sunday laundry :: cranberry bread :: a journey of a thousand miles :: maple leaves
what did you do this weekend?
give yourself a hug.
I thought I'd go against the grain or at least be a little subversive this Thanksgiving. Even though today is a pretty great day, I know we all probably feel like we are swimming on the wrong side of the lighthouse sometimes. The world makes a lot of ruckus and our brains make a lot of blahblahblah.
Whenever all that noise gets to be too much, I try to unglue myself from it. By taking a moment to remember:
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| {sunrise by kitschy kitschy cool} |
- My worries are optical illusions, and I can forgive myself for being a little gullible.
- I've survived hard times, but I am not those hard times.
- I've breathed in freezing sunrises, cozy inside my sleeping with a thermos full of coffee.
- I am love and I am you.
- So I love you implicitly.
- I love me too, and the me that forgets that isn't really me at all.
- When I walk in the door, my baby crawls toward me in a way that equals running. He puts his hands on my feet and then climbs up my jeans (or pajama bottoms) until I pick him up.
- When he's in my arms, he puts both hands on my face and pulls me toward his open mouth, and that equals a kiss.
- My heart turns to goo every day.
- I can breathe fine, even when my heart takes the consistency of pureed carrots.
Happy Thanksgiving!
What are you thankful for today?
stacking.
Today we're staying indoors to avoid the sog. This morning I went a bit crazy pureeing baby food and simmering vegetable soup, cleaning baby slobber off all the mirrors in the house and scrubbing toilets.
Rowan's milestones continue to pour down, and I find it impossible to keep up. He's a great eater, though sweet potatoes are still his fave. He crawls like a racer, pulls himself up against anything, grabs my nose with aplomb, rolls his car toy, throws stuff, unstacks his stacking toy lighthouse, and takes better naps. In fact, he's in the middle of one of his stellar naps right now.
While we watch Another Year. At the beginning the psychologist, Gerri, asks her reluctant patient: What's the happiest memory you have?
I found myself wanting to answer this, never wanting to answer it because it seems finite, and wanting to save it for later.
Rowan's milestones continue to pour down, and I find it impossible to keep up. He's a great eater, though sweet potatoes are still his fave. He crawls like a racer, pulls himself up against anything, grabs my nose with aplomb, rolls his car toy, throws stuff, unstacks his stacking toy lighthouse, and takes better naps. In fact, he's in the middle of one of his stellar naps right now.
While we watch Another Year. At the beginning the psychologist, Gerri, asks her reluctant patient: What's the happiest memory you have?
I found myself wanting to answer this, never wanting to answer it because it seems finite, and wanting to save it for later.
What's the happiest memory you have?
our life lately.
big sur :: warm november days
cold nights :: central heat
sleep sharing :: and getting sleep
baby sign language :: not touching banana slugs
wine with friends :: movies with my husband
big leaf maple leaves underfoot :: monarch butterflies aflutter
it's a good life
how about you?
adding a little space to my step.
I feel thankful for.
love songs :: Right before my husband left the house to play soccer, he turned on Pandora and found an alternative indie love songs to play for me. You know, so we miss him more. Rowan's theme song for cruising around the coffee table and chewing the foamy corner safety edges is Friday I'm in Love.
autumn :: It's gray and moody outside. We went for a run along the beach trail, and the sea is so calm that the kite and wind surfing shack was closed. Even though the shoreline along Alameda isn't what you imagine when you imagine the beach, it still feels great to live so close to the ocean again.
past :: The only time I've lived within walking distance to the water was in Puerto Natales. Also not the picture you conjure when you think about going to the beach. But it's damn beautiful. Even in subzero temps. It's not that cold here, but last night I dreamed about the hooded puffy jacket I sold before we left Patagonia. I must have kicked off the covers and caught a chill.
forward :: This morning's run was my 10th comeback run (meaning 10 starts and 0 follow through) since I was pregnant. Gettin' there. Scenery and space are a big deal.
present :: Rowan is asleep. I'm trying to spread out a little and take deep breaths. I am an open cocoon.
love songs :: Right before my husband left the house to play soccer, he turned on Pandora and found an alternative indie love songs to play for me. You know, so we miss him more. Rowan's theme song for cruising around the coffee table and chewing the foamy corner safety edges is Friday I'm in Love.
autumn :: It's gray and moody outside. We went for a run along the beach trail, and the sea is so calm that the kite and wind surfing shack was closed. Even though the shoreline along Alameda isn't what you imagine when you imagine the beach, it still feels great to live so close to the ocean again.
 |
| {ultima esperanza fjord, puerto natales :: by serkan yalin} |
forward :: This morning's run was my 10th comeback run (meaning 10 starts and 0 follow through) since I was pregnant. Gettin' there. Scenery and space are a big deal.
present :: Rowan is asleep. I'm trying to spread out a little and take deep breaths. I am an open cocoon.
