the thing with feathers

My friends are fancy!

2012-01-28T16:40:00.000-08:00

Case in point: my lovely friend Adrienne threw a baby shower for her own sweet and lovely friend Cherie this morning. I came early to help set up. Adrienne had made a little cake.

Seriously, this picture does not do justice to how absolutely pretty the (double chocolate cheese)cake was. The party theme was french birds and nests, and there is a lovely chocolate nest with truffle eggs on top. Before the party, Adrienne insisted that I eat one of the eggs that had gotten a little smooshed, and holy oeuf. Yummiest egg ever. Here are a few more pictures from her petit table.

This is brie en croute. See how it's shaped like an oiseau? I told you. She's fancy.

Here are a few more pictures.

Do you see the little bird hiding in the flowers below?

The party itself was, of course, nothing short of fancy. The party games were bird themed, french music rose up from the turntable (okay, the CD player, but that doesn't sound as fancy.) The guest of honor and her little baby bump were showered in love. It was...fancy, yes, but more than that, it was like, delicious. The food, the games, the pretty little things. It was all just delicious. And I am once again reminded that my friends are amazing.

Rainy Day at the River

2012-01-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

I didn't really want to go...

...but I'm glad I did.

Corners Thursday

2012-01-19T09:43:00.001-08:00

I asked him to make me a chicken wire hutch, in which to store crafty supplies.

Below it lives our little nature table. Wait, does that say liver? Um, yeah. I meant l'hiver.

go here for more corners.

Happy Thursday!

A Day to Cherish

2012-01-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

For Christmas, Liam got the box set of Peter and the Wolf, illustrated by Bono and performed on disk by Gavin Friday. Last night we sat in bed, reading and listening, occasionally chatting, finally laying back. "The grandfather walks with a cane," Liam told me. "You can hear it in the music."

Later, he asked me to write out words on paper. I wrote tent, camp, stop, pig, bag. He read each word. It was Martin Luther King day. In the morning we marched through town. After that

we watched the I Have a Dream speech on youtube, and by the end of the day, my youngest child was reading.

An angel

2012-01-13T08:37:00.000-08:00

This morning as I meditated, Ireland, who is home sick from school, tiptoed by and placed a glass piece with a swirl of green into my open hand. My eyes fluttered open as my hand closed instinctively around it and my mouth turned up in smile.

Later, as I put my hands together in namaste, the glass piece still between my palms, Ireland whispered, "Mommy. An angel was in here. She put that stone in your hand."

"I thought I saw an angel," I whispered back.

2 poems by Ireland, age 9

The eagle flies

through the skies

and he dives.

His head is white

for his flight

is very bright

when the moon is light

then he dives for his prey

then he goes away in

the month of May.

Marshmallow Dog

a collaborative poem between Ireland and her two friends, Izabelle and Miriam

Marshmallow dog is white as snow.

She gets cold when the winter wind blows.

We give her a blanket to keep snug.

And then we give her a great big hug.

Gifts from the bay

2012-01-11T15:49:00.000-08:00

Before moving officially into 2012, the last shots of the year. These were taken during the Benicia lighted boat parade. Dear friends (who live on their boat), good food, and a child's chance to steer us into the bay. Goodbye 2011. Thank you for the gifts.

Five Views of a Sunset in California City

2012-01-10T15:47:00.000-08:00

Now we are seven

2012-01-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

Seven journeys around the sun.

Seven years with this child.

He sings songs about birds, and every night at dinnertime he recites his verse, thanking the fields, the rain, and the sun. He dances in his goofball shirt and marvels at story, but he doesn't like the parts where the characters aren't kind. When Peter says nasty things to the lost boys, he covers his ears with his hands.

He is fearless, and so often full of joy.

My wish for you, sweet boy, is that you stay young for as long as you can.

Being your mother has been an awfully big adventure. You make me believe in magic.

Happy Halloween: Morning pictures

2011-10-31T11:22:00.000-07:00

Isn't it amazing how I made it look like this pumpkin was rotting from the inside? Pure genius.
Our dog likes pumpkins.
Big pumpkin from the back yard.
Tonight I'll be making Martha's eyeball highballs.

I'll try to post again tonight. Hope your halloween is spooky fun!

October 5

2011-10-05T08:05:00.001-07:00

Last night it came: the first rain of the season. In the moments before "lights out," I roused everyone from their beds and insisted they come outside with me. Shane and Ireland stood huddled beneath a blanket; soon they went inside. But Liam and I turned our faces to the sky and opened our mouths and drank. I held him in my arms, my still little boy, and we danced.

On Writing

2011-09-19T10:23:00.001-07:00

I don't feel like writing today. I have my computer and my story idea and my cup of coffee. My kids are both in school, and I have been waiting patiently for many years for this time to come, these days when I could write and write and write. But today it sounds like a dreadful thing to do. This writing.

I am sitting on the front porch on this beautiful September day. I have a glass of ice water and a really cute mug with my coffee in it. The mug is a gift from my friend Archna. It's white with blue green flowers and a blue green handle, and it has the silhouette of a bird in a cage. The coffee that's inside of it is strong and a little bit light in color because of the half and half.

People are walking past my house and down the street and my dog is inside wanting to get out. But I can't let her out because she will go to the neighbors' lawn and we are not on the best of terms with the neighbors.

A pale moth floats over and through the garden. I am tired and grumpy. The book I'm writing is depressing. It's about death and madness. I'm always drawn to death and madness, and it's what I always write about, only usually there's some magic in there too. Today nothing feels magical, even with that pale moth and the water so cold bubbles form around the outside of the mason jar.

I think, maybe I would feel like writing if I were to clean the porch. It's easier to be creative in pristine spaces. But there are spiderwebs everywhere and the driftwood I've collected in baskets and placed upon the trellis is dusty. The driftwood is there so that the kids can pick the pieces up and take them someplace and use them to make fairy houses or Andy Goldsworthy designs. But when they are so dusty, they aren't appealing. Maybe I should quit all this writing and be a better housekeeper. I would have a clean porch and kill all the spiders and have the most appealing baskets of driftwood this side of Soulemama.

But I worship spiders. And I don't think quitting is an option.

If quitting were an option, I would have done it by now. I've tried to do it, and I've made grand announcements to everyone I know that I am going to get a job at Walmart. I don't know why I always announce that I'm going to work at Walmart because really, that is the last place I would ever apply, and in fact it is against my religion even to shop there. Maybe I feel like that will be my punishment for giving up. If I quit, okay fine, but I have to go work in the guns and ammo section at Walmart. Maybe that's what keeps me from quitting.

If I were to decide never to write again, no one would really have to know it. I could tell everyone I'm writing, but actually spend my days watching play it now movies on Netflix. I could even be smart about it and catch up on my Dostoyevsky and Faulkner. The truth is, I don't know Faulkner from a hole in the ground. What kind of writer am I, not even to be intimate with Faulkner? A bad one. That's for sure.

But you know what? When I started this post, I still had an hour left of my designated daily quota of writer's time and it seemed unbearable. And now I only have a half hour left. And I didn't get up and brush away the spiderwebs, or polish the drift wood. I wrote.

And I didn't have an agenda, or a happy ending or anything lined up for this post. I only knew that I was not in the mood to write, but that I'd be mad at myself if I didn't put in the time, and I thought of my blog because I always neglect it anyways, and now here I am at the end of this post. And I think I'm ready to go back to my novel, because I can do anything for a half hour. And tomorrow, I will be back to my computer, to my story about madness and death, or maybe a better story, one that will present itself to me in the night. Because this is the promise I made to myself.

To my children on the first day of school

2011-09-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Dear ones,

Today is supposed to be bittersweet for me--both my kids off for a full day of school in "the grades." But you are both so excited that, for me, today is only sweet. With all this free time that is suddenly upon me, I want to take a moment to remind you of some important things to keep in mind this year.

You are so smart. Ireland, your sense of humor is so quick and sharp that you sometimes leave me stunned, thinking, "Did she just say that?" Liam, you ask so many intelligent and interesting questions when we sit together to read a book (as in The Borrowers; "Is what they're doing really called borrowing?") You are both critical thinkers, which means you are very good at thinking for yourselves. Remember this when you are struggling in class, when you just can't find the right answer. Remember this when you feel frustrated because learning a new thing is proving a challenge. You are so smart. You are so smart.

You are so kind. Do you remember what happened the other morning? First Ireland called to me, "Mom?" "Yeah?" "Liam is so nice." And a few minutes later, Liam called to me. "Mom?" "Yeah?" "Irie is so nice." And she is. And you are. Remember this if there's someone in your class who could use a kind word or a smile. Remember this too when someone is unkind to you, or to a friend. Having said that:

People have bad days. Sometimes you have bad days. Sometimes I do. Remember that when someone doesn't speak to you as nicely as you might wish. Remember, they might be having a hard time with something that has nothing to do with you. Maybe they just got a bad grade on a test, maybe they had an argument with a sibling. Try not to take it personally. Don't assume you did something to make them mad.

You are a human. Beautiful and imperfect. It is okay to be scared sometimes too. It is okay to be mad sometimes too.

Most importantly, please know that me and your dad are here for you. Every day. So if there's ever something bothering you, please let us know. We will do our best to help. We too are imperfectly human. But we love you, and that makes us better people.

Love,

mom

these summer days

2011-08-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

I hate the heat. I hate it in a way I can't explain. My dad once said, "the heat makes you wilt," and while I don't consider myself particularly flower-like, I do feel that sentiment resonate. I am grumpy on hot summer days; I am lethargic and short. I apologize to my children a lot. They roll their eyes, kindly dismissing my apologies. I appreciate that.

"I hate the heat," I mumble from the couch, ice water in my hand, a fan directed right at my face.

"Why do you hate it?" Ireland asks. "I mean, no one likes the heat, but why is it so hard on you?" I mumble something, too hot even to speak. Then I put on a movie for the kids--a rare treat they are treated to more freely on hot summer afternoons, and escape to their bedroom, which is as least shady and a little cooler. And suddenly I am overtaken by a fierce burst of love. I go back to the living room and kiss them both. Ireland grins, and Liam holds me to him with his arms and legs. Leaving the room, I turn back. "I love you," I say, but their attention has returned to the TV.

It is all okay. It is all perfect. They know I love them. They like to be reminded, but they don't crave it being said. And that, at this broiling moment in time, makes me feel really good.

Windows

2011-04-26T10:36:00.000-07:00

These are the journal pages I created in Teresa McFayden's e-workshop, Windows to my world. I love these e-courses because they remind me to connect with myself, to slow down, to craft and ponder. I don't love all these pages, but I loved the mornings I spent on them, before the kids woke up, and I hope I'll remember that whenever I return to this journal. Early spring, fresh from bed, a time to write and think.

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T12:35:00.001-07:00

Preemtive Dyeing

2011-04-21T08:44:00.001-07:00

Shane's gone for work this week, so we won't be officially dyeing our eggs until Saturday. But it's Spring Break, and I think we were all jonesing for a little egg action. So when I showed the kids this post on Alisa Burke's blog, a plan was hatched, so to speak.

Just nine eggs. A simple sit-down crafting session.

Happy week before Easter to you. I hope your days are speckled with simple moments of beauty.

Just a post

2011-04-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I got a phone message from my mother that my grandpa had died. I had been about to start dinner when I got the message, so I called my mom back and started chopping garlic for squash blossom soup.

