bits and pieces.

spent the day with my girl kid, doing errands and scoping out the thrift store.  big scores of the day: practically new camelbak for two bucks, and a wolf t-shirt for her.  we walked the aisles together, fingering fabrics and searching for favorite colors (green is good, pink is bad) and dodging other shoppers and their wayward children.  found books, as always.  she told me that she actually loves the smell of the thrift store.

it's in her blood.  

came home with full bags of groceries after miraculous trader joe's trip where we instantly found parking and joy! joy!--organic three-color peppers and lemon seltzer.  she politely refused a lollipop at the counter.

i would've let her take it.  it was her choice.  as always with selkie, it is up to her.

went into my new bedroom/selkie's old room and tried to make it mine.  ours.  found pictures that once hung on my walls of other homes where these babies were born.  took some old pictures out, put some new pictures in.  marveled at the changes in me, in them, in him, in us.  felt my footing on the slightly dirty/dog-tracked floor, grateful for the wood beneath me.

who were these people?

damn, i miss my bangs.

i was more flexible back then.  think about this.  this could be important.

my most favorite picture ever.  the most badass of all.

and then i hung up this little crate-thing, and filled it with reminders of who i am and who i was.  things to remind me that i am good and that i have alive things inside of me, things that are meaningful and heavy with purpose; like a baby hanging low inside of me.

a few nights ago i saw my friend amber, who lovingly berated me and told me once again that i am a writer, and that i need to write.  she said this as i interrupted and chortled and fudged my way through pshawing but she kept saying it.  and i eventually listened.  i did.  the fact that she said this to remind me based on an email that i had sent made me laugh, but i was grateful for her insistence.

later that night i had a dream.  i was pregnant, as pregnant as i was in the picture above.  i was in an unfamiliar house, and i was in labor.  i kept talking to my friends and family--my kids--telling that that i was fine, feeling that first cringe of a contraction--and i told them not to worry, that i would come and get them when i was ready to start pushing.

and of course, when i woke up, it was all laid bare in front of me.  clear as the water i gulp down each morning (with some lemon and cayenne thrown in for good measure).  i checked out the dream dictionaries online, but i didn't really have to.

i knew.

something is percolating inside of me again.  i feel myself rising to some occasion that hasn't been named yet.  there is an unfolding once more, in my 42nd year, and i am waiting patiently to see what waits beneath.

in the meantime, i'm writing this blog, and organizing my house, and roasting broccoli and brussel sprouts for my wonder of an almost-nine-year-old girl, and feeling the gratitude of all the moments that were captured on film and those that remain caught inside of me.

there is nothing tonight but goodness and sweeping the floor and eating wild rice and watching "game of thrones" by myself after kissing my children goodnight.  there is nothing here but this, and what is simmering inside my gut.

and for that i am grateful.

full of holes.

my lips still burning from too much pepper

my ears still humming from my mother's happiness

my skin, naturally air-conditioned, thanks to the most comfortable t-shirt in the world.

my brain still buzzing from deep work and configurations

my feet coated in summer dirt

my legs, sore from last night's hike, reminding me of my strength.

wednesday night, and i am here, still, and still.

emerging.

last day of school for me, technically.

tomorrow i watch my twelve-year old son graduate from elementary school: decked out in a suit, purple shirt, socks and hat.  that's the plan, at least.  it's hanging in his closet, ready to be broken in.  he will actually wear a belt.  today, attempting to try it on for the first time, he tried to slide the buckle through the loops first.  

welcome to the world of grown-up clothes, milo.  save the buckle for last.  just a tip.

tonight i cooked veggies and farro for dinner; nothing special, nothing fancy.  just small delight in cutting up different colored carrots, so grateful for the already-caramelized onions in my fridge.  just a little dinner.  just a little moment in my life, but somehow the thankfulness for a sharp knife and fresh veggies just did me in a little bit.

walked the dogs around the neighborhood, saying hi to people i don't know.  listening to a story on "this american life", so happy to hear it i laugh out loud when the crooner says the cops stopped to request "summer wind."  how full of life.  goodness.  moments of humanity so strong they bowl me over with fierce love for this world and its inhabitants.

i find myself wanting to be more poetical about all of this, but i just can't tonight.  tonight, it's as plain as the nose on my face.

later i'll go to my closet and attempt to find something to wear tomorrow that fits me.  this attempt will coincide with all of my heart's will to refuse the thoughts that nothingfitsbecauseoftheweightgainmystomachmybreastspointthewrongwaynowmywaistcan'tmaintain

thatdress'swaistlineanymorewhatawastetojusthaveithanginmycloset...

