Kid #kid

my kid is sitting at the table in the kitchen. He is turning seventeen tomorrow. Seventeen.

I’m astounded. I tried to type astonished, but astounded is so much better. it reverberates.

My age, his age, the time that has passed by while he has been growing and learning and changing. Man, so much change in these years. I throw sideways glances at him to catch the rumors of whats going on at any given moment. Looking too directly is a snap-back guarantee. Its a flip of the leaf with him, the back and forth of growth, the pale green underside as he moves into manhood in fits and starts. There is a long way to go, yes.

He’s slightly sunburnt, his hair over his eyebrows starting its path to bleached. He’s the dream of boys and girls everywhere, the adonis who spends his days skimboarding and jumping off boats. When he works, he tempts wedding guests with hors d’oeurves. Eventually he’ll understand the power of his looks, but it is not yet. He is literally the open-faced, open-hearted joy child in this house. He’s kind, and thinks of others often, especially young ones. Oh boy.

I love all of my kids uniquely. Today the first one is having his last day of sixteen. It feels big. tree-like.

It is beautiful to watch. I can’t believe how damn lucky I am to have been his mother.

(and uh, to keep being his mother, you know. )

LOVE LOVE, everywhere.


under construction

What are you doing to improve yourself? I am betwixt and between on this one, because I’m still actively ‘raising’ kids and I am trying to teach THEM to strive to be better, etc. and God knows, the world needs work too. What am I doing to leave things better than i found them? It’s a query, an active search for justification of myself, in my entirety.

There’s something common in it, like all the ‘wellness’ crap, love yourself first. Secure your own oxygen. It’s true, yes, and I don’t fight against it. I guess I start by noticing, right? Noticing where we stretch thin, where we are disappointed by ourselves.

For one, I’ve been highly reactive with the kids lately. My reaction time to kid-squabble-teen-bitchery is unbeatable. There is nothing faster, literally. My mouth and mother-hat are tilting wildly at windmills. At speed, mind you, which does not mesh well with health and wellness.

I need to slow down. Take a breath, ask a question, maybe ignore something. Ignoring things is a highly underestimated parenting tool. Says I, the deaf one, who inadvertently ignores a lot. Though, to be true, its not technically ignoring, if I have no idea what is going on.

Which brings me to stretchy spot number two: I had an experience this week where I was trying to explain my hearing to someone who was irritated by it. I mean. . . it wasn’t even a kid. but whatever. I had to explain how deeply exhausting it is to listen to someone with my whole entire body. Sometimes I need to stop staring at their lips, because I just can’t handle it. I look away, but it doesn’t mean that my one good ear isn’t still functioning. They were getting mad that I wasn’t ‘listening’. Insert eyeroll here, an infuriated one.

Its resolved, for me, because I talked about it. I don’t think anything will change about their irritation level. but again, whatever. Its that little improvement, for me, pride in standing up for myself, taking the space and the time to talk rather than shrink into my ‘failures’. Remembering how much work I’ve done.


Building up over here, building up.

photo of people on building under construction
Photo by Igor Starkov on


up and down.

i woke up with a headache in the middle of the night. took some medicine and went back to bed, only to have the stupidest dream ever with so many little beautiful bittersweet details; I woke up angry and depressed about my inability to move away from the old stuff. The house i was in belonged to my ex. I’m not sure why i was there, but it ended with my screaming about him having a beautiful life because mine was sacrificed for it. I wasn’t even screaming at him, I was just screaming.

hooowee. thats fun. Fantastic way to wake up. Still have the damn headache too.

but, the house was beautiful, so much so… and full of beautiful things. I loved it, there were characters all over the place, beautiful people, outfit changes. it was a franny and zooey thing, a gatsby thing, a period piece absolutely resonating with the energy of my beloved mother-in-law. Opulence, decadence, lavishness. In every corner was something you could get lost in. Tiny meditation spots, tapestry, corners and nooks and books and things of metal and mahogany. Candlelight and natural light and colors and layer upon layer of art, all of it. Embroidery, Noel, so much embroidery. There were winding stairs and linens and conversations all around. It was her, in house form.