Which kind of puts me in mind the character in The Stranger who laughs at his mother's funeral.

My grandpa was a man, and he was a part of my life. I never really knew him, but I knew stuff about him. When I was a child, he would growl at me and try to catch me whenever I passed his chair. I would shriek and run from him, and the truth is I didn't like it. I was afraid of him catching me, tickling me maybe, touching me: I just didn't want any part of it.

Sometimes they would babysit me. While my parents were gone, my grandparents would feed me cottage cheese and peaches. I spent most of this time with my grandma. I liked the magnets she collected, little indian girls carrying watercolor flowers. Once we made bread.

Memories loop and swirl and dive, I can't be sure what happened where. I remember a pink record player, but that must have been at a cousin's house. I remember my grandma watching General Hospital--that was quiet time, and I'd sit at her table and practice writing my alphabet.

They moved to Sedona; we drifted apart. There were phone calls sometimes, and Christmas cards. They flew out for my college graduation.

Several years ago, my grandma died, and my mom and I flew to Arizona to watch the airplane spread her ashes over the red Sedona rocks. More time. More distance.

I have always known things about my grandparents. I have known things. I grew up with the stories, and as I grew, the stories got more detailed.

So why would I care when, as an adult, the few communications I had with my Grandpa went awry? I didn't, not much. I had never really known him well after all.

The last time I saw him was when my daughter was two. He was visiting my mom's cousin in LA; we met there for lunch.

He was nice, civil, old-seeming. His new wife sat next to me on the couch, showed me some pictures of her horses. Then she said some unkind things about my mom, and I was shocked by her understanding of loyalty.

After that, I continued to send Christmas cards and pictures of my kids, but I had essentially written him off as just a man I once knew, but never well.

So when my mom called a few weeks ago and told me, "Bob had a heart attack," my only concern was for her. When she called me two days ago and told me he had died, I didn't feel much. It's like the joke where the woman tells her husband the cat's dead; I was already prepared.

Still. Shouldn't I feel something? Just a little nudge of something? I don't know.

So I am sitting here, trying to remember one nice thing, but I am coming up only with memories of dark wood, boring depressing conversations. And maybe the nicest thing was the way he growled at me from his chair, pretending to try to catch me, because certainly he did that with love. Did I feel it, just for one moment, as I darted past him laughing? Didn't I want, just a tiny bit, to be caught and held?

handmade hats

2011-03-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

Reason number 536 why I love my kids' school:

They teach them to make hats! Irie's is crocheted, and Liam was able to use his favorite new skill: The blanket stitch. He really does enjoy sewing things with blanket stitch. We are all now proud owners of several felt hanging wallet necklaces, complete with blanket stitched sides. And he is working on a pair of elf slippers too--which I'll post when he's done.

And I just love the thrill they get from bringing home these amazing creations. So much better than a completed homework packet. That's what I think, anyway.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

2011-03-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

So...guess who has started losing his baby teeth...

Extreme close-up:

The first one came out during his sister's birthday slumber party extravaganza. At this very moment, said tooth might be shining up from one of the cracks on the sidewalk of Stockton Blvd. Walking home from pizza, he said, "I think one of my teeth is missing." You mean the tooth that has been hanging by a thread for days, the one you can make lean from your gum at a freakish angle? Yup, that's the one, and yessir, it's gone.

The next one he lost over tacos two days later.

Last night he said, "I have the coolest mouth, because teeth keep falling out of it!"

And I have the coolest son.

The other day, we made these little pinecone gnomes for the nature table. The idea and instructions came from gardenmama's Valentine Gnome & Felt Heart Pin Tutorial. What a great blog--we'll be returning to it often for inspiration.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to you!

What nine looks like

2011-03-11T14:52:00.000-08:00

In Waldorf, there's a lot of talk about the "nine-year change." Rudolf Steiner says, "In the ninth year the child really experiences a complete transformation of its being, which indicates an important transformation of its soul-life and its bodily-physical experiences." Parents in my daughter's third grade class are learning that nine year olds go through a sort of preadolescence, and we begin to get a sense of what they will be like as teenagers. It all seems so text-book, and it's true that I have seen changes.

Here are a few: in the past year, she has learned the gentle art of sarcasm. She prefers earrings to princesses and clothes to dolls. When upset, she no longer flings herself into my arms, but goes away to cry quietly behind closed doors.

Sometimes she cries without knowing why. Recently, she realized she had hurt a friend's feelings, and she took it hard. "I don't like hurting my best friend," she sobbed. Into the bathroom she went, armed with the phone to make an apology phone call.

It is tough stuff, this growing up.

But the other day, after driving some neighbor-friends to their house from a playdate, Ireland asked if she could walk while I drove home. I agreed, and I drove slowly, watching her out the driver side window. She skipped. She twirled. She stopped to say hello to a cat. She hopped up curbs. She is not so heavy yet upon this earth.

And just now, she came flying through the front door from girl scouts, earrings flashing, the kinder-necklace her little brother gave her for her birthday bouncing. "Oh my gosh! They had things that were a quarter. Like you could get four things for a dollar." Then she burst into song. Then, "I went four or five miles for a walk today. Really! It was sooo long."

You know what? I'm outta here. I'm off to hang out with this sweet, sometimes complicated, funny, kind, and always soulful nine year old.

Happy birthday, darling girl.

Fly, all your life

2011-02-17T11:23:00.000-08:00

Ireland's class will have their first overnight field trip this year: A camp-out at a local farm.

"Right up my alley!" I said to the teacher. "Sign me up as a driver! Besides, the date of the overnight is my birthday!" The answer came. "You don't have enough seat belts in your car."

This morning, as rain fell outside the living room window and Irie sat beside me on the arm of the couch, fiddling with a Guatemalan worry doll, I told her, "It doesn't look like I'm going to be able to go on your field trip."

"Then I'm not going," was her immediate answer. And a moment later, "Do I have to go?"

I didn't have the heart to tell her yes. Oh yes, she will be going. For the time being I said, "It's a month away, we'll talk about it later."

Part of me wants to pull her onto lap and say, "No, of course you don't have to go." This is the part of me who wants to take it personally. "My baby still needs me," it whispers. "Hold her tight, don't let her go." This is the ego though. She is ready, I know she is. And so there is another part of me, the part I know I'll listen to, which speaks confidently. "Let her go."

There is bitterness here too. Seat belts schmeat belts, my bitter heart says. Let me ride along with someone then. It's my birthday. But this one isn't about me. No.

She will go, and I'm sure she will miss me. Maybe she will cry a little, just before bed, but probably not. I didn't decide to be a mother so that I'd be needed. Ireland has already made this world a better place. I'm just so lucky to be the one who gets to let her go, just a little, everyday.

Remains of the Day Journal

2010-11-20T11:59:00.001-08:00

If you're someone who follows craft blogs, you have probably heard of Mary Ann Moss' Remains of the Day online class. And if so you know that it's inspiring, and liberating, and at the end you get this really cool prize, which is the journal you've created. Well, it took awhile, but here it is, my "finished" journal (of course it's not actually finished until it's all written in, torn up, and added to).

To my reader friends

2010-11-03T08:05:00.000-07:00

It has been a long time, I know. My camera is broken, and the drama of daily life has been a little more pronounced. But I miss this space. I just want you to know that I will be back.

A Better Day

2010-09-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

Last night before bed, Liam ended up telling me what had been troubling him all day long. “We’re not allowed to play Spiderman at my school,” he said.
I know why he’s not allowed to play Spiderman at school. Waldorf encourages imaginary play, and discourages anything related to characters from TV or video games. Liam doesn’t get his knowledge of Spiderman from either of these things, but that doesn’t matter. In Waldorf, Spiderman is an ugly word, and I get that. I really do.
Liam was introduced to Spiderman by his friend, Ethan. When they play, they are both Spiderman, and they web things and get the bad guys. If either of them should fall, one will say, “Are you okay, Spiderman?” And the other will say, “Yeah. I’m okay Spiderman.” And it is really a loving game.
Yesterday as we were leaving school, Liam’s friend Jake said, “Bye Spiderman!” And Liam didn’t answer. Then last night, after Liam told me his secret, I suggested he could play Spiderman with Irie for a few minutes before bed. And at some point Irie came out to the living room and said, “He wants us both to be Spiderman.”
And I got it, and I felt sad, because even though I know he can’t be allowed to play Spiderman at school, the game doesn’t represent violence for him. It represents teamwork, equality (we are all created Spiderman), and friendship.
Shane is out of town, and when Dad’s gone I let the kids sleep in my bed. By the time I crawled in beside Liam, he was long asleep, and I curled my arms around him and held him tight. Just before I fell asleep, I had an idea.
We are big fans of the Ladybug Girl books by David Soman and Jacky Davis. In them, a little girl dons her ladybug costume and fights bad guys. And in Ladybug girl and Bumblebee Boy, the two little superheroes form a bug squad. They basically do the same things Liam and Ethan do when they are playing Spiderman, only Bumblebee Boy has a stinger and Ladybug girl has wings.
This morning as we were driving Irie to school, Liam sighed. “I wish I could just take a little day off from school,” he said.
I said, “I had an idea. You don’t have to do it, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” I explained to him the reasons why Ms. Sandy doesn’t want him playing Spiderman at school. “But I think you could play Bumblebee Boy. And you could be Bumblebee Boy and you and your friends could form a bug squad.”
“Yeah,” Irie said, “And you know that shirt you wore to the first day of school--it kind of looks like a bee shirt!” (It doesn’t, but thank you my dear).
And Liam went, “Yeah…..”
By the time we got Irie to school, Liam was himself again. And later, when I drove him to kindergarten (we spend a lot of time in the car these days), he talked about how much he loves school. At home, he got dressed in his Bumblebee Boy costume, complete with a stinger. He stung me, turning me into a honeybee. When I dropped him off at school, he played with two new friends, made them laugh, and looked completely at ease.
I don’t know how school is going to go today, but I think it’s going to be a good day. I’m not going to post this until after I know. If you’re reading this, Bumblebee Boy made it through the first week and is looking forward to going back to school on Monday.
One more thing: As we were driving Irie to school this morning, I said, “The bad news is, there are going to be bad days. But the good news is, there will be more good ones than bad ones.”
Liam said, “I don’t think so…”
I said, “Why not, you had two great days at school, and only one bad one--”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I think I’ll only have good days forever.” Oh my love. With an attitude like that, maybe, just maybe, you will.

A post for Liam

2010-09-09T16:04:00.001-07:00

The first two days of kindergarten went off like a dream. You looked so natural on the playground, running across the balance beam made of logs and stumps, making sure all the kids got turns. On the first day, when Mei and Ms. Sandy rang the bell, I watched you walk into your classroom. You put your slippers in your cubby like you were performing a spiritual act.

Today in the car, driving home, you were quiet. You were one of the only kids in your class who didn't come home with a drawing. Ireland asked you why, and you told her, "I don't know how to explain it." And then you said, awe in your voice, "Do you know some boys laugh when other people cry? Like, today I cried, and there were two boys who just laughed."

"Why did you cry?" I asked.

"I don't want to say," you mumbled, looking out the window.

I said: I'm very sorry to hear that those boys laughed when you cried.

