january in montana

The ice is thick in front of my house
deer hover together,
hoard the single patch of grass,
stare us down as if to say
I dare you,
you're on my turf now,
we walk up the slick hill
toes burrow into hints of dirty snow,
each move calculated, focused and
we talk and talk
debrief the two weeks apart,
I tell of sand and waves,
the little apartment by the sea and
how Eliana would walk to the tienda in the mornings,
safe to cross the cobblestones for
fresh eggs as we watch our feet
and a bald eagle,
huge, white and shining
sweeps right past our heads,
I've never seen one so close before,
he dares us to stop.
I smile into the eyes of my beautiful friends
Robyn tells us that when we see an eagle that close
it places reminds us how close we are
to the divine.
At the peace sign we look out over the valley,
I tell them about the mama and baby whale
their little show on our last sunset,
and the ridiculouly small sea turtles,
the way they made their perilous waddle down
the clean, raked sand,
and I feel so full
even though it's hard in the cold,
even though life is work,
I love this valley,
I love my girls,
my students,
my children,
my husband,
my home.
Really,
the divine
abounds.

little surfer

san pancho

On the last morning of the trip
the rooster's crow
peck around sand and debris,
a hammer rhythmic with
varying degrees of commitment,
Spanish voices blend with
birds and bass,
thatched palm roof above,
a steeple to blue sky,
vines twist to support us,
driftwood pillars,
a terracotta vase,
eggplant walls and
faded wisteria,
coconuts green and tiny,
their strange spindly stalks,
the rooster's again,
sun moving higher in the sky,
catches my cheek,
splays across this page
like another
unexpected gift.

 

Then there's the morning

when you know

you've finally slept,

no Mexican polka,

pounding bass,

motorcicletas,

mufflers,

the night was quiet

like the inside of waves,

quiet like your children

in the mornings,

the way they move into you,

full lips and full arms,

they're getting so big,

and day after day you

marvel at not much else,

the sea, perhaps,

a bite of raw fish,

but rally,

it's them,

the way silent freckles

spread slowly across noses,

so soft and light,

the way you can see now

what they'll look like

her ribs and breasts

outlined in slick, pale nylon,

his words and ideas

that form like soft, tropical rain,

a breeze you didn't expect.

We laugh again,

hold hands down hot sand,

race back and forth as

swells build like

the unexpected,

and he pads out.

Snuggle me,

lay with me.

Oh babe.

I love you so much I could explode.

You could only explode yourself wif a bomb.

Or I could just explode inside,

for pretend,

with happiness.  

II.

He's the king of a hidden cave,
his servant, a hermit crab,
moving fast.  They stare intently
at the crevices in rock,
a yellow butterfly flits past
and pelicans with equal parts
effort and calm,
guard the castle,
the boy's voice echoes through
eroded spaces as he
finds the babies and
the baby's babies,
miniature spirals sway softly
if you take the time
to watch.

creating tradition

It's a quiet Sunday morning.  The snow is falling softly outside my window.  I'm alone in the house.  My music, my candles, my coffee.  I danced my little heart out last night and my neck and shoulders, hips and knees are feeling the aftermath of supreme joy.  I'm thinking about this season and what it all means.

When Eliana was first born, I was so excited to host Christmas.  I was so thrilled when I had our family's stockings made, elated when my mama passed down a set of our traditional Nutcrackers for my own collection.  I think we had, like, four ornaments that year.  It was sweet and simple, a tree cut in snowy woods, a toddler with wild curls and Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast, just like my mama did on Christmas. 

I had only one little taste of the metallic bitter that year -- it was when I decided that Eliana needed a full stocking.  My parents did an amazing job with our stockings.  There were so freaking many of us and my favorite part of Christmas morning was seeing all nineteen or so of those stockings stuffed full with, well, stuff.  My mom would buy some token little things and my dad would always put in random packets of Advil and Tylenol sent to him by the drug companies (I think one year there was even tiny vials of Vicodin...hmmm...).  Anyway, there was something magical about those stockings.  So I went for it.

I went for the first, and only time, to the Dollar Store.  I bought thirty dollars worth of random plastic crap to fill up Eliana's stocking.  And on Christmas morning, within about thirty seconds, that random plastic crap had been dumped on the floor, left for the landfill.  Holiday ick number one.

I felt it again last night, like a heavy wave of nauseating, this is just not right.  Jeff's mama had done a stupendous job picking out just the right presents for the kiddos.  We made the mistake of opening them before dinner.  And the kids were hungry.  So when it was time for honey baked ham and potatoes, Soli freaked.  Freaked.  Refused to eat, refused to sit properly, yelled and screamed.  Jeff responded with a hard hand.  And our early Christmas dinner was screwed.  Eliana and I got that scared, oh no they're fighting look.  Nana and Elie and I tried to make positive chit chat while the boys' yelled from the bedroom.  It was awful.  Really bad.

And I'm not going to now blame Christmas or consumerism. 

I swear.

