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. 

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