I said: I'm not going to make you tell me what happened, but I'd like for you to know that you can tell me.

I said: I won't be angry if you got in trouble.

"I'm scared," you said, and I remembered something that Ireland's teacher once told me. "Trying to get them to talk about their bad day is like ripping a band aid from a wound." So I dropped it.

At home, I asked you clean up your books. You began placing the books in your basket, and maybe they weren't fitting just right. You made a loud of noise of frustration, kicking the basket, once, twice. I was angry. "Hey!" I said, in my look at me voice. Your expression made me soften. "When did you start acting out like this?"

Your face crumpled. "I never did before," you answered, sobs already rising, your shoulders beginning to shake.

I said: "Come here."

You curled into my lap and sobbed, heavy, a little wild. I don't know what you needed to get out. But I hope you got it. I hope you got it out.

My son. I wish I knew what happened. I wish I knew the right thing to say, to let you know that I love you, that you are amazing, and smart, and kind. That you will do things you shouldn't and I will still love you, and that while some boys might laugh when you cry, you are strong, and the things that make you sensitive are among your most precious. I wish I could hold you, as I did today, whenever you feel sad, or scared. But I know that you are growing up, and things are going to happen. Kids, people, are not always kind. You will get hurt. You might fall. I won't always be there to pick you up.

But I want you to know that you can always come to me. Whenever you want to talk. Whenever you want to curl up into my lap and cry.

And keep crying, my son. Please. Just keep on being you.

First Day of School

2010-09-07T16:30:00.000-07:00

For the little girl in this picture, the first day of school is no longer some great big mystery. She knows her teacher, she knows everyone in her class, and because she helped volunteer over the summer, she even knew where she would be sitting (first row) next to her new partner (Byron). But let me give credit where credit is due, she started THIRD GRADE today. I know.

For the little boy in the picture, school has, up until today, been a thing that other people go to. He has spent a lot of time at school, but not in school. He has seen his friends come in and out of kindergarten, and he has been patiently awaiting his turn. And today his turn came.

Oh yeah. He's going to be juuust fine.

Last Day of Summer

2010-09-06T13:07:00.001-07:00

As a child, I read a line from a book that said something like: "I hate showering on the last night before the first day of school. It's like I'm showering the summer away." This idea has stuck with me through the years, although I have no idea what the book was or what it was about. Tonight we'll be showering away summer. Tomorrow, school starts.

And Liam, Liam will be away from us for the very first time. He will be in the sweetest kindergarten in the world--a Waldorf dream-world of fairies and gnomes and song. Holding hands, making friends, playing in the mud and getting wet. I have been excited about this day for a long time. I know he'll have a blast.

And yet. When he takes his shower tonight, he'll be washing something else away, something in addition to summer.

At the kindergarten tea last month, Liam started crying. A little girl had told him he couldn't play with the fairy tree house, and she had pushed him off a stool and scratched his nose. Sure enough, there was a small scratch, a little blood. I am his mother. I am fiercely loyal, and I am the one he runs to when he's hurt. And from now on, I won't always be there.

Sometimes he will make mistakes. And instead of being reprimanded by me, it will be a teacher, another mom. I beg of them, be gentle.

In Waldorf, Kindergarten is meant to be a gentle transition from home to school. They don't sit at desks or learn the alphabet. Instead, they eat at tables lined with flowers, they wash their own dishes, they learn to sew. He is so ready. He is going to thrive.

I know there is nothing new here. Most kids go to preschool, they make the transition far earlier. I know he needs this. His spirit needs this freedom, to be away, to know other adults, to learn how to learn from someone other than me.

When I take him tomorrow to his first day of kindergarten, I don't expect there to be tears. Not from him, and not from me either. It is time, and we are both excited. But tonight, when he's playing with his dinosaurs in the shower, I might just feel a little twinge. As summer slips away, dirt from his legs, ice cream from his face, and sweat from his hair. Sunscreen from his shoulders. He will emerge, and he will be ready.

Reunited and it feels so good...

2010-08-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

Hopefully this is the last of the pictures I'll have to take with my cell phone for a while. Yes, I know people love their cell phones and their picture taking capabilities. But I'm still not a cell phone person, and I love my camera.

Recently, on a camping trip, my camera went missing. I combed the beaches and the trails, looked under the carseats, and unpacked gingerly, quitely hoping.

And it was nowhere, and I was sad.

But guess what! It was in Shane's backpack the whole time! (How did this happen? We suspect it changed hands in the midst of a hike, but neither of us can really remember. Which is pretty strange, but there it is.)

So what does this mean? It means I didn't get pictures of most of that camping trip. It means I didn't get any usuable pictures from our canoe trip this weekend, wherein we decided to paddle upstream, then float leisurely back down. It means I didn't get any usable shots of Shane walking upstream, towing us behind him in the canoe by a rope (and by us I mean myself, Liam and my hundred and something pound stepson) or of Irie laying leisurly in the tube that was being towed behind the canoe. Those would have been fun.

It means I will get pictures of Liam's first day of Kindergarten, and of the belated birthday presents I received yesterday by mail. It means this time I'm holding on tight. I don't want to miss any more shots.

An Altered book by Ireland

2010-07-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

Costume Fun

2010-07-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

So. Last night, after washing the dinner dishes and turning off the water, I heard from the living room a strange tribal beat. I wish I had been able to record it, but it went like this: ra-bome bome bome, ra-bome bome bome bome bome. I went to investigate, it was evidently a dance portraying the age old fighting ritual between explorer and rabbit. You know the one: The main characters, attached by a rope, jump to their own chanting. In the end, the explorer captures the rabbit, and in the final scene, we see that she will treat him well.

I love costumes. I love my children's love for costumes.

It's like every day is Halloween. And why shouldn't it be? They're only young once.

Liam is going to be starting school soon, which I know means I'm going to have to limit his wardrobe selections some. No more wearing a power ranger suit all day, or a witch's dress or the green tights of a flying boy. But I know, even in school, he will be encouraged to don gnome caps and magic capes.

And after all, there's always the weekend!

camping

2010-07-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

I know that I have been a terrible blogger lately. I haven't felt very motivated, and the truth is, it may be about quitting time for me. And yet, I do so love the pages I've amassed over the years (!)--blogging and printing, a scrapbook of sorts, one I would never have made without this blog. And so I resist quitting.

I am, even now, forcing myself to sit down and write this. There are floors to vacuum, children to play with, and I feel I should devote any "free" time to working on my professional writing. But I think the day will come that I'll wish I hadn't stopped, because the memories won't have been recorded in this wonderful way--I know I'm not about to start a paper scrapbook, and this blog has always been meant to be a gift to my children.

And yes, it has become so much more than that, a place to meet new friends, to participate in art swaps and challenges, to be inspired by readers and other bloggers. So I won't quit, at least, not yet.

In fact, I am feeling a renewed excitement.

Phew, enough blabbing. Summer is here and everyone is heading outdoors. We have gone to the woods a couple of times now. I'll stop writing for a bit and let some pictures suffice.

I hope you're having a wonderful summer. How do you record your memories?

Belated Father's Day Post

2010-06-21T08:28:00.000-07:00

I'd wanted to post this yesterday, but I was hit by a stange and sudden fever. Over the past several years, Shane and I have been smacked again and again by the lack of value our society assigns fathers. It's maddening, unjust, and ultimately, damaging for the children.
Dads, you are the men our children measure themselves against. They will hold you up to the light, shake you up and down, try to fit themselves into your bodies. They will look to you again and again, as a source of strength, and hilarity, and adventure. Here's to the fathers. You are far more important than they want us to believe.

Gifts

2010-05-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." -Danish Proverb

That quote came from a birthday card a friend gave me.

On the day before my birthday, we met up again at the whole earth festival in Davis. Newish old friends, our souls forever connected. She gave me gifts, a butterfly of straw, notebooks and inspiration, she knows me so well. Her son painted me a green rock for the nature table. And...

is there anything more amazing than this fairy garden nest?

In my dreams I collapse in to this world where little girls wear black wings and Eskimo boots, we dance in the rain crafting headbands of feathers and string, and all the while the drums beat, calling out the wild ones, the ones who refuse to be tamed.

Best was a secret shared under a tree, her hand on her belly, her mermaid hair across her shoulders. And there, I watched as she lay back on a blanket and listened to two hearts beating, while across the way men and women beat their drums, dancers wild wings spreading. and there was So Much peace.

and it is beautiful. i am filled with so much happiness, and cannot wait to hold this tiniest one in my arms.

remains of the day

2010-05-17T12:40:00.001-07:00

When my dad asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, I knew exactly what to tell him. "I would like (if you please) to enroll in Mary-Anne Moss's Remains of the Day class." My dad (being awesome) sent me a check. And enroll I did.
And then yesterday, after being struck in the eyeball by bleach (i know i know, "What about the pledge to use only handmade cleaners?" To which I must refer to the clause wherein I state that the best way to dispose of household toxins is to use them up. Particularly if you have gross mold spreading across your bathroom ceiling, i rest my case) I went on a cleaning strike and decided instead to start crafting.

I am making not one but two journals. Why not.

something tells me this one will be claimed by a little girl in an 'om' shirt.

That's okay. I like the quiet calm of this one.

When you have bleach in the eye and allergies forcing you to suck on shredded wheat (because it takes care of the soft palate itchies but only for a minute and is actually a really BAD idea), there is nothing like making journal covers. More anon.

Daughter

2010-04-29T11:07:00.001-07:00

I have a confession to make. I am sometimes ugly, sometimes mean. Sometimes my sadness overwhelms me. Like you, I sometimes burst into tears I can't control, and I don't know why I'm crying, it's just that everything feels heavy and cloying. I know.

This morning I was ugly. I knew I was ugly, I felt ugly, and I know that sometimes you think I'm ugly, but in a different way, like I'm too fat, or my breath smells in the morning when we're lying together in bed and I haven't had a chance to brush my teeth. I once promised myself that I would never say things to you, things like "Your breath stinks," or "You don't look pretty" or "You're fat." When you say these things to me, it hurts me. But I am the adult.

This morning was the first time you didn't kiss me goodbye. I drove home from school crying. And this time I knew why.

We are going to slip away bit by bit.

At the moment you were born, the midwifes placed you on my chest, and you smiled at me. Your tiny red lips. This is a story you know well. My mother, your grandmother, wrote me a poem. "Two old souls, recognizing each other, meeting again and again." The poem was lovely, but it made me sad. It took me a year to realize why. Because if the poem was true, than we couldn't share that moment again until the next life time. It took me a year to realize it, because it took that long for it to happen again. And again. You seeking me out, finding me beautiful, special, all your own.

I know that there will be fights, ugly days, days when you won't want to kiss me goodbye, or hold my hand, or walk beside me. I know that there probably won't be many where I feel the same way. Such is the nature of our timeless bond. Mother. Daughter. It goes and goes.

You have the power to hurt me and others, just as I, and others, have the power to hurt you. I am fierce, a mother tiger, my sharp claws extended, I am ready to spring. And you, you are my dream come true.. I hope you know this, even on days like today. Especially on ugly days like this one.

To Charlotte

2010-04-14T11:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Charlotte turned five. Who is Charlotte? Well, let me tell you what I know about her. She is a fairy. She's invisible. She has a brother named Scott, who asked Irie to take care of her for a while. She goes to school every day with Irie, where Irie's best friend Izabelle helps take care of her. Sometimes she needs to be carried, other times she flies. And yesterday was her birthday.

