28 June 2018

26 March 2018

right now // a sacred place // tummy time & focus play


every day (hour) ulie lou awakens more and more to the world around. to our gaze. to what's out the window, to morning light...in the earliest moments this morn' it was a symphony of spring birds.

when we think about: how can we play with ulysses today? what can we show him? how can we be with him? -- we never want to be thinking about...progressing him. what we want is to observe and discover his soul, his small body and precious mind, exactly where they exist, and to invite him into comfortably being there, to meet him there. because that -- that is a sacred place. 

(and: what if right now (whatever your "right now" is) was always regarded a sacred place? and isn't it?)



right now: ulysses is a bird who tilts his head to see the world. his gaze lengthens when sideward, taking the world in, in, in. which is another way of saying ~ a four-week-old babe may often have a preference for the peripheral, compelled more by a mobile at his side than above. his play, in these hours, is: an arch of the back, a stretch of the arm, the grand experiment of a leg kicking outward, a twist toward the mirror, an imitation of a mother's expressions, a father bringing baby's hands together at his chest. this play is small and humble and when you think about it, it totally isn't. it's incredible; it's unbelievable; it's the beginning of everything else. 

knowing what we know of our little ulysses (where he looks, the distance of his gaze and the nature of its pauses) here is a little montessori-inspired moment we created with him. just a comfortable place to be (an extra changing pad + cover + sheepskin), my grandmother's beloved mirror, and ulie's sheep mobile (the high contrast black + white being just the thing in these days). a little tummy time, and an invitation to stretch the limbs and focus the gaze. that's all. that's all. and it's so beautiful. 






04 March 2018

ulie lou ~ early days // part one





you came earthside and within hours i could write novels of your life. you are so many yet-to-be-written poems, scribbling across the walls of my heart. this happens automatically, intrinsically: the way my body grew you. cell by cell. requiring, somehow, everything of me, but taking it all unconsciously, naturally. 

i wanted to put these photographs someplace, even while my words sort themselves into things that may someday resemble sentences again, and eventually stories. (and there are so many i don't want to forget...) but right now are days to be spent deliriously tired, and deliriously happy.