sugar (love it too much, so much.)

it was just valentine’s day and this single woman is here to make you a love list.

  1. i’m working with kids again and the swell of love that i feel when i see these kids is just incredible. An actual swell of love. Saying good morning to them and legitimately wanting to know how they are and how the time has passed since we last spoke? JOY BUBBLES. this is what is behind teachers and why they will die for your kids, and why they have not demanded the 100K they deserve for doing those things. An ACTUAL SWELL OF LOVE. (go find that, by the way, if you don’t know what I am talking about, make it your mission.)
  2. growing things are happening, even without the presence of a good deep quiet snow. I’ve missed winter, and I know that is a little unpopular, but i think it is a necessary break in the year, and I wonder what will happen without it. AND things are growing, I am trying eucalyptus seeds this year, and the curiousity and possibility is just a thrill to my system. They are percolating in the next room as I speak. Anyone want some for your shower?
  3. Seeds, Learning, all the metaphors. I’m taking a course in seed production, which means my farmer is loaning me some land and I can try out a particular herb or flower and then harvest the seeds. which i may be able to then sell. “MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?” (The Secret Garden. as it turns out, might be my metaphor.) I am wildly excited, and entirely unsure when I am going to see my kids this summer. I look around frequently to see if anyone can solve this for me. So far, no.
  4. I learned my belief of the afterlife from C.S. Lewis and his The Last Battle, and I’m sticking to it. If you believe in something good, that is what you get. If you believe the afterlife is full of tall trees made of marshmallows? You get it. And so, I’m here to tell you this glorious fact. My life looks like the afterlife already. (minus the money, minus the money, and the tiredness, and the no best sexy friend momoa.) HOW FUCKING AMAZING.

I love you guys. Go search for more things to add to your love list. Its the only thing that matters, that love list. Really.

pink petaled flowers close up photography
Photo by Juan Sauras on


Peel ’em back.

I was sitting to do my meditation this morning, and had to talk to myself the whole way through, again and again. . . which is not really the ideal meditative state, just in case you were unclear.

usually, I listen to a guided meditation which quiets all the chatter, but today my phone is charging in a room far away. its a nice break, but my brain. good lord, my brain, was knocked loose from its chassis.

i did get the chatter of my bits to subside for just a few minutes, and “I” was able to float around in there, telling all my bits how much I am grateful for them. The old ladies by the fence, who protect and guard me from the past? They’re not old really, just bitter and loud about it. They have good hearts though, very good ones. Yeah, I waved. (they can be a little toxic, as they make opening their gate a bit less enticing than anywhere else.)

They come from a lady named Jackie that I worked with when I was a teenager. Big woman with her tissues tucked in her sleeve or into her bra. Tough. Not blown away by my whimsy or my lovely smile, I’ll tell you that much. She was one of the first times I really had to work for someone’s favor, not by being a tool, but by working hard and not acting like a highschool flippant little girl. I’m not sure I ever fully got her approval but then she was a grown woman and I was just the high schooler working at her side. I do think she knew I could work hard though. ANd honestly, the way it mattered so much what she thought, and still does, even though she is long off this earth, it really shakes me how much value I place in what other people think, even though it is clearly about them, and not me. When does it become the kate show, all about me? my decisions my own, my actions for me?

And yes, this is where my brain was, drifting onto people from the past, despite the women at the gate…, onto the ways in which I’ve always spent my life living for others, living on their praises and critiques like butter on bread. . . the layers upon layers of story I’ve got floating around in there! Some of the bits are pretty seriously anchored in, some want to be, and some are blissfully unmoored.

And it made me think some more about the newfound interest I have in being unmoored. Its been a constant in these last few weeks, and I wonder if its just dreamtalk (the no-action-intended dream talking) or no. I feel like no.

What if I get my last child through to graduation from high school and then just take off?

What if I do that? And I don’t even mind it….

what if that is REALLY who i am, not this domesticated mom-type figure who does laundry every day and is constantly sweeping? or am i both, the dedicated and devoted mom, but unmoored… what if that is me?

What if I just take off?

(the kids can have my phone number, i promise.)

All me.




wood landing stage boat lake
i can live on toast and beans. maybe even on a dinghy. Photo by Skitterphoto on


I’m good at…

What are you good at?

In my mind this week, I’ve been writing a whole post on what I’m bad at, because I’m awful at so many things. Like breakups, and shame. So bad at them, and also, the math. But I need to switch it, don’t I? Can I live like that?

I’m good at looking at things and appreciating them. the shape, the line, the light. The beauty in the minute, the large, the fantastical and the mundane.

Sometimes I am good at capturing it in type.

I’m good at being with kids, making them feel loved. I’m good at making brownies, from a box, but good at it, still.

I’m way fantastic at self-deprecation, which needs work, surely.

I’m good at making clutter, and tidying it, and letting go of things. I’m good at staring quietly off into the corner, good at making the most of a pregnant pause.

I was good at being pregnant. Feeling my rotund self amidst the madness of the rest of it.

I am good at color, filling the house with the things of whatever the season, color beyond belief. The circus-ing of things.