Can you see her? I think, just maybe, if you squint.

Happy Birthday, Charlotte. Long may you live.

Janet Fitch's word prompt: Open

2010-04-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

“I thought gas stations were open 24 hours.” Billie pulled her sleep-tangled hair into a matted ponytail and stomped her feet to warm them.
“Not all of them, I guess.” Josh shrugged, leaning against a gas pump. “Not this one.”
Billie squinted toward the building looking for a sign of life. It was so early her eyes were still blurry. “I’m freezing.”
“Grab a blanket from the back.” But Josh was wearing only a thin long-sleeved t-shirt and khakis. If he didn’t need a blanket, neither did she. “Thanks for driving,” she said, even though she had been angry with him when she’d climbed into the back of the bus, and the fact that he had driven through the rest of the night didn’t change that.
“No problem,” he said, not looking at her. Apparently he was still angry too.
She shook her head. Whatever. Maybe she was the one at fault. After all, this whole stupid road trip had been her idea. She’d thought it would be nice, the two of them on the open road without the pressures of college and roommates and parents. Just some pretty scenery and the stars at night. But it hadn’t been like that, not at all. They had started fighting over money the first night, and it had only gotten worse. Could they afford to eat at a local pizza place? (she thought so.) Could they afford a 3 CD set of road tunage? (he thought so.) And would they still be together by the end of this trip, when they returned to their college for Senior year? At this point, no one believed it.
A light went on inside the gas station building, and Billie saw a man inside with a cap on his head and a broom in his hand. He walked toward the front door and used a key to unlock it.
“Hey folks!” he said, raising his broom in the air. “You been waiting long?”
“No Sir, not so long.” Josh always spoke politely to people he didn’t know, but almost never, Billie was learning, to those he did.
“Well, I’ll be open in about ten minutes. We’ll have you back in good shape in no time.” Billie smiled at the man and nodded. He went back inside and she rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. She was ready to go home.

Sunday Scribblings: Deadline

2010-04-11T17:41:00.001-07:00

Toni didn't like having to bring her daughter to work, but the damn babysitter had flaked once again and she was under deadline. The light on her message machine was blinking quick as a pulse and if she didn't hurry, her boss would come back from lunch and start breathing down her neck.

"I'm bored," Megan said for the four thousandth time. "Can't we go home?"

"Sh. Please just let me finish this manual. Then we can go to lunch at Sharkey's but we can't leave until I get this work done and I can't get the work done if you keep talking to me."

Megan kicked her mother's desk drawer closed. There were some little toys in there, aliens and Burger King junk. Megan had spent the better half of the morning trying to entertain herself but she could no longer pretend plastic aliens were interesting. She was starving. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said. Her mother only nodded without looking up from her computer. Megan slipped out of the cubicle.

She liked wandering around the office, but her mom always made her stay close by. Now she figured she had about five minutes before her mom would come looking for her. She walked down the long carpeted hallway between the cubicles, heading for the break room. She held her head high, so that if anyone saw her, they would know that she belonged. She imagined herself in a sharp black suit, high heels and long fingernails and her own change for Coke. There was a soda machine in the break room, not that Megan was ever allowed to get anything from it. Her mom would let her have a root beer at Sharkey's, if they ever actually got there. Her mom had been promising for hours.

The break room was empty, luckily. Megan checked the candy dish, but it was just as empty as it had been last time. She opened the refrigerator. The bag of M&Ms was still there. Of course, they would be cold, and cold M&Ms weren't as good as warm ones. The best ones were sticky from the heat of her hand. "I shouldn't take them," Megan thought. But she did it anyway.

Toni was doing a shoddy job on the procedures manual, she knew it, but it seemed cruel to keep an eight year old in the office for an entire morning. She banged out the appendix haphazardly. Where the hell was Megan? The scent of her boss's perfume wafted over from somewhere behind her. Overhead, the florescent lights flickered. The whole world felt impossible. Toni pushed print, and went to find Megan. She saw her feet beneath one of the stalls.

"Honey?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

Megan tried to answer, but her mouth was full of candy.

The following Monday, when Joan, Toni's boss, demanded to know who had taken her M&Ms, Toni said nothing. She was working towards another deadline and frankly, she had neither the time nor the inclination to offer up the truth.

One Small Change: April

2010-04-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

With Earth Day approaching, April is the last month for hipmountainmama's One Small Change Challenge. Last month we decided to re-purpose the microwave, and have successfully turned it into a book shelf for cookbooks. I would say that thus far, this one has been the easiest change. Every once in a while I forget that we are microwaveless, and when I realize I'm like, "Oh yeah, I'll have to melt the butter the old fashioned way." But no big deal, right? The kids never got accustomed to the microwave, as I still prepare all their hot food, so this switch has been pretty seamless. And now with the cookbooks out of the cupboards, I finally have a spot for the vases, which were taking over our cup space. This month for the challenge, I thought I'd do something a little different. We have recycled our junk mail religiously for as long as I can remember, but for a while I've been thinking of a way to re-purpose it. So I thought about making these starter journals, and then selling them on Etsy.
All proceeds will go to Women's Voices for the Earth, which is an organization I learned about through One Small Change, when I was researching natural cleaning products. I heartily recommend checking out their website. There are all the tools to host a green cleaning party, which sounds like a lot of fun. But onto my junk mail journals.
I bound together pieces of junk mail with embroidery floss and attached pieces of vintage scrap from my own collection to the pages. If these sell, I will continue making them, and continue to donate the proceeds.
Thank you again to Suzy at Hipmountainmama! I think this challenge will help change the world. In any case, it has helped change this family. Blessings.

Prompt: Clip

2010-03-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

Playing along again with Janet Fitch's word prompt, the word this week was "clip"

It was all gone. The presents she hadn’t even had a chance to open. Her little Guess? purse filled with birthday money. She threw herself onto her bed, but she didn’t have the energy even to cry.
Out in the living room, her father talked with the police. The TV was gone, and the DVD player. Mostly the thief had stuck to her bedroom and the living room. Nothing of value anyplace else.
Not that the things he (or she) had taken from her room were what you’d call “valuable.” The money, sure, but the rest of it… The still wrapped presents, her dad had told her, were mostly CDs, used classics—the Beatles, Pink Floyd, the Doors.
They had taken her jewelry box. There was not a single thing of value in there. Nothing of value to a normal person, anyway. A charm bracelet heavy with metal charms—souvenirs of the places she had gone. An Eiffel Tower, a Mickey Mouse. Silver sand dollars and sea shells from vacations at the beach. And then, of course, there were the hair clips.
Her mother had started collecting vintage hair clips for Danni when she was pregnant with her. It wasn’t a big collection, but it was special. An ivory seahorse. A couple of plastic kiddie ones in cotton candy colors. The celluloid apple barrettes and the pink velvet comb. It had been a long time since she’d even taken them out.
Now she longed to have them back, to hold them in her hands. It wasn’t fair. Whoever had them now would probably throw them in the trash. Or give them to her own daughter, which was even more intolerable.
No, the clips weren’t the only thing of her mother she had left. Her mother had, in her lifetime, given Danni tons of things. Dolls and books, crayons and play-doh that smelled like lavender and chamomile. She still had it all, though the play-doh had certainly dried out by now. Her mother had taken her places too—Paris, Disneyland, the beach. They had all gone as a family—mother, father, child. But these things didn’t occur to Danni’s father. He was trying.
Danni rose from her bed and began digging through her drawers. The thief had pulled them from the dresser and dumped their contents onto the floor, but she had already put them back, haphazardly tossing her stuff back in. Now she was looking for something special that could replace the hairclips, something she could hold this moment, now. She wasn’t at all sure what such a thing might be until she found it—a small journal her mother had made. She’d bound the spine with embroidery floss, the paper inside was thick and good. Danni picked up the journal, pressed it against her lips. Then she took out a pen and began to write.

Sunday Scribblings: The Book that Changed Everything

2010-03-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking about this book. Of course, no long period of time goes by that I don't consider it in some regard. I own a copy, and have read it at least five times. But recently, at a writer's conference, a teacher was talking about "Bibles." Not King James vs. Gideons, but the book you return to as a reference for your own writing. Net Of Jewels was the first book I thought of.
Only, I don't know if I would love it anymore. I haven't read it in years. The narrator is very self-centered, which is part of her charm. But I don't know if I'd find her as, well, cool as I once did. All I know is, this book was my Bible when I was 19. This was the book that made me want to write. And for that, I will forever be grateful to Queen Ellen Gilchrist.

Prompt: Bowl

2010-03-12T11:07:00.001-08:00

I've been following Janet Fitch's new blog, which is as stunning as you would imagine. She is writing a short story every week, based on a particular word. She describes the process here. Somewhere I thought I read an invitation for readers to play along; did I make this up? In any case, here is my little piece that came from my reflections on the word: Bowl.

While she was gone, they knocked down the walls. In the space between the living room and kitchen (now one room) behind cracked plaster a quarter of an inch thick, is old and splintered lath. They broke through some of the lath too, so that now it juts out in sharp points like daggers. The floor (magnesite beneath the pulled up carpet) is littered with plaster and dust bunnies. Dust bunnies consuming the plaster, forming tumbleweeds against a stark landscape.
“You’ve been working,” she remarks dryly, feeling too clean in her own home.
“I’d hoped to have this all done by the time you got back, Babe.” Mitch, her boyfriend of six months, opens a beer for himself and one for his brother.
“I think I’ll go lie down,” she says.
“Yeah, sure Babe. Get some rest. Me and Pete’ll get things cleaned up in here.”
But she can’t rest. For one thing, they are still whacking at the walls with a hammer. And for another, there is a matching hole in her bedroom. This one looks into her office.
She goes into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. Through the hole, she can see Mitch and Pete, and she knows they can see her too. Had she told them it was okay to tear down the walls while she was gone? She struggles to remember, but through the jet lag and the noise, she can’t pinpoint what exactly was discussed. Some repairs. She specifically remembers Mitch saying he would make some repairs.
There are beer cans covering the kitchen table. She gathers them into a paper bag from Whole Foods. Later she can take it out to recycling. She gets a rag wet and begins to wipe down the stick, picking up a blue bowl to get under it. She had filled the bowl with oranges before leaving—she’d thought they looked nice and Mitch might enjoy them—they were organic. Now the skins seem to have disattached from the fruit; they are puckered and soft. Into the compost they go.
She starts to put the blue bowl in the sink to wash later, but instead she holds onto it. It is blue like the royal swirl inside a clear marble. A pretty place to keep oranges.
The dreadful hammering ceases momentarily.
“Babe?” Mitch says. “Do we have frozen pizza?”
Gripping the bowl, she steps outside. The kitchen door closes quietly behind her.

Eight

2010-03-10T10:16:00.001-08:00

My girl is eight. Eight candles tonight in the jello. Yes, jello. Lime.

My sweet girl who awakens each morning sighing like an overwrought princess.

She still likes to be hugged and kissed, but I know this is a fleeting time. Her face lights up when I walk into the classroom. Again, I know. Temporary.

Oh my girl. When I hold her on my lap her limbs spill out of my arms. Her bones dig into my soft flesh. And meet bone. I abruptly shake her off. Stop squirming, I say.