Her son was there in all his glory, the outfit changes were his. It was sour for me, all in all, and I think i’m upset about the sourness. I wish I could go back and ignore the man for all the wonder of the place. I look around my house that I love, and I love it, and it is far too sprawling to have that level of decoration. It would eat me alive. But I miss and crave my mother-in-law. Her love for her people was lavish, and decadent. And I miss that. The entire dream may have been much more about grief than I initially thought. Her son just the clown of old costumes.

And I am alive.

I have not been sacrificed in a failed marriage. I am alive, and some might say I am thriving. Working my ass off in doubtful causes, but splendidly spilling over with life. . . Am i the set designer or am I a player? I don’t really know honestly. I certainly spend a lot of time accommodating changes in the script.

But that’s the game, isn’t it? Everything always changes, because people don’t stay on script. ever. neither does anything else. not the animals, the weather, the patterns of the clouds, nothing. There is no script, and we’re all strutting and fretting. (well, i’m fretting. )


Here’s to finding more opulence in our lives, finding the beauty that already surrounds us, and not being afraid of clowns.




Believe me. It’s everywhere.

what is wrapping you up?

i’m a big fan of fall and winter, and even cold, wet spring. big. big fan.

and i am pretty certain it has to do with snuggling up. what makes me cozy in those times is absolutely everything. children, blankets, food… you name it, it works.

and when it is summer, and the heat the heat and the no air conditioning? and now, the working outside, and the frequent greenhouse experience which makes it seven thousand degrees? i have a much harder time finding comfort. Even the single, crisp sheet at night? Its not the same as flannel guys, it is not.

And so I have this early morning time. And in June, it can exist that the dew on the grass is cold, the walk to the garden feels fresh, and the leaking hose on my toes feels ice cold. The sun on the green in the morning is the definition of refresh.

I started writing here today thinking about the things we wrap around ourselves. For me, its my humor, my joy, and my self-protection. Two of the three are just fine. The third is hard won and I can’t seem to let it go just yet. I don’t want to find myself nearing annihilation in a relationship, ever, right. That self-effacement from the other day? Yeah. Roots are somewhat compromised there.

If you keep erasing yourself, you end up gone.

So, feeling safe is no joke, and being visible and solid are necessary, and I’m constantly re-wrapping myself. There is much in life that happens anyhow, disregarding my wrappings. I am no fool. I know life… and its cycles…is the powerhouse in all of the stories, but while I can be, I am quite well-wrapped and I’m not quite ready for the heat and the re-assessment that it causes.

While I love the cold for its ability to provide space, and nurture and thought and slow action and fireplaces full of intentions, the summer pushes me right out of my wrappings and out into the light. I hate it. I love it. (mostly I love it when its over, and I look back on what i have survived.) I’m the worm on pavement after a rainy day. Will she find her way home? Will she be devoured?

Dude. The rainy day is coming, drought or no. And I am sweating it.

or is it all just a hot flash?

Sigh. God bless you for reading. Seriously. I should pay your therapy bills.




self-effacing humor.

oh god, i am so good at it. making less of myself, in a very funny way. always so funny. if there weren’t funny there, you might get concerned, and god knows, i don’t want any attention.

i was pawing through the junk corner to find a notebook to make a grocery list. It used to be just a junk drawer, but things have spread.

I found one, and in flipping to an empty page, i found some old writings, from back when i had time and a brain that was fluid and beautiful. there is no date but subject matter declares it to be several years old.

i’m going to quote from my own self here, there is no way to humbly quote oneself, so give me a pass today. context: i must’ve had an ugly/tense exchange with the ex via text, and was having the ugly/tense reaction privately in ink. It is not funny, as private doesn’t need that bit, does it? but I do love the imagery. Here it is:

Damnit. the time flows already, that wine river of regret. these things i want to be finished with, the list goes on and murders me firsthand with little to no hesitation.

the ex of course, i want to be done, to have no time in which i still have to cajole and negotiate with his ego.

to be done with doubt, to be done and finished and finally grown up, to be finished. my impatience is legion, doubts sway my progress and i fold and fold and fold in, like origami layered, no swan but a tank of layers, a solid block of onion skin. seems so doubt enters when i am self-effacing.

self-effacing. what a term. a thinning one does to oneself and how transparent will i allow myself to become as i go?


Right? it seems an opposition, this tank of folding and self-effacing humor, but it isn’t… its just another game of hiding. Ooh boy, yes.