I am good, mostly. Though it makes my eyes well up, I think it is true. I try, I try to be right with the world, this green and blue breathing thing, full of creatures.

I am good at reading c.s. lewis, and good at ignoring the bits I don’t like.

I’m good at being stubborn. Oh yes. Another problematic one, but still, so good.

I’m good at making baked ziti. And collecting santas.

I’m good at brewing nice coffee. I’m good at growing things, tending things, nourishing things.

I’m good at piling on blankets, and wood, and sweaters. I’m good at feeding the dog, the cat and soon, the baby chicks.

I’m good at seeming to lose control and reining it back in. reeling sometimes, in all the ways, another thing I am good at.

I’m getting better at saying no. the opportunities to practice coming more often lately.

I’m good at being cozy. I’m good at needing so little, despite the ‘so much’ around me.

I’m good at dreaming. I’m good at making do.  

A good ten minutes of freewriting, that’s all that was. Thank you Maddie and Pippa. We all should do a little focused action on what we are good at. We . ARE. GOOD.


Despite our best plans…

I write during a soccer practice.

I’ve been jonesing to do something I’m proud of. My kids are putting a pressure on me to write, for myself. Not a real pressure because they don’t know what they are talking about. but still. Lately, I am able to get my daughter to her soccer practice and she wants me to sit there while she practices. I think it is inane to do that, but whatever. Seems I am one of very few who likes to drop and run. So, I sat down with a neil gaiman book, Neverwhere, which is good. He has a lovely style which manages to be clean and clear while covering dark and fantastical things. the details are astonishing. I enjoy.

But my attention span is not what it used to be, and sometimes I check my phone or look at my kid, and once, i had some thoughts that were so intriguing I thought to write them down. SO i hunted through my pocketbook *(what a dumb word. no book involved, and no pocket either) for a pen and a blank scrap and by the time I got that all settled, I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking. So, I wrote this instead:

The way other people write; slow, thought-filled, raising images of tall trees in clusters, the dips in green shadow and oaken thrills. Deepened thoughts, greens mixed with blues of deepest unseen oceans, softness beyond despair but knowing it, having passed it by.

Handwriting swirls and curves. Steam from the hot mug, adding to the air, and realizing that I do too, steam, and add, even though I am not those other people.

The steps of a sun-blast grecian stone, heading upwards, fingers trailing along the wall, thousands before me, all of humanity it feels.

Oh, how I wonder when I will travel again, if i will.

caves and shadows, cold stone and damp. fire. whispers. nudges. heat making curls,

the drawl of ink.

sports sign in red and white paint
Photo by cottonbro studio on


love you. do.



Morovia. Morewoevia.

I’ve been ‘feeling’ a lot lately. its not my favorite.

No, nothing is really wrong. I’ve got no woe.

I’m aware that what I romanticize is distinctly untrue, and, that I do not need to be the one who provides my children with a lifelong grandmotherly estate. I’m just always going to be the mom, wherever I am, forever and ever. Its freeing, in many ways, and irrelevant in others, and a mixed bag of bulbs in the end.

I’m trying to laugh off some of the things I’ve heard this week, and I’m not doing especially well at it. Some of it, I can’t ignore, and I can’t figure out what to do about it.

I’ve purchased new chicks to raise, trying yet again to have a flock of my own. and this time, they will not be free range. poor babies. free range is not for the faint of heart, not with the coyotes, foxes, and other miscreants around here. i saw a coyote yesterday up close and it was much bigger than they look from afar. (He won the psych out, 100 percent.) I even got very cool chicks, that will lay very cool and colorful eggs. so i’m psyched. now all i have to do is keep them alive. no biggie.

I’m going to have to build shit, Dean. fuck.

I also ordered a bunch of peony roots. I am into investing in the ground lately. base level basic. They can live and recycle themselves for hundreds of years. I’m feeling the need for longevity I suppose, while at the same time longing for a life of much simpler means. Can I really runaway? Is that a thing? Like, after the last one leaves for college, can i just do a year abroad? And not even carry a phone? well, maybe just for them, so they can call if they need me. If I sell this house, I can live in a trailer and not worry about money. It could be anywhere, it could even be on wheels. Good, right?

or: Someone give me a ton of money, okay? I’d like to make an apartment at the back of the house so they can pay the mortgage and I can just be a flower farmer. Can we please do that? Please?

Sigh. No? Okay then.

I got this new job, and I’ve spent the money of my first paycheck (unreceived as of yet) already. Little bit twitchy about that. I’m now actually working to pay for impulse purchases. Will they make me happy? Yes, they will.

Yes, they will.

The weather has been fucking brilliant here. but fairly inappropriate for January and we’ll all be crying when we start our spring already in a drought. no snow man, no snow.

I’ve lost my lazy contemplative mornings with this new job, and its really messing with my days. I get home and still feel like the day is unformed, that I haven’t done anything, and should probably make some kind of list, but I’m wiped out, so I just sit down, and then it is all over. OVER.

I haven’t figured stuff out yet.

I should make that a bumper sticker. Someone else do it, I’ve already sat down.

love you. really, i do.


cash coins money pattern
Photo by Pixabay on