have done better"? 

Sometimes I think about the moments I value now and compare them to the moments I cherish from my early years as a mother, and that helps to ground myself when I'm feeling as though I'm floundering through motherhood. Often, it is not what I think is so important at the present time, but those little in-between moments that end up being the ones I'd most love to preserve. I believe it's those moments that affect my children the most, as well. After all, aren't most of our beloved memories from childhood the seemingly mundane ones? The afternoons exploring grandma's backyard, cuddling up to Mom in the bentwood rocking hair, sunrises and orange juice smoothies with grandpa. And so, how I wrap our mundane moments, whether in harried stress or gentle grace, will determine the value of my children's lasting memories.

I asked River to take a picture of me and Wilder this morning. I take a lot of selfies with the baby, mostly as proof of how small he is in my arms, but there's a quiet magic that's lost in the eye contact, the awareness of when the picture is taken, and the outstretched arm at the edge of the frame. I want a record of how we spend the in-between moments, curled up together, with me either trying to memorize his baby smell or trying to let him know the depth of my love by the number of kisses I place on his silky head.

We are inspired to make our days magical by the likes of Pinterest and Instagram, but what a big undertaking! Sometimes the demands are too much. But what if the magic lies in-between moments, rather than the curated ones? It it these I will remind myself to appreciate today. They are valuable and full of potential. They will never be big and sparkly... rather, they are quiet, unassuming, and sometimes magical.

time

What I'm listening to: Older Chests by Damien Rice

My children's hands
once plump and dimpled at the knuckles
round ball of dough
warm and soft and little
their passive weight
like a feather in mine,
Now slender, with distinguishable fingers
know their own way
push and pull with confidence
peanut-buttery
keeper of tree-climbing bravery
and musical creativity
dancing over piano keys.

My children's heads,
once milky from nightly cuddles
slick from hands constantly caressing
silky, dark, downy hair
like the fur of a rabbit
Now course like mine
an art form, an expression of ever-changing self
ruffled rather than caressed
damp along the brow
and needing daily reminders,
you are big now, please take a shower

My children's legs,
once wrapped in rolls
like a chunk of chuck wrapped in twine,
fatty and delicious
graciously accepting of nibbles
and ticklish behind the knees
Now lean and long and strong
voracious speeder 
trying to catch the end of their energy
trying to leap upon the gust of wind
which will surely send them flying

It's as if time gifts me with a new child -
And every day I am grateful 
But the door is locked
and I can only peer in through windows.
A place I've been to, yet can never go back

the coffee mug my grandma gave me

What I'm listening to: The Mandalorian by Ludwig Göransson

Eighteen years ago, my grandma picked up a mug at a little shop she was perusing with my mom and held it up to her. "Do you think she would like this?" On it was a vintage illustration of a little yellow-haired girl standing in front of a red heart with the words, "I'll always stand up for you, Valentine."

"Yes! Whitney would love that!"

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes, that is her style! She loves anything vintage like that."

She ended up buying that mug for me and gifting it to me for my birthday. That was the year we moved to Florida; we actually arrived on my birthday, our family of six packed into a white minivan, and it goes down in history as my "worst birthday ever." I had left my home, my friends, the boy I liked who said he liked me back. I was terribly sad, and angry at anyone who dared breathe in my direction. (My sisters and I have talked about how fifteen is the hardest teen year. There's just something about it.)

Shortly after that move, my grandma was diagnosed for a second time with breast cancer, the diagnosis that would take her through a two-year battle against the disease that ultimately ended her life on earth two months before my 17th birthday. 

My grandma, who was lovingly known as Mimi to her grandchildren (courtesy of two-year-old Whitney) was the best kind of human. She was a beautiful, friendly, extroverted, open, silly, easy-going, kind woman who had so much love in her heart for everyone around her. As a young woman, she longed to be a model (one of my favorite pictures of her is one where she is about 17 years old, posing with her foot pointed, wearing a classy late-50s ensemble complete with large curls in her hair and a pencil skirt), but doubted herself because of her lazy eye that was the result of having to wear an eye patch as a toddler, and so went to cosmetology school instead, and was a preschool teacher in her later years. She was a fierce prayer-warrior, lover of home decor, and a ray of sunshine. Sixteen years after her passing, I can still hardly think of her without tears springing to my eyes as I regret her absence all these years. I wish my husband could have met her, that my children could love her. 

This mug has always been special to me, as it was the last thing she personally picked out for me. And for that reason, it has sat up in my cabinets all this time. I was too afraid to touch it. Too afraid to handle it, wash it, drink from it, not wanting to imagine my heartache if it broke. With each move, I wrapped it so carefully that it became an unrecognizable mound of paper and tape, and then unwrapped it and placed it up in its cabinet once we were settled in our new place, where it would sit in darkness and collect dust. But it occurred to me the other day that I've had it for almost twenty years and have only handled it with fear. Every time I look at it, it reminds me of my dearest Mimi, yet I hardly ever looked upon it because it was up in the highest cabinet in my kitchen, safe from harm!

So I took it down, washed it out, and poured myself some hot green tea with honey and oat milk. Wilder slept for two hours as I read a book, the sun pouring through the windows on that bright January morning. For what was perhaps the first time, I truly enjoyed that sweet mug given to me by Mimi almost twenty years ago. 

I am no longer afraid - but it's about more than a mug. It's symbolic of some very tangible choices I have been making lately. I am choosing to be unafraid of starting. Unafraid of using the resources I have, creating beautiful things, unafraid of writing down the words that flutter around my brain almost constantly. For years I've stopped myself from taking steps or making choices for fear that I'll fail, that I'll not be as good as the next creator, that people will believe my words to be fluffy and pointless, or that I'll regret opening my heart and baring my soul to the world. 

I am so tired of that. So over it. I'm 33 this year and feel good about that! I am so grateful for the life I've been given, for the fact that all of my loved ones are healthy, safe, and whole, and that there is so much about living that I enjoy. I am ready to let go - to live out loud and have not a care how anyone else perceives my art, whether it's writing or painting or weaving or what-have-you. That's what I love most about this life - creating. I need to do it every day to feel alive, and I will do it, and I will share it. Not because I believe my work to be unique or revolutionary or inspiring, but because it makes me feel alive.

I am taking my creativity out of its dark cabinet.
I am dusting it off and drinking it in,
and living it where people can see.

a warm drink

What I'm listening to: Either Way by Wilco

It fills my insides,

and sends the icy tendrils of winter

running its fingernails

up my neck and scalp

as heat moves through my tunnels.

It sends shivers to my knees,

I must be steaming from the inside out.

all you need is a tree

What I'm listening to: New Slang by The Shins

all you need is a tree

and an open field

and a wide, gray sky

and a warm sweater

and lowered expectations

and the lack of stern voices

telling you to

be still

be obedient 

be quiet

be calm

think outside the box

get outside that box

get outside!

cast your wiggles into the open air

tell the birds of your heartache

see if your voice can reach the tops of the clouds,

go ahead, I won't stop you.

you want to rip it apart,
this wild chaos

in your fingers and toes

your muscles and bones

your skin and your brain,

how they itch!

but it's the scratch of the tree limb under your grasp

the wind biting the life back into your cheekbones

and your lungs filling with icy air

(deep breath. full chest.

can you feel it in there?)

that will put you back together,

stitch by stitch.

I'm sorry for all the things I've told you to be,

when all you really needed was a tree.