Even though I know I should hold on.

Because when the time comes, I want to be able to let go.

Not fully of course. But let go in the way a mother must.

Now she is eight. Her favorite color is black.

(second favorite colors: Dark dark dark green, dark red, really dark blue).

She enjoys cutting Barbie's hair. The headless Barbies are the Kens

(or were, until last weekend when she got real Kens from Grandma).

This is the age.

She still plays with the Barbies, you notice. She still believes in fairies and leprechauns, and she longs to see the Princess and the Frog.

At the dinner table, she tells me when her name goes up on the board. Once she erased all the names, she tells me. Her teacher never found out.

Is it wrong that my only response is a quiet chuckle? I will tell you. It is not wrong.

But here we are up on this tightrope, struggling to stay balanced. She allows me to spot her as we traverse it, hand in hand.

Eight years. I try not to hold her hand too tight. And when she tightens her own grip, I smile, and she smiles back.

Prompt: Mexico

2010-03-06T10:36:00.001-08:00

I recently invited my friends who were in Mexico with me to respond to this prompt. Mexico. Here's my little litany.
Memories of San Miguel

1. El Jardin—black steel benches an unused gazebo, a little bit of sun, mother and daughter beside me on a bench (daughter listening to music on a her cheap pink cell phone).

2. The pigeons here are beautiful.

3. Against the evening sky.

4. La Parroquia
A. By day it still casts a glow
B. By night lit from within like a storybook castle, all turrets and gold
C. Magnificent white light crucifix, and when I first see it in the late afternoon, I think it must be a silver angel lit by sun
D. I have no desire to go inside

5. Mexico Mexico (as opposed to Mexico Turistico) where I buy candles and red socks that reach up to my knees. In the Mercado (woven bags hanging from the rafters), I pass shoppers vendors vegetables flowers. Stopping to buy a round of queso blanco. As I walk up the steps and out into the sun, I see an old woman selling empanadas and promise myself I will return to buy one for lunch. But the timing is never right and ultimately I will leave Mexico without ever having tried one.

6. The woman on Canal (just our side of the bridge) folds chorizo into masa fat like pancakes. She cooks them right there on the street. They are golden orange in color.

7. The colors! Buildings the paint crumbling buckthorn berries burnt roman ochre. Azul. Their pretty clothes. Old women in Mexican skirts selling dolls cloth headbands crepe paper flowers.

8. The man selling the strange muslin snakes and ducks.

9. The dropping of the gourd.

10. And the stars that night!

11. Broken glass cobblestone the smells of diesel and sewage.

12. Last night I dreamed of.

13. Running through the streets of.

One Small Change: March

2010-03-01T11:01:00.000-08:00

Last month I decided that I would stop purchasing cleaning products, organic or otherwise, in favor of making our own.

One of the first things I did was purchase this little book, Make Your Place. It has so much information in it--not only on cleaning but also on first aid and gardening. (The beautiful book behind it is my old copy of Living on the Earth by Alicia Bay Laurel--also an amazing resource for those interested in reducing their carbon footprint, or just wanting to feel closer to the land).

Next I went shopping for Soap flakes and liquid castlile soap--two of the most common ingredients (aside from Borax, baking soda, and vinegar--which I already had) in homemade cleaning products. I was dissappointed to learn that our local natural foods coop does not carry soap flakes or borax. Fortunately, Whole Foods does.

I am still using up the old cleaning products, which is the recommended way of getting rid of the toxic stuff. But I'm happy knowing its on its way out, and in the meantime I have some wonderful disinfectent made from vinegar and tea tree oil.

This month, I am going to unplug the microwave. According to the sweet and super-affordable 1,oo1 ways to save the earth, "The average microwave, in active employment for only a tiny fraction of the day, uses more energy to power its digital clock than to heat food." I think the mircowave is also a convenient reason I keep the freezer stocked with packaged foods, but according to economist Lisa Wise, "a freezer full of meals is actually more energy intensive--it costs more to freeze foods, keep them cold, display them frozen in the grocery store, and keep them frozen in our homes. So while the modern convenience of the microwave and Lean Cuisine is enticing, it's much more resource intensive."

So why don't I just get rid of our microwave?

My family of 5 lives in a small (780 square foot) home, and storage is difficult. The microwave is built into the wall. So over the next month, I am going to re-purpose it as a bookshelf. Yes! A new space for the cookbooks! Double score.

My love affair with San Miguel

2010-02-28T12:22:00.000-08:00

It is all connected, isn't it? This immense web, this life. God, the Universe. Words are words, powerful and dangerous. You told me to go. Go to San Miguel. So that when my old and great friend Kristin invited me along, and I thought, I can't go, it would cost me $1000, my amazing father was, probably at the exact same moment, writing me a check for $1000. Nothing is random.

A few days before I left, my ex-karate teacher/still friend asked me if I would consider writing a course on Taoism. I already wrote a course on Buddhism several years ago, and at the time I thought, Never Again. But Taoism has interested me for years now, and so I started to talk myself into Yes. I said to Amy, "I'm going to a writer's conference. Can you give me this week to think about it? I think I'm going to say yes, but I don't want it hanging over my head when I'm gone." She said yes, take your time, let me know.

But in San Miguel, synergy started shrouding me. Like a giant hug. Very much like a blanket or sweater. This feeling of being protected. I listened to these amazing writers speak (Barbara Kingsolver, CM Mayo...) and I thought, this is my job, this is what I am meant to do. Fiction. And it is time, I got it, to stop fucking around. I am 35 years old, and it is time for me to settle down. Settle into this path I have chosen. Fiction. Specifically, a particular YA novel I recommenced for nanowrimo.

And so here we are. I come home from San Miguel with a signed copy of The Lacuna, a few new friends, a ton of notes, and a mission. To write. To learn. To get serious.

Thank you Dad. Thank you Kristin. Thank you Lori for your timing with the angel cards and to all the writers at the conference who will never read this. Thank you Universe, for putting it all into place. The rest, I know is up to me.

Hearts and Sugar

2010-02-13T09:56:00.000-08:00

It's that season again--time for the making of class Valentines! This year Ireland has 31 kids in her class and 4 teachers (movement, handwork, and Spanish included). It's a tall order, but nothing Miss Happy Crafter can't handle.

It's so exciting to see what all the kids come up with. Last year we got Beezwax lavender hearts, sewn together felt hearts, bracelets, candles (yes, I know I used the pronoun we. the kid in me lives again through all this).

They will be celebrating Valentines Day on Tuesday. It is never too late to celebrate love.

In other news, I was awarded the Fabulous Sugar Doll Blogger Award by a Winged Writer with a beautiful blog. I don't know how to post the sweet little icon, but I am very grateful. The air is filled with sugar and hearts. Can you feel it? Can you taste it?

Happy Valentines Day! I hope yours is sweet.

Our Amazing Journals now

2010-02-03T11:17:00.000-08:00

Last month I wrote about the journals Irie and I have been making while following the youtube tutorials of Teesha Moore. Since then we have watched the tutorials on collage, and are just beginning the series on lettering. Want to see where we're at now?

This is my journal. It isn't completed, but I still really like the direction it's going in.

Teesha Moore has interesting uses for picures of eyeballs, and I think I got a little obsessed, as with the eyeball crown below. I think Irie got obsessed to, as you will see in her journal.

Here comes Irie's. Watch out! It gets a little creepy!

Is that fabulous or what? I love the money on the cover and all the little devils floating around inside. I think the kid's got talent.

Thanks to Teesha Moore for making her tutorials available. We are learning a whole new way to create together, and it rocks.

One Small Change: February

2010-02-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

Last month I decided to take the One Small Change Challenge. I spent the month of January converting our paper bills to e-bills. Sometimes it was incredibly easy (smud, pg&e.) Sometimes I was amazed at the difficulty. I was suprised to find that I would need to pay 10 bucks a month to have a paperless account with my morgage company, because I don't have a "verified" bank account (ie: I don't bank with them). My internet company was consistently impossible to log into, and I plan to continue trying into the month of February. It astounds be that companies make this so difficult. It is such a simple way to reduce waste. And it would be cheaper for them, too.
But that's the negative, and the positive is that most of my bills have been successfully rendered paperless. Now February is upon us and it is time for an other small change.
This month I am going to commit to not purchasing any more cleaning products. Ultimately I intend to make them all on my own. I have been flirting with this idea for years, have made disenfectants out of tea-tree oil and used baking soda and vinegar for most things. But I still buy dish soap and soap nuts and, admittedly, I recently poured bleach into our bottle of natural toilet bowl cleaner (which I knew even at the time was probably a really bad idea, but I did it nonetheless so there you go).
Because it is unsafe to throw old cleaners in the garbage, I am going to finish using the cleaners I have. I think the only thing (besides the bleach) that I still have that isn't from the coop or Whole Foods is a bottle of Soft Scrub. Once it is gone, it's gone.
I recently stumbled upon this really cool websight run by Women's Voices for the Earth. You can go there and actually download a kit with everything you need to throw a Green Cleaning Party.
WVE suggests that we all call Proctor & Gamble, The Clorox Company, Sunshine Makers Inc, Rickitt-Benckiser, SC Johnson & Son and express our discontent with their use of toxins in our products. So I will be doing that this month too.
Thanks to Hip Mountain Mama for spearheading this amazing challenge. It feels incredible to be a part of it.

Sunday Scribblings: Milestone

2010-01-30T15:36:00.001-08:00

My husband has been talking a lot about milestones. Actually the term he uses is "benchmarks," but after some careful research (Wikipedia), I have decided in this case, the two words can be interchanged.

He's been talking about people who look back on their lives, or the last thirty years of their lives, and say, "Wow, that went by in no time." Because they had no benchmarks/milestones. Sure, maybe they went camping or to Disneyland, but they never shook it up. They never leaped off cliffs into shark infested waters, took a risk, took a chance. They forgot to live.

Sometimes I think he's extreme. I know he'd like to start a revolution, get off the grid, shout from the rooftops and shake this whole thing up. Our children were going to be little revolutionaries. Crunchy little hippies who spoke the languages of all the vast foreign lands we'd travelled. I know he wants us to move far away, build for ourselves a home a garden a commune. I want my children to be warm, to be safe. Is there safety in complacency?

This is our daily string between two plastic cups. He wants she wants. And she wants what he wants and so on and so forth. And because of this, the future is sometimes frighteningly uncertain. But we have love.

Other times I think he's right.

I don't want to die and feel that I have not lived. I don't want to live without the milestones. For me, the milestones can be moderate. A trip to Mexico every other year. Camp-outs and beach days and hikes in the woods. Lots of water. Lots of laying back on blankets and staring up at the sky, or gathering flowers, or picking ripe strawberries with a little girl in a red and white polka-dot dress. And some day, Australia.

And for him, well, I guess we have yet to find out. I'm a skydive girl in a bungee jump world. But come what may, I'm along for the ride. Come what may, I'll be holding his hand. Either way, it's going to be an adventure.

