Wednesday, March 28, 2012

one year

we've been here for one year
the sunshine and wind
the rusty hinges and peeling paint have been ours
for one year
the rocks have been ours
the grasses and unexpected flowers
the red-winged blackbirds and sunflowers as tall as our house
have been ours
for one year
the whippy limey-green willow and the soft gray mourning dove
have been ours
the nearly ancient electrical outlets and flickering lights
have been ours

the things I planted in last year's garden are stretching out their tiny arms
the strawberry plants and the lady's mantle are making new tendrils, tiny and new
the sky has shown all her colors in this year

Spring never held much meaning for me in the past - fall is still my favorite - now it holds all the promise it ever has and I am seeing it, it seems, for the first time.

I feel like I own the spring and it owns me - this "owning", this "ours" is really another name for Love.
We've loved it all for one year - we've noticed it, celebrated it, laughed and cried in it, held our breath in it, breathed it in great gulping breaths, and it has noticed us, it seems. Like a cat's feet finding purchase on a trunk and making it's way to the tippy top of a tree, swaying in a serious wind - it is part of me and I am part of it, and we sway together now.

Our sweet little corner of the world is full of wind - bringing dust and the rich scent of honey.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


I keep wanting to write here, but the words are all used up.
I do not find the need to share everything here these days...
but this evening, much is on my mind:
baby piglets coming in a couple of weeks
the wet weather postponing our field burning
the wind
the gray of a mourning dove matching the gray of the sky
the deepest indigo behind our rocks
choosing paint colors for the outside of our home turns out to be a bigger question than I imagined
limes, corn tortillas and other good food
the mystery of ghosts
birds at night
wondering if I'm outside my center
am I forgetting who I am?
feeling the work I did yesterday in my arms
building new things out of old things
planning my garden
wondering why it is so hard to make some people happy
feeling slightly guilty about staying in my jammies all day
loving that I was in my jammies all day
making Amish friendship bread
disgusted at those who use their religion as an excuse to judge and condemn others
loving the sound of wind - I've stepped into it five times today just to feel it's aliveness
truly disliking the treadmill my family is on during a work week - we are all four so exhausted by Thursday we can hardly wait to fall into bed at night - I'm dissapointed that more and more often my first feeling upon waking is, "oh man...not again."
realizing that I cannot simply just stop working because, "I don't feeeeeeel like it."
Not accepting that I cannot just stop working because "I don't feeeeeeel like it."
feeling that I would be justified quitting my job just because "I don't feeeeel like it."
coming back to the conclusion that people do not stop working because they "don't feeeeeeel like it."
missing making bread, carving my own clothes pins, painting,
meditating, going on spiritual walks, taking the time to think through a problem start to finish
perhaps there isn't such a thing as "fate", perhaps we just keep making decisions based on who we are at the time, and it all always seems like it was "meant to be" because it seemed to shape us later. Perhaps that is just a coping mechanism because we don't know why our lives seem to be so out of control sometimes.
Perhaps they are not out of control...perhaps what is meant to be will happen, whether we like it or not.
Perhaps everything is some sort of test: "Now what will you choose?"
Maybe that isn't a test, maybe that is just the nature of life: "here you are at a junction. Which way will you choose?"

Then I see my husband, and my children, and my home and I think, "Wow..."
except that still doesn't answer my question - was it meant to be, or because i had a vision and kept making decisions based on that vision of how life should be?

the wind affects me like this,
clearing out the walkways and pushing unseen things in the corners by my back door so that I must see them and spend a thought or two on them before continuing on my busy way, "Look at that odd piece of paper there, whipped up by the wind. That isn't my handwriting... a bit of a shopping list - pepper, cream, fresh mushrooms - who wrote it, what were they making? ahh well..."

now wasn't that a fine kettle of fish? I don't share for weeks and weeks, and then when I do, you get some rambling.