sentence fragments
December 16, 2015 § 6 Comments
It is a strange mischief that distracts me when my intentions are most earnest. Every sentence breaks under the weight of silence until there are only fragments.
“no matter the seasons of responsibilities that pull at my attention, I have carved this small sanctuary for joy”
“one-dimensional pieces of paper began to evolve into wheels with intricate spokes suffocated in layers of scotch tape”
“as the horn assaulted the quiet, I moved toward you as if through water; there was no air between us”
“little promises etched against the day”
dog training
December 13, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our dog’s leash caked in a layer of mud to match the stretch of filth that reached from tip to tail, pulled me from the evening’s holiday plans. I cursed myself for allowing her to chase after a new friend into unknown nooks of our neighborhood, but the joy between the two had been contagious and I had released her to play.
It was only after I called our dog back to finish our walk, that I considered the unlikely events that must transpire before our company arrived. Sixty pounds of mud and fur would need to be carried up a flight of stairs to be cleaned. I’m not sure I’ve previously noted her fear of stairs, but there was no doubt that she would not be bribed our commanded in the direction of the available bathroom given an equally unfortunate fear of baths. Then, our oversized, dirty chicken would need to be bathed.
I began in my head with all the inconveniences. Trotting them out for show, naming them and sulking in their company. By the time we returned home, I had set aside the frustrations of the moment and began moving through a checklist of necessity.
It was a comedy of error, our sweet pup watching through the shower door as I struggled into my bathing suit; a small precaution in anticipation of my own inevitable bath. She was patient still as I scavenged our cabinets for the shampoo I had over organized into unlikely storage. It was only when I filled a large bucket with water that she curled in protest against the tiles as I began earnestly scrubbing the layers of mud from her fur.
As she settled into a helpless trust, I too let go; dismissing my regrets and thoughts of inconvenience to the task at hand. I stopped worrying that my hair would be undone or that the bathroom would soon be a mess of fur and water. I put off the hour and thoughts of our company, focusing on the work that demanded patience and let the irritation chase the mud that circled the drain.
This is the blessing of loving a dog; they challenge us to get lost in an unpredictable moment where small fears and inconveniences allow us to center ourselves completely in a moment of care. Our priorities get shuffled and we uncover minutes we had previously allocated to other plans, we let go of the false idea of control that so often hurries our actions and distorts the importance of our distractions.
We teach less than we learn.
goodnight, home
December 13, 2015 § 2 Comments
The day is done, it is already tomorrow. Rain drums heavily against the darkness in the early minutes of a new day. Our dog is curled into her corner, sleeping peacefully to the quiet hum of the dishwasher. My husband and children are already lost to dreams, limbs heavy with contentment.
As our home settles into sleep, I admire the confetti of chaos that illuminates an evening of happy distractions. Leftover dishes and the lingering smell of delicious indulgences. A minefield of Legos and remnants of construction paper creations; discarded toys unfinished storylines of play.
For every guest we clean our home in a gesture of care; sweeping the floors and counters, tidying the restrooms and storing away evidence of our mess. We do this to tend to comfort, but it is a cozier home with imperfect corners of shared time.
The footpath of daily life creates a gentler expression of home. I forget this each time until goodbyes, when I look to dirty dishes that speak of full bellies and the scattering of toys that hint at creative curiosities.
As I wish our home goodnight, I promise to leave the mess for new memories.
fear
December 12, 2015 § 5 Comments
Fear is a strange motivator, it tempts us on tiptoe to the very brink of possibility then dares us to leap. It is the friend to whom we whisper our most intimate dreams and who we enlist to guard our joy from harm. It is a tireless soldier of our worst imagination, but only by assignment.
Fear whispers, What will you do?
It challenges us to name our dreams with heartbeats that speak in uncomplicated truth, passion in a language of morse code. It is the internal knowing that drums a persistent noise in the quiet of our own hesitation so that we can hear the reverberation of truth above the din of doubt.
What would yo do if you were not afraid to succeed?
I think of this when my son drafts complicated blue prints for unlikely inventions or my daughter conjures lines into a tapestry of make-believe. More often, Fear is my companion in the space between necessity, when I am still just long enough to remember my own dreams and tiptoe closer to possibility.
to my daughter
December 9, 2015 § 2 Comments
Yesterday I gathered you from an after school activity, the outside air chasing our hurried movements. I was still settling the chaos of my oversized coat and cumbersome purse, pushing buttons and shaking off the cold, when I caught your tears of frustration.
Rushing into the car you had bumped your head; tired and sore you crumbled under the culmination of a series of unlucky occurences. In a winded run-on description of your day, you hiccupped over how the gym teacher wouldn’t dismiss your from running with a sore throat and how this had led to new aches.
The tiny injustice of running while feeling under the weather reminded you of another unfairness. In a sharing that rambled over intricately connected details with an unlikely logic, you punctuated the day’s events with the report there is a rumor the gym teacher hates children.