Sunday Scribblings: Yes

2010-01-23T18:45:00.001-08:00

There is a delicate balance, this one between yes and no. On the one hand, there is some kind of No movement going on right now wherein one is encouraged to just. say. no. Because we have this tendency to overtax ourselves, to take on too much, to spread ourselves thin, there are tons of clichés and they all mean the same thing: we need to remember to take care of our Selves. My husband tries to remind me to say no (although, I'm sure he would amend, never ever to him). He reminds me that kids need time to play by themselves, that I can tell them to leave the room, that I should, in fact, just say no. On the other hand there is the Cat in the Cradle. On the other hand there is Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon. You remember this song, yes? The little boy who keeps hearing "later, later," from his dad, and grows up to tell his dad "later, later, maybe some other time." That damn song makes me cry.

I have a tendency to say yes, and sometimes it is at the cost of my own sanity. I don't like the idea of my daughter asking me to do a project and me saying no, so I say yes. Almost every time. My son, who knows I have a daily writing time, and understands that I do not wish to be disturbed during this time, comes into the room every two minutes to tell me he loves me and do I want to watch him jump off the couch and 2+2=4 and I let him until I am exasperated. And I do realize there is a cruelty to this. Because what he needs is a firm "no." Not right now. We'll talk later. Later will come, I know that it will, but that damn song plays in my head and I say yes yes yes. And I don't get any writing done. And he is learning that rules are arbitrary things which can be ignored. So where do you draw the line?

I think you can tell that you are saying yes too much when you find yourself frustrated by the task you have agreed to. Over the last month or so, Ireland and I have been working on these really beautiful journals. We start each new section by watching a tutorial online, and then we paint or collage or draw or write. We really settle into the work. We know each time we sit down to it that it is going to take some time, and it does. The sky may begin to darken and our stomachs may growl, but we are enjoying the work, the process, the fact that we are together.

There are times that Liam and I lay together in the bed. He likes to be close to me, and I like it too, so we hug and tell jokes and laugh. And maybe after a while of this we'll move out to the couch and he will lean against me and practice reading. I hold the book and he sounds out the letters while I shake my head in awe. These are the pure moments, the ones which guarantee that my children will never look back at their childhood and think, Mom never had any time for us.

There are also times when I agree to doing a project even though I am tired and grumpy and I need to start dinner. When what I really need to say is, "You guys go and entertain yourselves while I take a bath." Instead I bring out the scissors and the glue, and when tiny paper scraps begin to litter the floor and glue drips onto the table I think, This sucks and my kids are probably thinking This sucks and some day they will write a song about mean mom project mom.

Really this post has become about saying no, instead of saying yes. But it's kind of the same thing, isn't it? No to the kids, yes to the Self? As long as it's in balance. I know I'm a better mom when I've had time to write, when I am saying yes to the project because I want to do it too. Yes to sinking in. Yes to the pure moment, yes to the adventures. And sometimes no. Because there are also the times when I need to say yes to myself.

On bad guys and parenting

2010-01-22T14:35:00.001-08:00

Liam is drawing pictures. Nothing new there, Liam is always drawing pictures. He draws pictures of me and his dad and his sister. He draws Tyler and our cat and beanstalks and spiders. Now he comes into my room with a new picture he has drawn. "This is where the plane explodes," he says. "These are stars. This guy is sad because he was in the plane."

"Oh," I whisper, absolutely unprepared. "That's sad," I say.

He nods, pouting. "I know." He hugs me, then runs off to draw the next picture, leaving the sad guy under the stars on my lap.

Moments later, he is back. "This is us. We're in the plane that's exploding. But Spiderman is coming. See?"

"Oh yes," I say. "I'm glad that Spiderman is coming." Again, he hugs me, and this time I hold him close. "You're safe. Do you know that? You are safe."

Liam nods. "Because bad guys aren't real," he says.

The daily questions of parenting. There is certainly no script to follow, no if-then logic. Maybe there was when they were babies. If the baby cries, pick her up. Try nursing him. Check the diaper. Now it is all so unpredictable. "What plane?" I want to ask. "Where is this coming from?"

Are bad guys real? He knows that people have broken into our cars, stolen our cd players, our climbing gear, our cash. He knows our passports were stolen in Mexico, along with our credit cards, my flip flops, our cash. He doesn't know about war or torture or genocide or rape. The scariest thing in his world are the dinosaurs, and they are also kinda cool.

I don't think he knows about terrorism, or hate. I think he is getting his information from the Spiderman movie. Green Goblin is the bad guy. And no, he doesn't exist.

For now I say nothing. I hold him and he lets me, he lets me. I hold him in this world where parents cannot guarantee their children a safe tomorrow. I hold him while women are beaten and children starve. There are no answers. I hold him. There is only this. This is what I can give him.

Today

2010-01-21T11:28:00.001-08:00

These are the days I want to hold onto. The days that will slip away as you grow, and I grow, but I want to hold dear in this moment, now.

Today at Thrift Town I am hunting for a bread loaf pan. "Like the kind you had in kindergarten," I tell you. You find something which is the complete opposite of a bread pan—maybe it is a Jello mold. "Here's one," you insist. "No," I say. "YES!" "No." " Well anyway," you struggle to remain deadpan, "This is what we used in kindergarten." "No," I say again. We fight our loving battle. Gently. Laughing. There are no bread pans here. We go upstairs to try on high heels.

In the racks, I search for a pair of shorts for Daddy and you hide in some clothes. A store worker reprimands you and you come to hug me. "You got in trouble," I tease. You crack up. "You got in trouble," you insist. It is okay. I know you. The limits of what can be said. Like the game of Operation. I pluck at your funny bone but will not touch the sides. The buzzing of the buzzer. I avoid it while I can.

At the grocery store, we buy three pounds of bananas and you fetch me a head of cauliflower. You are pushing the cart. "I'm going to grab a tri-tip for Daddy," I say. I duck over to one side of a giant stand stocked with Capri Sun and chicken broth. I know where you are; you don't know where I am. When I come back to you, you are crying.

"What's wrong?"

"You left me."

The zzzt of the metal on metal. Nerves behind my eyes catch fire. I lift you up and hold you for a long while. I am so sorry. I'm so sorry you were scared.

When you are ready, I set you back down. "My feet itch," you say, eyeing the stacks of Capri Sun.

How can I make you understand that I will never leave you. You tell me you want to live in this house forever. You will have your art studio here, maybe a dog or two, maybe some bunnies. You are the one who will leave, although I hope that day won't come too soon. I want you to know that you are strong, that you are your own person, that you will make poor choices and that through it all, I will be here. This game is a delicate one. For now I take you on my lap. I know that I am solid beneath you. I will not slide away, my heart. I am not going anywhere.

Our amazing journals, thus far

2010-01-10T10:31:00.000-08:00

I think it was through Mary Ann Moss' blog that I first ran into Teesha Moore's Amazing 16 page journal tutorial. These videos are amazing--she takes you step by step through the making of one of these journals--from cutting the paper and sewing it all together to borders to collage to lettering.
Once I'd seen the first video, I swiftly purchased two 22x30 sheets of watercolor paper--one for myself, and one for seven year old Ireland. Over the last month or so, we have been working on our journals, one step at a time, pausing to watch Teesha's videos whenever we are ready for the next step. We have just completed the 4th step--collage part 1 of 4, and I thought we should stop and document our progress. This is my journal so far:

I really like it. I love that Teesha Moore is so generous with sharing her techniques. Here is Miss Irie's journal so far. I'm not showing what's underneath the flaps because she has chosen not to work on those just yet.

My absolute favorite thing about this process is working on it with her, sitting at the kitchen table with my suitcase of old scraps and magazines, anthropologie catalogues and bits from Somerset Studio artist pages.

Just us and our supplies, quietly creating, mother and daughter, friends.

One Small Change: January

2010-01-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

Have you heard about Hip Mountain Mama's One Small Change challenge?
The idea is that bloggers each make one small change each month between now and earth day. A change toward sustainability, a positive green growth change. In the days since I read about the challenge, I have been thinking about a change I could make with my family. One night I even dreamed that I made the decision to not buy anything new. But when I woke up in the morning, I got hung up technicalities. What about toothbrushes and toilet paper?
It wasn't until today when, paying the bills, I settled on a change. A real one. One that I have thought about making, have contemplated half-heartedly, but was never ready to take the time to make. Paperless bills. So simple. I think this is the first change many people make. But when it comes to paper, I'm a bit of a luddite. Letters over email. To hold a book in my hand as opposed to a stupid Kindle machine. But bills? Hate em. Okay, so here it is, I'm taking the plunge.
I figure I have a whole month until the next billing cycle to set up my accounts online. Leisurely and beautiful. I love it.

Five

2010-01-01T11:16:00.001-08:00

Dr. Seuss Christmas tree

2009-12-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

We needed a tree, one with lights and decor
Should we get it at Target, or the grocery store?
We thinked and we thinked,
We thought and we thought.
Should we go to the mountains?
To the Christmas tree lot?
Then we looked at our mom who had been thinking hard,
and she said, "There's a nice tree right in our backyard."
We looked and we saw it, as huge as could be.
We looked and we saw it, our new Christmas tree.

So Dad grabbed the ladder and Dad grabbed the saw
Then he climbed up that tree with the saw in his jaw.

Then he gave us a rope and he told us to yank,
and that old Christmas tree fell aloft like a tank.

It was heavy and wet, it was big as a store

But we brought it inside and it dripped on the floor.

Then we put it upright and its scent was appealing

And it's three tippy tops brushed the top of our ceiling.

We strung up the lights and we put up the star

on the one tippy top that was not so bizarre.

Then we sat back and looked at that funny old tree,

And we said, "Well, it's goofy, but hey! It was free!"

The Nature Table

2009-12-09T11:02:00.001-08:00

Our nature table is starting to look a bit crowded, not that I mind. The other day Liam brought inside a bough of pine, which made me realize we are on the eve of the changing season. The leaves we brought in last month, all red and golden and orange, have muted themselves into a rusty hue.

The birds' nest is beginning to unravel after a season of being festooned with pine cones, acorn caps and blue glitter. Soon it will be time to gather up the leaves and put them in the compost, to store away Mother Autumn until next year, to replace her with Grandfather Winter. But in the meantime, I want the clutter to gather here. Yesterday afternoon, as the three of us walked home from the library, Ireland and I spotted and reached for the same bean pod at the same time. I think the nature table has trained us to look at things in this way. You. I want you. I will take you inside and pay you reverence. We will celebrate you. You are so beautiful, and so fleeting.

tis the season...

2009-12-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

The season when these guys begin to appear in lovely vignettes on the windowsills and countertops

When an unexpected gift of vintage goodies might arrive in the mail...(thank you mom)

And when treasures of old family photos held in the hand for the very first time feel even more magical and charged.

Can you feel it?

I hope your days are merry and bright, or dark and earthy, whatever you prefer.

I hope beauty and magic is whirling around you, staining your days with its hues.

nanojoumo

2009-11-16T11:33:00.000-08:00

Even though I am again participating in Nanowrimo, I thought I'd play along a little with D'Blogala's Nanojoumo, wherein you journal every day in November. These are the pages I've made so far--they're very simple as writing to 50,000 words is on my proverbial front burner
. The prompts were Discover and Endeavor. Can you read the quotes? The first a quote by Paul Valery, which goes: "To see is to forget the name of what one sees." The second is from Pierre-Auguste Renoir, and goes: "Work lovingly done is the secret of all order and happiness." I'm not sure about the order part of that last one. In my opinion, work lovingly done frequently leads to lovely little messes. But I guess old Pierre and I can agree to disagree. I'm with him on the happiness bit.