blah blah.  you all know the drill.  i'm bored of it.  the drill bit is dull.  i need a replacement.

my brain! my brain, my beautiful, crooked brain.  

crooked little heart, crooked spine, crooked view of my body.  

blah blah blah.

today i sent off my kindergarten class with a wish and a remembrance: "this book is for you; and what i'll remember the most about you is how much ENERGY your body had!  how excited you were for each day!  how you loved to play with your friends so much!!"  all of these coded comments that give way to wry, shy smiles on the children they belong to.  god help me, but i love them. despite everything--despite myself and my teaching fails this year--i love them all.  i sent them on their way to first grade with love and hopefully a firm number sense.

summer is raising her gloriously ugly head around here, and i welcome her with an open heart and mind.  the weight of so-much-to-do-this-summer has taken me, but i will shake it off now and then to enjoy the freedom of a non-scheduled life.  ah!  she is pretty cute, that summer season, when she wants to be.  she always promises a lot, and has always delivered interesting developments during her months.  summer; with the bared skin and freckles emerging, legs having to be shaved more often, toes painted, nights longer and sundown lingering on my face.  

tonight i'm feeling content, even as the police helicopter does its swirly roar above my house.  just try and fuck with my mood tonight, Los Angeles!  just try.  i'm impervious, impenetrable.  woman of steel with a moss-soft heart looking to maintain this hopefulness.

i'm here, just sitting here, absorbing all of this life in front of me.

blog tour.

one of my dearest blogger friends, jena strong, invited me to participate in this blog tour, so here are the answers to the questions posed:

What Am I Working On Now?

ha ha ha.  what, indeed?  right now i am working on getting through the last four days of school, watching my son graduate 6th grade, and keeping a close eye on my cat who seems to be in the last throes of her cranky, lovable existence.  in terms of my blog, i think i am working on the idea that my voice is necessary, and that i have a right to speak in this way.  i am working on solidifying a habit of attentive writing, as well as carving out time to do this.

i am also working on my long-lost idea that i should write a children's book.  

How Does My Work Differ From Others In My Genre?

i think i would be categorized as a "mommy-blogger", god help me.  i know that is how i started: being able to talk about parenting in a real and truthful way was so good for me, and saved me more than a few times.  i struggle with the need for my work.  i often take breaks from writing, feeling like i've said everything there is to say.  except that's just not true.  the trouble is, i know i could say so much more but i find myself censoring my creative output.  mostly because i write about my life, and i know there will be consequences for opening up even more than i already have.  

it's hard enough reading my mom's comments now.  can't imagine what would happen if i really let loose.

why is my voice important?  i really don't know.  my combative relationship with my self-worth sometimes is too loud, and i err on the side of silence.

i don't like this about myself.  working on this one.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

sorta just answered that above, but to elaborate: i need to speak it, and speak it loudly.  i'm not in favor of privacy, especially when it pertains to hiding emotions that are scary or challenging.  i like to be the voice in the room that opens the windows with my thoughts.  i will admit things that others hide, but it's not just the audacity of that move that i feel important writing about.  it's that i need to explore every nook and cranny within myself.  more than anything, i need to make connections with others in this life.  i need to feel validated by my humanness, so i say everything in hopes someone else will find herself connected to me, and vice versa.

i've been told that i'm an empath.  i think that's true.

How Does My Process Work?

yes, indeed.  process.  my process looks like this:

i go a few weeks without writing, but i find moments throughout each day that i want to elaborate on.  but then i forget them, in the midst of all of the chaos of my world.  so i walk around with a nagging sensation that i NEED to write, that there is SOMETHING i must say, but i can't seem to remember it so i continue my journey until it hits me over the head again and i try to squeeze in fifteen minutes at the kitchen table with my ipad in front of me and my family in the background.

just as i wrote this, there was a small earthquake which coincided with my son falling down; we couldn't tell for a moment if the force of his fall shook the house or if the tectonic plates were arguing.

after it stopped shaking he came to me asking where his drawing book was in a plaintive tone, telling me he couldn't find it anywhere.  it was, of course, on the table next to me.

that is my process.  

that is what happens when i write this blog.  and honestly, sometimes i'm not sure why i keep doing it, except that this is the place where i can be the clearest version of myself.  the most holly that i can possibly be exists here.  

i try my best.