A little disoriented by so many details, it took me a moment to realize the heart of your tears was greater than the sum of your discomforts. You said that when you challenged your classmates to consider the possibility your gym teacher might not be mean at all and postured that she may want only to push students to do their best, that the other children told you middle school is too old to keep assuming the best of others; that not everything has a bright side.
Stubbornly Optimistic Girl, I love your bright side and I’m not ready for you to dim your view of the world to conform to someone else’s expectations. Growing up doesn’t mean giving up on goodness, it means cultivating kindness even when it is uncomfortable. I hope you always challenge negative assumptions and create a dialogue that provides for a different opinion. Mostly, I want you to be yourself; no matter your age. Love, Mom
o christmas tree
December 8, 2015 § 2 Comments
Each morning I marvel at the harmony of popsicle reindeer and painted pottery, hand-blown glass and milestone mementos.
Some memories fill the shape of my hand, I could tell you the weight of an ornament in sentiment. Others tell a story of fleeting childhood passions; ballerina slippers or characters in forgotten stories. More, still, are beautiful gifts that settle elegantly among the boughs weighting the space between lights with magic. Collectively they share a history that eludes my camera with every failed photograph.
I cannot find an angle that demonstrates the unlikely serenity of so many conflicting designs or the sentimental value of a few unremarkable ornaments. It is a sight I cannot reproduce to preserve, despite my stubborn determinedness. Instead I settle into the delightful stillness of remembering.
Some moments are meant to be lost to joy.
boots & burdens
December 6, 2015 § 4 Comments
It is a morning of traditions stacked neatly into children’s boots and sleepy worries for imperfect days under the festive distractions of holiday cheer. Too often we forget the uncomfortable sharp corners of everyday experiences clouded by sentiment and nostalgia for holidays.
Beneath the magic of white lights and the haze of holiday music, even tireless nutcrackers cannot guard against error or illness, unkindness or the mundane. There is still work to be done, homework and laundry accumulate in our distraction; a sick child and difficult disappointment do not consult the calendar for invitation.
Today I am prioritizing my perspective with an appreciation for the imperfect moments of holiday cheer; choosing to look for the promise behind difficult experiences. Like tiny chocolates behind cardboard doors, I’m beginning my day in search of sweet discoveries.
signed, sealed, delivered
December 4, 2015 § 2 Comments
There is a sensory memory to my love of holiday cards; the scratch of pen against paper and the crinkle of thick envelopes, even the bitterness of the seal crinkles my nose with a childish delight.
Over the years the busyness of the season consumed the leisurely joy of handwritten letters and demanded a more convenient choice; a single image with pre-printed wishes mailed to an ever growing population of acquaintances.
This year I’m embracing the transition of our move and returning to a beloved tradition; handwritten messages folded into card stock stuffed with a candid photo to mark the passage of another year. Strokes of ink in looping wishes that curl like steam around a cup of cocoa.
It is a selfish indulgence, this whittling of lists, but it is also a more intimate gesture of intention. A small meditative act during a season too often cluttered with distraction.
seasons of joy
December 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
The tree is settling, stretching its humble branches in want of ornaments still nestled in last year’s memories. For now its earthy scent fills the air with a fragrance as clean as the dusting of snow that blankets our morning lawn.
I have only begun to unpack forgotten keepsakes into newly familiar corners of our home. Anticipation and nostalgia linger over bins filled with colorful remnants of holidays past; elementary school wreaths crafted from construction paper handprints and wish lists drawn in earnest childhood print.
There is a quiet beauty in the undone beginnings of this season, a grace born of simple traditions that thread our days with mindfulness for the fleeting magic of childhood holidays.
Joy spills like Christmas carols across the silence and my cup runneth over.
paper dragons
December 1, 2015 § Leave a comment
So much of parenting is an illusion of control, boundaries we map around unpredictable chaos in an effort to guard against harm. Rules and decisions, values and expectations aligned to insure safety. Sometimes danger is costumed in a camouflage of our only experience of normal.
I’ve spoken gently over the years about the impossible heartache that accompanies parenting children in an abusive familial setting; mental illness and emotional abuse, alcoholism and narcissist manipulations. It is an experience that reads like fiction, a harm you cannot contrive to predict and a threat you cannot battle for the insidiousness of its destruction.
Day to day there is an uncertain hesitance under the burden of such illness. You clear safe places to relax your guard against small intrusions, while accepting the eventuality of harm. Years pass creating a legacy of disconnect; volumes of memories set to a soundtrack of unkindness.
When your children no longer ask for the complicated company of these relatives, you honor their happiness with space enough to guard against further harm. Then, as illness is oft to do, it appears in the midst of peace in search of something to consume; misery feeds greedily on the happiness of others. When it is not invited to the feast, it crafts paper dragons, extravagant gifts and cards lined with cash, to beg attention in place of emotion.
Except, empty endearments etched onto paper do little to outspeak the memory of unkind words. Bribes of indulgences cannot bridge the vastness of empty relationships. The dragons tumble into the space between old memories and new happiness, slayed by the hand that crafted them.
We are, finally, at peace.
scribblechic 