Speaking of happiness, Liam has been playing with my camera a lot lately, which results in these kinds of shots.
I hope he finds glee in all his endeavors. I hope he will always work lovingly toward his dreams, leaving lovely little messes in his wake.

Halloween, 2009

2009-11-05T07:07:00.000-08:00

Beautiful October

2009-10-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

Busy days, lovely whimsical days. Recently Ireland and I met my mom in Port Costa to visit while exploring Wendy Addison's Theater of Dreams. Because I'm feeling quiet today, I thought I'd share some of what we saw...

Afterwards we drove to Benecia and had a picnic lunch of salad, keifer, olive hummus, crackers, and Honey Crisp apples. A beautiful day. An October blessing.

I hope your October is shaping up to be as fanciful and fun as a peek inside of the Theater of Dreams. I hope you find a fairy or a well dressed glitter goblin at every turn.

What do you get when you cross a pumpkin with a steamroller?

2009-10-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

SQUASH!

Gulf Fritillary

2009-10-05T13:13:00.001-07:00

This species of butterfly disappeared from the Sacramento area 40 years ago--and now it's back!

Thank goodness we planted a butterfly bush last year--it couldn't have been more timely, n'est-ce pas?

A little premature

2009-09-27T11:32:00.001-07:00

Yes, it is only September, but our pumpkins have been awaiting a little sprucing up since we harvested them in July. And it's never too early to dress up like your beloved pumpkin, right?

Very First Soccer Game---Ever.

2009-09-14T12:57:00.001-07:00

For Liam, yes. But for me as well. I realized this as I greeted some friends who had come to watch Liam play.

"Oh no, did we miss the game?" Aaron asked.

"No," I said. "It's...like...halftime. Or whatever it's called in soccer." (it turns out it's called halftime.)

So on Saturday I sat through the first soccer game of my life. Actually I stood through it, jumped through it, cheered for both teams through it. It was exciting. The teams were evenly matched, I couldn't believe how well they played, and Liam PLAYED! He PLAYED! He ran with his team, he kept his eye on the ball, he even gave it a couple of good kicks (and in the right direction)! So much fun. I think I might be hooked. I am totally a soccer mom. Shane says we should get me a bumper sticker.

Here is a picture of Liam at first practice several weeks ago.

And here he is in his first game. Look at him go! Go Crushers! WOO HOO!

A date with my guy

2009-09-08T10:35:00.001-07:00

Notes from a wedding

2009-08-31T14:42:00.000-07:00

Our friends Brett and Melissa were married this weekend in Tahoe. Beautiful beautiful loveliness. I can't not share some of the magic here.

I hope there is magic in your life today too.

August

2009-08-15T11:25:00.001-07:00

It is August, hot and bittersweet. Summer is still going strong, kids on city streets still search for busted fire hydrants while others fry eggs on the sidewalk. But after this month, summer will melt away like ice in the limeade. Soon school will start, the weather will cool and the bikinis will be put away for another year. So for now, let's live in the moment. A bike ride at twilight is a good way to start. Feel. The wind in your hair. Eat mindfully, taste every bite of watermelon, let the juices roll down your arms, savor the stick. August is words like hibiscus, fire glow, gentle current, watercolor. Sunlit. Languid. Brushstroke. August is the month of ladies in white painting landscapes on outdoor easels. Quietly chatting. White skirts floating. These ladies know the value of an idle afternoon. Let yourself linger on the front porch a little longer. Paint your self-portrait. Like Daisy and Jordan in the Great Gatspy, lounge. Dress all in white. Drink a cold drink. Enjoy.

So True...

2009-08-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

"Even though you may never dream of spending a small fortune to own a pair of Murano blue-glass chandeliers or hang chinoiserie wallpaper in your dining room, you are glad some folks are rich enough to afford such things so that they can be displayed in store windows, picture books, and interior design magazines."
from The Art of Being a Woman by Veronique Vienne

A Story by Ireland, age 7

2009-07-24T13:13:00.001-07:00

Once there was a little girl. She wanted to catch a star. And a voice came down and said, "Find something with four legs." So she found the thing with four legs and that thing said "Find a thing that goes in the water." She found the thing that goes in the water , and the thing that goes in the water said, "Find a thing that goes Bock Bock. And the thing that goes Bock Bock said, "Find a thing that makes milk." And the thing that makes milk said, "Find a thing that eats grass." And the thing that eats grass said, "Find the thing that's up in the sky." And so she walked that far, and soon she found a rainbow of stairs up to the moon and she said, "You're the one who was talking all along." And she said, "The moon can talk?"

"No, it is us, the fairies of the moon. I talked into the moon. The queen, the queen is coming. Please, sleep on the top of the room." So she did. So she slept there for the nights. And she woke up.

And it was filled with sparkles. And there was a fairy class, and so she left. And now I'll tell you all the things she had to listen to:

The thing with four legs was a horse.

The thing that goes in the water was a frog.

The thing that goes Bock Bock was a chicken.

A thing that makes milk was a cow.

The thing that eats grass is a sheep.

The thing that was up in the sky was the moon.

And at the very beginning, the moon was talking to her.

More random bits.

2009-07-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

When I checked this book out of the library, it was only because of my love for all things French General. Although I dabbled in earring-making in college, I'm not much of a beader. The book rules though. So Pretty. And to my surprise, it led the kids and me to our latest craft:
Wire bird nest with bead-eggs! Pretty, right? These were so easy to make, and we already had all the stuff lying around the house. Beads (left-over from my college earring days), metal wire, and glue. Irie decided to add glitter and a couple of embellishments--a glass leaf bead and some copper ephemera.

Speaking of easy, I found this recipe for strawberry jam. It takes a while to cook, but if you have family members willing to hang out with you in the kitchen while you stir, you're good. So delicious. Heartily recommended. Really, it there anything better than standing on the dewy early morning lawn in the summer, a cup of coffee in one hand, a slice of french bread with your own organic jam in the other? No friend. That's about as good as it gets.

To my children

2009-07-12T11:36:00.000-07:00

You are more wonderous than you can imagine. Full of wonder, invoking wonder. My quest for wonder always leads me to you, but never stops there. I want to know what you know. Holding hands, you try to show me your world. Glitter on the sidewalk, fairies right before our eyes. All I can do is squeeze back and gaze. More often than not, my gaze turns to you. Yes it is a beautiful world, full of magic, full of wonder. Yes it is wonderful, and how much more wonderful that you are a part of it, that I am allowed to share these moments with you.

Snapshots from camping: The natural world

2009-06-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

alive and well.

Summer Craft: Father's day bookmarks.

2009-06-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

For the last year or so, I have been somewhat obsessed with all things Amanda Soule. If you have discovered her, then you know what I mean. I love getting lost in her beautiful world. I love gleaning from her creative pool.

In a recent blog post, she directed her readers here for a bookmark making tutorial. Sweet. Father's day gifts: check.

Summer crafting with the kids. The four of us sitting about, sewing and drawing and chatting. No where to drive. No plans for the rest of the day except for a little meditating and a walk to the park. This is really the good life. We really are slowing down this time.

Craft for the first official day of summer vacation: Felt Friends

2009-06-16T11:01:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful morning. The birds in their nest outside the front door, Tyler playing backup music for us on his guitar. Ireland and I sewing on the floor, surrounded by buttons and felt. Liam opted out of the day's craft; I allowed it, but made the little guy on the right for him. And that sweetheart on the left? All Ireland. She said she loves it because it is full of hearts so she will always know he is kind. (he is a he.) Liam started calling his friend Snuggly Snuggle, but somehow the name has transformed to Debil. Ireland says I should make him a tail with a triangle on the end. I'm thinking yes, but a heart perhaps instead.

June

2009-06-10T11:25:00.001-07:00

In June, the days grow longer, sunset is postponed as we run through the sprinklers just a little bit longer, juice from our popsicles dripping. Watermelon days, soda pop ice cream truck lawn chair days. Are you lucky enough to have lightening bugs where you live? If we had lightening bugs here, I'd surely throw them a party. June is the month of the circus, is words like extravaganza, acrobatics, trapeze. Now is the best time to enjoy the show. To wonder on the magic of it all. Sit back on your lawn chair and watch your kids play. Better yet, play along. Run through the sprinklers. Play a game of blind man's bluff as the sky begins to darken long past bedtime. Take a late night walk to the ice cream parlour. Ride a circus horse, white, on one foot.

Not just a pale shade of purple

2009-05-22T14:57:00.000-07:00

So yes, I know I'm not the first person in the world to harvest lavender. What would be ridiculously common-place to many farmers and gardners and apartment owners made my heart sing this morning, as I cut back our big plant gathering stems and flowers to be sold later at our school's friday marketplace. The water feature was trickling, the bees were buzzing, and Shane and I sat in the sun working beside each other. He was weeding and educating me on the evils of nefarious purple nutsedge ("Most people don't like crabgrass, and I can understand why, but purple nutsedge is way worse. In these trying times of global degeneration and widespead ignorance purple nutsedge is plotting to put an end to all mankind and if we don't stop it we're just proclaiming defeat and society as we know it will be doomed, doomed I say...")

Can you see the little friend in the picture above?

One more lavender shot. Oh, it's just so pretty.

Yay!

Stitchin Trish!

2009-05-21T09:57:00.001-07:00

So. I got a new sewing machine. Oh my gosh, I love it.

I AM NOT a very sewish person. I tried to make dolls for the kids once, and Irie threw hers away, because it was too scary (It really was too. I wouldn't have wanted to sleep with that thing next to me). But since last year, Ireland has been sewing and knitting and making all these beautiful things out of fabric and yarn, and I have caught the bug.

For years I have made paper items--journals and cards and books. I have a bit of a love affair with paper, which is probably either a cause or a result of my longing to write. Fabric has always scared me a little. I still shy away from the idea of going into a sewing store and choosing a big bolt of fabric to bring to the lady, who will want to know how many yards to cut. But I am good at shopping in thrift stores. These days I head straight for the bed sheets, which is where I procured the fabric for this new skirt.

Outside of the thrift store, I bought some nice expensive felt, which I used to make the baby blocks above, and these pencil pouches below. (Instructions to make each of these projects can be found in The Creative Family.)

Now Shane is really embracing the self-sustainable movement. While he is growing the food and collecting the rain water and working the land, It makes sense for me to rethink the way we use our resources indoors. Cooking with the food he grows, cleaning with natural substances like baking soda, making the toys... It feels like quiet and important work. I am not good at it. My stitches are all uneven and I have no idea how to cut fabric in a straight line. Still. So I will try to make our clothes whenever I can from old sheets and discarded fabrics. I will continue to learn this new (to me) song of domesticity.

Today, I plan to combine my two loves--paper and my sewing machine in this project.

Girl Scout Goodness and an After-Bedtime walk

2009-05-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

I happened upon a Girl Scout Garage Sale yesterday while out running errands, and I thought I'd share the pretty things I found: old airmail envelopes, linens, and a prescription bottle filled with... bling.