This is not the first time that Solomon has behaved this way.  In fact, any time there is stuff involved, preferably cheap plastic crap, Soli's doomed for the dark side.  He's that kid.  His sister has yet to ask for a single thing for Christmas.  She's just not really a toy girl.  She likes books and art supplies and clothes, but give her a chance to pick any toy off the shelf and it's hours of indecision and frustration. Soli wants everything.  Everything.  And then some.  And it usually involves, eventually, some form of screaming and threats (...if you don't buy me that sword I won't be your friend for eighty days). 

So when you have a kid who is already predisposed to the gimmies, a holiday that highlights our greediest selves gives me a bit of pause.  What can I do to help guide this holiday so that I'm proud of the traditions of our family.  So there is a sense of peace and goodwill and giving back.

As far as peace goes, leaving the country and heading to a tiny fishing village on the Bahia de Banderas seems like a good start.  There are no parking garages or malls, no things to return and no last minute holiday steals.  We've told the kids that this trip is their present.  Of course, I'm bringing the stockings and, of course, I will give them some things to open on Christmas morning.  But I really, really want to try to be mindful about this stuff.  I want them to have a sense of calm on Christmas, a sense of cohesion.  Maybe going far, far away is not the best answer every year, but, for now, with my four year old and his ridiculousness, with my deep sense of shame and frustration when he behaves this way, perhaps removing him is the best bet.  You don't bring an alcoholic into a bar, right?  

I can't decide what I want for my kiddos right now.  Each Christmas we've had has been distinctly different, special and unique in it's own way.  Perhaps whatever it is, I just need to be thoughtful about what I want the message to be.  I want them to see the spirit of giving and gratitude.  I want them to feel secure and warm and surrounded by people who love them.  I want them to see that our gift is being together, of having each other, the simple experience of another season on this beautiful, kind earth. 

away

On the Montana highline, the mountains finally emerge, snowcapped and massive like a universe that's suddenly landed from some unknown galaxy, all sharp points and unknown places.  The plains lay out before us, endless and unreal.  There is nothing, anywhere.  No humans or buildings or interferences.  We are one house of lights down a dark road and children spill, their voices ring through wild games while their parents laugh and sing, share stories and work through meal after meal, each dish another opportunity for communion.  This may be the biggest gift of being together in this far away place, land untouched except by wind, a piercing wind, that croons through our days.

And the rainbow.  She lasted for two days.  The children wanted to know where she went when the snow finally came...

We Can Only Imagine

I was born at the end
of winter's breath,
spring a
sweet taste on my tongue,
something to anticipate,
the blinding hospital lights
a beacon,
a full moon,
linoleum slick like sea glass,
the silver of stirrups,
a cold ocean foam,
her breath heavy and controlled.

Up Angeles Crest,
coyotes howled for tomorrow
and south,
towards shore,
a single jellyfish rose softly,
her transparent limbs
nothing but hope,
a phosphorescent glow
spinning gracefully
towards home.

lice and hunting in Montana

It’s a gray, Missoula Sunday.  My husband woke at an ungodly hour in search of elk that supposedly bugle somewhere up Rock Creek.  My four year old found me a few hours later, asking to snuggle.  Instead of holding him like I longed to, I reminded him about the lice, made him go to the other side of the bed and strip the sheets back, throw the pillow to the floor.  I then adjusted my shower cap.

It’s been a really long, hard week.

My husband and I are both educators.  We have two small children who attend the same school where we both work.  This week was parent/teacher conferences, meaning early mornings, late afternoons and very focused, intense conversations.  Lice has been circling through the school as it tends to do.  My husband, ever the vigilant Virgo, has been sure we’ve had it countless times.  He was finally right.

So here’s where I am today.  Full of gratitude that it’s only lice, absolutely exhausted because the little things that I count on — the ability to get into a cozy bed at night, hang up my coat, brush my hair, take a bath with my children — can’t be had right now.  I have done more laundry than I ever imagined possible, watched my daughter scream as my husband painstakingly works through her thick, tangled curls in search of microscopic mites.

On top of this, we’ve had two dead deer hanging in our garage, begging, ever so pathetically, hauntingly, to be dealt with.  My man still hasn't finished the butchering of one and now he’s off for more.  Yes, this is Montana. Yes, we appreciate the meat.  But shoot.  I just want a little down time.  What’s up with all the random creatures?

My son calls from the other room, wants me to see his new castle.  My daughter comes in to my sacred space and finds an old stick of incense, lights it on the wick of my candle and starts dancing around like she’s at some weird, trippy rave.  She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I’m trying to take a writing class.  I suggest she put down the fire stick and do something equally creative.  They are now sitting on the kitchen counter with uncapped markers, old rolls of tape and paper scraps.  I appreciate their creativity.  And then I think about how I just swept that area of floor.

My sparkle feels a bit dim now.  I feel overworked and run down.  I feel raw and exhausted and on edge.  Now my son wants me to help him re tape his sculpture and my daughter has unrolled my yoga mat right next to me.

I want them to do something fabulous and productive and educational and independent.  I don't want to worry about anything other than love in their heads.  I want to sit and write and stretch and go for a long hike in the woods alone. 

But, alas, this is the moment I have.