november 16

so much i want to write today. i want to write about seven years of being married to the best person i know. i want to participate in christina's simple things. i want to share a few very very good things happening in our world. i want to reach inside to share pieces of the truth that is my life, my path.

but i am tired and i am needing to rest and curl up on the couch with jonny and just be a bit while drinking tea and eating a cookie or two and watching a movie.

so, instead of writing all the things i want to write, i want to instead say this:

how are you?

really,

how. are. you?

november 15

while jon napped this evening and millie followed me around, i decided to snap several photos...glimpses around the house...a moment in time in my world.

november 14

 

me and my dad . long ago

i hear the laughter and the sounds from the carousel as we spin spin spin and go up and down and pretend we are flying. i smell the popcorn and see all the faces from up above. i taste a tinge of fear with the excited butterflies in my belly. i feel my hair flying around me and then i grip the side again as soon as i finish waving. as the deflated, oh we are going down now sound signals the end of this adventure, i hear myself, "can we go again?" but then we are off to peter pan or mr. toad's or the people movers, which i can never get enough of. this laughter. this "yes, we can go again." this holding onto a hand you trust. this is what i know.

five (really) good things . on november 13

 

1. apples. just can't get enough of these lately.

2. jonny coming home early the last couple of days, including today. (thank you)

3. blue sky (even though it feels like winter outside).

4. a quiet weekend to come.

5. giving myself permission to let go of the guilt of being so behind on email, on reopening my etsy shop, and on the list goes. just breathing in and out. doing the best i can. 

and you.

what are your five really good things?

i dare you to list them.

right now.

november 12

scenes from this afternoon in (great) aunt honey's backyard:

it's a quiet sort of night. a letting someone else take care of things (of me) sort of night. a snuggled already in pajamas, two blankets covering me on the sofa sort of night. there is tea and my version of comfort food and bits of whispered dreams and everything is just as it should be. these are the nights when i push myself toward gratitude and let go of the shoulds and to dos and just try to breathe in and out.

november 11

squam lake pause . september, 2009

a poem, written april 18, 2009

stitch by stitch 

i closed the fracture 

along the southern 

half of my heart 

until the realization 

i cannot

dam

life

today

i let living 

fill the cracks

november 10

 

 in jen's kitchen . one year ago

shutter sisters has invited readers to look back to one year ago...

last year, sitting at a dear friend's dining room table, i did a stream of consciousness writing kind of blog post that led me to this:

i am here.
i am here.
i am here.
and it is beauty.
all of it.
it is beauty.
(thank you) 

the post from one year ago reveals some whispers of truth i had wanted to share for a long time. even though i shared them in images and phrases that do not fill in the gaps of the stories, it felt powerful to claim the pieces of my past in this way.

i thought i might do this in reverse today to share pieces of this moment, on this day:

i remember a dream that became an "of course life will unfold this way" belief that turned into an "oh, i don't think i am ready for that" sort of decision. i remember a path that began to appear that enveloped me in light and love yet was filled with confusion and fear. i remember a whispered moment that became an unburying of what i was determined to ignore. i remember the afternoon that swirled into laughter that led to hope being shared and heard. i remember the reflection i met eye to eye that pushed me to accept the truth i have always known. i remember the love that entwined with the dream and held the fear and confusion and then birthed all that was meant to be.

i am here.
i am here.
i am here.
and it is beauty.
all of it.
it is beauty.
(thank you)

november 9

 

olympic peninsula forest . april, 2009 

i wonder about the moment
when the fern
dug in,
insisting it had found
its true home
50 feet from the earth,
rooted in the oak.
did the moss feel surprise
or just sigh,
knowing the quiet
was too good to be true?