Wishing you a weekend fully of scenery and space!
eating, singing, cherishing.
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| {summer meadow by cottage light studio} |
reading :: that's not my dragon
deciding :: on a big girl book to read
singing :: hush little baby + too-ra loo-ra loo-ra + splish splash and rub a dub
cherishing :: rowan at nine months old, giggles, kisses, crawling + crumbling block towers
blogging :: a quickie, because that soup was yummy
thinking :: that picture up there would look good on my office wall / nursery closet
thanking :: my lucky stars
what are you doing?
so much love.
This morning I start working around 5 a.m. By 9 a.m., I cry tiny tear rivers after reading Mona Simpson's eulogy for Steve Jobs. His final words and realization: Oh wow oh wow oh wow. What did he see?
At noon, my aunt comes over with her grandchildren. We stroll to the beach, picnic, the girls make sandcastles in the sand in weather so much sunnier than summer. When we walk by the hospital where my uncle died, my aunt mentions not liking that hospital. It's Halloween. The eldest grandchild asks in a spooky voice if it's a scary hospital. "Oh, well, it is to me," my aunt replies. To me all hospitals are scary, I think.
Early evening rolls around and S and I are deciding on the overly cozy pea-in-the-pod costume or the thinner Dracula costume. It's hot outside (and Rowan's a little milk vampire), so we go with the latter. We meet up with friends and walk around downtown where one of my best friends is accused of wearing a pregnant lady costume. Of course, it's a real belly with a real baby inside, who will soon join this world; 7 billion something in the big scheme of the world population.
And what a complicated 7 billion we are, with as many legacies. Imagine if
we could all hire eloquent biographers to distill our lives into hardcover books. Someone so
interested in our lives that they interview our friends and family to
get to know us on multiple levels. This is what I wanted to do for my
mom when I was much younger. Of course it wasn't for her, it was for me.
I knew that then as I know it now. Still, nothing has ever come of that desire because of bashfulness, laziness, fear.
Once our overly tired vampire is sleeping, S and I eat dinner. I tear up again, describing Mona's eulogy and Steve's' last words. I recall the last words of my mom as heard by my aunt: I see nana and Sharon (her sister who died only months before she did), and so much love.
It's Halloween. The day the invisible wall between our world and the spirit world thins. Today I feel like I'm peeking through to the other side. I see light. I see a mirror reflecting this life--in its various stages--back at me.
At noon, my aunt comes over with her grandchildren. We stroll to the beach, picnic, the girls make sandcastles in the sand in weather so much sunnier than summer. When we walk by the hospital where my uncle died, my aunt mentions not liking that hospital. It's Halloween. The eldest grandchild asks in a spooky voice if it's a scary hospital. "Oh, well, it is to me," my aunt replies. To me all hospitals are scary, I think.
Early evening rolls around and S and I are deciding on the overly cozy pea-in-the-pod costume or the thinner Dracula costume. It's hot outside (and Rowan's a little milk vampire), so we go with the latter. We meet up with friends and walk around downtown where one of my best friends is accused of wearing a pregnant lady costume. Of course, it's a real belly with a real baby inside, who will soon join this world; 7 billion something in the big scheme of the world population.
 |
| {dracula by elena grover} |
Once our overly tired vampire is sleeping, S and I eat dinner. I tear up again, describing Mona's eulogy and Steve's' last words. I recall the last words of my mom as heard by my aunt: I see nana and Sharon (her sister who died only months before she did), and so much love.
It's Halloween. The day the invisible wall between our world and the spirit world thins. Today I feel like I'm peeking through to the other side. I see light. I see a mirror reflecting this life--in its various stages--back at me.
What do you see?
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