17 December 2018

french toast




a pink-gray morning with my boys. sourdough french toast, bourbon maple syrup. roses: on the plates, on the table, strung with the oranges. 

i weave my soul into these days and these days into my soul.

 lately i am missing the gold-hued era of blogging. five, seven, nine years ago. imperfection, rosy, slant-angled, grain. it feels dusty and precious, but still tenable. there was something so comforting to me about that time of life and how we captured it...

right now, ulysses is wearing floral cozy pants, indigo and periwinkle, and napping right behind me on his new swan sheet. he loves this sheet ~ he grabbed it and stared at their beaks and feet, gently touching them. we took one of the most refreshing showers of my life today. i call it "the family shower" because there is more than enough room for all of us. if we had two more or three or five, we could all fit in it. this is my dream. happy. loud. squealing. bubbles. washing off the lake water or washing off winter or washing off tired days. ulysses splashed in the water that fell of my body and clapped, watching his own tiny waterfalls splash on the stone.

i have dreams about the other children sometimes and i wonder which ones are true, and i also trust that there is room for a hundred truths at once. a belief so God-close, so heaven-close, it nestles in my heart's heart and says, "yes." it feels like a velvet quilt on your bare legs. it looks like a sky so packed with stars you can hardly see the blue. it tastes the way rain on a skylight sounds. i don't know how to explain things the way other people seem to sometimes. it's ok. i find the other ones who understand, who are the same, and these friends, they feel like home. 

the days have been so gray here, almost-winter. most days hardly any light comes into the house and we have to make our own with candles and dim lamps. i bow to the beauty of it. this is something you have to choose to do. "wherever you are is Here" -- the poem, "lost" by david wagoner. we read "all the light we cannot see" together last month and still talk about it ten times a day. i walk the house in victorian cream and pink-rose nightgowns with a baby on my hip, and thigh-high socks and big sweaters with my wet wavy hair that takes more than a full day to air dry. we eat toast with jams, and french champignon brie, and herb-marinated chèvre with quick-champagne-vinegar-pickled cucumbers and micro-greens and hills of dill and maldon's sea salt flakes and cracked pepper. roasted kale and sweet potatoes with soft-boiled eggs cracked open on top and garlicky tahini. in the mornings juniper lattes and lavender-honey lattes and cinnamon-winter-citrus lattes and cinnamon buns. i couldn't get enough winter citrus when i carried him belly-wide and i can't get enough now i carry him arms-wide; i peel them in as few strips as possible over the sink like my mother taught me to do in california. 

listening to gem club (marathon, in roses) on repeat. sufjan christmas on repeat. beautiful baby sighs on repeat. my own weeping at fast these days are flying on repeat. i love my days with them so much, it is the deepest ache. 

ulysses laughs at our jokes. he moves so fast across the room on his hands and feet and it is so beautiful. i get down with him and see his world as nose-close as i can and i weep at how he changes everything and all the soul-circles he closes and opens. hinges to other worlds gently opening...the underbelly of a dog, the bottomest bottom of a tree, the floor of the shower where the water falls wider...

i am so happy. i am so thankful. i am so happy. 

13 December 2018

november, here




writing, i hear the soft rise-crash rumble of thunder purling from the sound machine where baby sleeps. soon, i will be breath-close beside him. and he will do as he does every night: with one hand bring my face nose-close, tender-close, sharing-air-close, to his and keep it there in the dark, night-long. and with the other hand, find mine. this is how we dream in these precious hours. he wakes every so often, rolling nearer in search of milk and cuddles, a back rub. he smells like clean cotton and milk and baby shampoo. i whisper-croon...he is so dear, what and where does he dream, i tell him of stars, and falling in love, and so on. this is what i need for him. is for him to know how truly, how deeply, how ever, i will always be there. these nights move like waves, rising and falling, indigo, and they are the most holy ones i have known...

a soft ache to set baby down to sleep, even as i sleep beside him, knowing i can't know what changes in the night. what sounds and shapes i have become used to in the landscape of my day...what things may exit just as quietly as they arrived. and what arrives. beautiful, hard, both. 

papa works the overnight all week and then we have him six long, to-do-just-as-we-wish days. baby boy rises just as the sky turns softest blue. i can time it almost to the minute if i find myself awakened first by some funny chance. most mornings we hear the twist of the front door -- which will ever feel like peace -- just as we are bounding down the stairs, boy sweater-warm and tucked in my elbow crook, for mama's first coffee. we kiss. fire's on. double-layered socks. unfurl a quilt. then the books, baby-sweet for him, and poetry for me ~ though this is, of course, for him; i read him the words in my mouse-quiet way as barely-dawn breaks into morning into day. 

i want to write this better. and i want to write more. and to be better about tending this precious corner on more days. but for now, a boy chirps for me. i go to him. here are some photos from our november...



boy's rabbit, his choice from the toy shop in our little town. i'm a mushy mum and doooo tote him round, cuddle him while roo rests. we have been calling him "vincent."


your elfin bonnets and cherry red bum-flap union suit have been beloved pajamas of late. you, my jolly bubs! the half-kicked-off socks will forever slay me. 




on thanksgiving, ruffle-collar-clad and under the charms of your beloved xylophone, sweetly sharing blocks and a skwish with cousin gideon. (ulysses, sweetheart, you were so handsome on this, your first thanksgiving ~ and so missed at the table as you fell to slumber in my arms just as the dinner bell sounded...) 


family wash drying on the rack  ~ forever a love song...





wintry blues slowly replacing autumn ambers...


and this.


be back soon. 

20 September 2018

a boy, his blocks




generous of noggin, starshine boy will tumble if not gingerly propped. each time he has been caught by loving hands or otherwise landed in a mother-made mountain range of pillows -- white and frothed, like whipped cream peaks, swan-soft.

and then boy met blocks. joyfully, he will pick one upon which to lay his morning drool and baby sighs of great satisfaction, rubbing lower gums where teeth emerge -- also like whipped cream peaks. swan wings. etcetera etcetera. if it is "s" the boy chooses, softly we turn the pages of the almost-wordless swan book kept by his mother's bedside in childhood years. how swan was a would-be middle name, maybe still for another. we need another block set for "ulysses" but there's enough for a second name, "louis." s for: saxifrage, and stars, sage, sicily, sea salt, silent s's, sun beams, sommeliers, sparrows, and so on...