Sunday, August 7, 2016

August Sunday

This first August Sunday is overcast and cool.  The breeze off my deck reminds me of the coast, of the sea and I want to sip chai and write poems and go deep.  It's been a summer full of blessings.  It truly has.  I'm staring down the last week at home.  The last lazy week of easy mornings, pancakes and movies and books, bike rides and creek time, spontaneous playdates and Hamilton sing alongs.  Eliana is sleeping like a teenager -- it's 10:18 and she's still in bed.  I love it when I hear her door creak, the sound of her fan grows louder, and she slides down the hall, all hot breath and matted hair, all sleepy eyes and warm skin.  I don't want to think about how the transition to the school year will go, all the rushing and chaos, all the loud voices and energy from so many humans with so many needs.  Deep breath.  Some moments to hang on to:

July and Eliana's 9th birthday.  A trip to the Farmer's market, then to the mall for ear piercing, up to Snowbowl for a chairlift ride and pizza freak out.  It was so lovely having Alison and Kent here to help celebrate.  










A camping weekend on the Rocky Mountain Front with Bobby, Jo and the boys.  The kiddos and the river.  The kiddos and their sticks.  The kiddos and how they fall into their own groove in nature that is unlike anything else. 










And then the simple days.  Just moving slow and finding ourselves in new and beauteous spots.  Or old and beauteous spots.  How we all shift and change and the creek gets lower, their bodies longer, the days shorter and the light so very full.




Friday, July 15, 2016

nine

How wild it is to even type that huge number in as a title.  Nine.  Tomorrow my girl turns nine.  Nine!  I think about the years that I've covered in this sacred space.  How I needed my words and photos to hold on to it all, to make sense of something so sensational, so foreign, so tremendous. 

Now she's huge.  She's strong and confident and kind.  She's adventurous and empathetic and bikes down the hill to the market on her own.  She is a believer, a feeler, an artist -- ever the Cancer, wild water spirit.  Today she wanted to make fairy houses in the forest with her two closest friends.  They gathered moss and stones, leaves and bark, creating careful arrangements.  For her real birthday she wants a family day with her auntie and uncle from out of town, with the farmer's market and some time outside.  Oh, and the mall.  With the ear piercing at the mall.  Alas.  We've surrendered to studs. 






Sunday, July 10, 2016

down time

Solomon and Eliana are big fans of the term "down time."  Usually the term references their desire to watch a movie and relax, but today it serves as a perfect metaphor for our June foray to Mexico.  It was down time in the very best sense of the word.  Down time in the sea.  Down time eating meals together and playing Solomon's invented game, "Blow that Dough."  Down time using our Spanish and making new friends.  Down time eating tacos, sipping tequila, jumping in the pool.  Down time.  Down time all the way.




From my journal, June 13th:

Children and pools and a marine layer make
for a fantastic start to a Monday, a body
slowed by sun and sand,

the thrilling realization that all I must do
is right here -- this book and pen, these kids and their shouts,
this sea and her waves,

this is all and I sigh with gratitude because 
this is absolutely everything.






During the big storm, mangoes fly from trees,
litter the street like migrating crabs,
like post-party detritus, like golden orbs
open for business, homes to colonies of bees,
to our barefeet and beggar hands.
We scoop them from potholes and cobblestones,
peel back their thin skins and 
suck them dry; mangoes gathered in 
buckets and bins, mangoes beneath
fallen street lamps, mangos caught
in palm fronds.  Long and languid, the trees
are still heavy, luxurious and immediate.
Mamas gather mangoes for
their babies while chickens peck
mango through sticky pulp.  
From the window, I watch
the old donkey slip mangoes from the crate,
mango juice drips down his smile,
he bends for another.



Hermit crabs scuttle across the sand
if you watch a bit, you'll see, they're everywhere,
always moving, fast then slow, reminding us 
that nothing is as it seems.
Colors of sand and stone, burnt seaweed 
white bits of fishbone, the children build them
a school.  The ones who don't stay seated
go to detention in the principal's office,
a long, sandy trench.  For hours they chase them back,
reprimand them, gather more, little pinchers and
long feelers, so sneaky and restless.