What is it about old stuff that is so attractive? I think we know our very histories are all wrapped up in every antique dress or vintage handkerchief. I recently sent a litany of questions to both my parents, because I want to know all that I can. My dad tells of his uncle Tommy in Ireland, who was a professional boxer and had a second job in the ship yard. Early one morning, Tommy's friend sneak attacked him, and Tommy went into instinct mode, clocked his friend and busted his jaw, ultimately sending him to the hospital. This is just fascinating to me. The stories that make us who we are. My mother and her dog Taffy sleeping beneath her window each night. That she counts when she slices bananas.
Sometimes I wonder why it is I blog. I don't think anyone really reads what I write, aside from my mom and my mama-in-law. But it is probably the most detailed journal I have ever kept, and I envision my kids finding gems in here somewhere. So on I go, without ever really knowing why, and being okay with that too.

The other evening, I had the kids get ready for bed, then suggested a stroll. Liam wore his "walking diaper" and his "walking hat." These are the things I don't want to forget.

On and on we go!

Whole Earth

2009-05-12T12:06:00.001-07:00

They call it Sustainalovability. Mother's day weekend is always my favorite weekend of the year, because it is the weekend of the Whole Earth Festival, a big old music and activism fest that strives to eliminate waste. Our heaping plate of pad tai came with a dish and fork we paid a deposit on. When the food was gone, we turned in our utinsils for a refund. What a fabulous idea! We met the owners of the permibus and got to pet their chickens. The kids danced. Liam joined the drum circle and Mr. Shane helped provide peddling power to musicians the Ginger Ninjas. It was lovely, as always.
I hope your mother's day was lovely too, whether you are a mother or a child of one.

My birthday present from the kids

2009-05-10T15:36:00.001-07:00

Do those guys know me, or what?

May

2009-05-07T11:07:00.001-07:00

May is the month we give thanks to our mothers. The one who gave us life and the one we walk upon. I paraphrase Luis Alberto Urrea The Hummingbird's Daughter: "I walk barefoot because I like to be close to my mother." Now that I think of it, I'm not sure which mother he meant. Either way, isn't it lovely? As children we made cards for Mother's Day, Gorgeous silly vignettes of glitter and string. We picked flowers from the cracks in the sidewalk and tied them with yarn. I love you, we wrote. Our own names so carefully rendered. May is the flower month. It is words like posy, petal, pearls, mimosa, champagne. Receipt. Pocketbook. Milk train. In May the butterflies flit in the breezes, the bumblebees hover over lavender. And everything seems to slow down. To just be. Still. Can we become still?

May is for hopscotch and butterscotch and brunch. Picnics in the woods, a patch of moss, a running brook. A book. Now is the time to run barefoot along the banks. To become children again. To play with glitter and string, write I love you. Practice writing your name. Your mother gave it to you, it is sacred. Make a card for Mother Earth, put it in your compost. Be Barefoot. Hug a tree. Give thanks to your mother.

What are they doing?

2009-04-19T10:24:00.001-07:00

Playing with their new walnut shell sail boats! One of the projects in my new favorite child-based book, Earthways.

Happy Earth Day!

Sunday Scribblings: Language

2009-04-17T17:37:00.001-07:00

Collection of words
Symbols/signifiers
Yo Parle Franish.
We were beach people, surfers, bonfire burning hippie mellow rocking Volkswagen driving watchers of the sky. On days there was no rehearsal we'd ride our bikes to the beach and watch the sunset, but only after sitting on the sand for hours, like mismatched posts of beaten fence, stripped of our coatings by the elements.
Handle it as you would a sacred relic. *
Our world was steeped in the elements, only fire took a backseat, though on so many evenings the sun burned like coke in a cupola furnace. Evenings like this one.
Cliché
The curve of your palm I might have woven for us a home of sea moss and drift wood. But you were still your father's son.
* with much care and reverence.

Journal Pages

2009-04-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter!

2009-04-12T08:37:00.001-07:00

April

2009-04-11T09:46:00.001-07:00

Oh the green earth days of April, everything shimmering with melt and dew. April is new life. Lambkins and goslings and kits, eggs hatching, mother's milk. It is words like cowslip, nest, robin's egg blue. Burst forth. Unfurl. April is girls in crisp white dresses, afternoons lounging on fresh grass. It is clover and breeze. In April, we celebrate renewal, that great unending cycle. Grandmother Spider and her glistening web. Our hearts slam into one another, blam.

April is the time to breathe. To slow down. To hold a baby, or just to walk barefoot through the morning grass, a thick piece of toast in one hand, strong hot coffee in the other. And feel it. Every moment of connection. People coming out of hibernation. Take hands, enjoy. Hold onto it. Allow your heart to be slammed.

Slowly

2009-04-05T10:37:00.001-07:00

Well, my back has gone out again. The last thirty six hours have been spent essentially laid up on the couch, ice pack at the small of my back, big glass of water by my side. There is laundry to be done and dishes in the sink and here I lie. Quietly reading. Thinking soft and healing thoughts. The kids are gone. Shane is gone. I am left to my books and my pens and journals strewn haphazardly around the couch. If someone were to come visit, they would believe I am living in squalor. Dirty dishes in the sink. I take small walks. I sleep.

It takes me a full 20 minutes to walk one time around the block. I see people in their passing cars regarding me curiously. Why is this person in her thirties walking the streets like an eighty year old? They smile at me gently. The world has slowed down.

I see every crack on the sidewalk. A woman at her door calls for her kitty. While I would normally race on by, today I have no choice but to make my creeping journey. "Is she orange and white?" I ask. "She's here." The woman tells me her story. I creep.

At home I read. So much time to sit and read. To nap. Why does it take an injury to slow down?

My life is racing, I know. My kids are growing and I am busy, busy. So now, to you, the universe and God and my unconscious I declare: "I get it. I think I do. I will slow. I will slow and dance this dance as carefully as I can. "

Sunday Scribblings: I Come From…

2009-03-21T12:33:00.001-07:00

Small suburb of LA, all white with a mall you could reach by bus and nothing else to do. My school was part of the Los Angeles Unified School District and I'd stare at the stencil painted LAUSD on the side of the milk cart and pretend I was part of something bigger. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken in the park on sunny spring evenings and in the summer, Donna and I would walk to St. James and arrange geraniums in the pale cool hands of the Virgin Mary. The skies were sunny my bed was a boat. I wrote. My third grade teacher wanted us to keep a journal and I wrote sarcastic entries, I had already lost the ability to take myself seriously and it would be a long time before I could trust my own voice. But into my Little Twin Stars notebooks I wrote lists and stories—more lists than stories, and I'd stay up late at night in my bed which was a boat and write. At the top of the hill was a ranch with horses and we'd hike up and ride the horses until I grew allergic. One night one of the horses escaped and we kept it in our backyard until morning. A witch came nights and sat in a chair beside my bed. The rain was like waves. I escaped.

Growing up

2009-03-17T12:46:00.001-07:00

The kid turned seven and lost her two front teeth, all in one week, resulting in exactly seven bucks from the tooth fairy. Do you remember the feeling of sticking your tongue into those wet empty spots, all slippery and strange? And then, after weeks of this, a little nub of something begins to break through, and you scratch your tongue against it again and again and hopefully by now there is another loose tooth to wiggle in class because there is nothing more comforting than exploring your mouth with your tongue. I think this is why so many of us get our tongues pierced in our teens and twenties. That slippery coolness, those new tugs and sensations to explore.

So again we are experiencing a rite of passage in the Stirling house. A little attitude is creeping in, quite uninvited, but probably right on schedule. Fashion is becoming more important. Talk of princesses is giving way to coy grins and rolling eyes and talk of a certain blond boy in the first grade. And all of this is just such a miracle. On and on we roll...

What Seven Looks Like

2009-03-10T10:02:00.000-07:00

It looks like more of the same: learning to knit, beleiving in fairies, cracking jokes, being kind to the little brothers of the world. Playing hard. Dancing, play dates, being able to play "twinkle twinkle little star" on the guitar, arranging flowers for mom, drawing pictures of rainbows and family. And some new things too--second grade next year (Oh my), class camping trips, new holes where baby teeth once lived. And as for tonight, getting a special "whatever-you-want" dinner of chili cheese fries, strawberries, jam, and strawberry milk. Oh yes. It's going to be a good year. Happy seventh, my love.
Birthday crown sewing instructions can be found in The Creative Family by Amanda Soule.
Embroidered bird design from Sublime Stitching by Jenny Hart.

March

2009-03-03T14:20:00.001-08:00

Last year in Irie's kindergarten, we sang this little song:

Spring is coming, spring is coming, flowers are coming too.

Pansies, lilies, daffodillies, all are coming through.

It is March, and this song is in my head as I walk the wet streets, bright bursts of yellow and white growing up from gardens and yards, the coronas of the daffodils looking like perfect crowns for fairies. March is woodland pixies and flute-playing sprites. It is gnomes in the redwoods, their little mushroom caps. It is words like primrose, crocus, birdsong, puddle. It is thick rubber boots in the mud. In March, the worms rise from the earth and we must throw them into gardens, we must worship the fragility and endurance of life. Cycles. March is the month that is green, shoots and clovers—leprechauns and luck. Recycle. Make a fairy garden. Make a wish. Feed cakes to the snails and butterflies—everyone knows they are the friends of fairies. Toss the sidewalk worms into the nearest patch of green. Be lucky. Kiss an Irish person. Share a pint. Cheers!

Liam's monsters

2009-02-26T11:19:00.000-08:00

Me.

Chance and Uncle Trav.

Watch out! We're coming to getcha!

Happy Valentines Day

2009-02-14T08:40:00.000-08:00

School Valentines

2009-02-13T11:05:00.001-08:00

Today is Valentines Day in the first grade. At our little waldorf school, kids were required to make all their valentines by hand, which of course, we would have anyway.

I found this project last year, cut it out, and pasted it into my idea notebook. An idea notebook is a fabulous thing to have, by the way. I'll have to share more on that later. Anyway, here is Ireland making her valentines. They turned out really cute, and were easy enough for her to do essentially on her own. I hope your valentines day is sweet and filled with good fortune!

Winter Love

2009-02-10T11:11:00.001-08:00

Winter is:

snow angels, chrystal stars, that particular pale shade of blue. Books and hot chocolate in front of a fire. Wet boots, nesting indoors, warm breakfast, thick socks. Winter is words like toboggan, icicle, solstice, thawing. Words like silent, sleigh, cranberry, cocoa. It is ice princess territory, a silver cloak, her metal crown of stars. Stars sharp as glass. Hands of ice. Winter is fleeting, hold on!

Corners Thursday

2009-01-29T12:01:00.000-08:00

I've been making some changes to the kids' room. Up until now, Irie has had her own bed against the wall, Liam has been in the bottom bunk, and the top bunk, meant for Tyler (who prefers the couch) has become a storage spot for sleeping bags. I decided Irie was ready for the top bunk and had planned to keep the bottom bunk and get rid of the big bed, but the bottom bunk is really just toddler sized and Shane has so many projects, I hated asking him to enlarge it. So in the meantime, Liam has moved to the big bed and I made a little nook under the bunk for Irie's dresser and her special stuff.
Here's a closeup--you can see her gnomy, her sewing basket, and the pink birthday cape her Kindergarten teacher made her last year.
So then the question was, How can boy up the space that was all Irie's, now that Liam's bed is under it? Here was the Irie space:

Kinda girly. I made a couple of rearrangements, and here's what I came up with:

Hmm, not bad, but there's still not much about it that screams boy. It's kind of cliche, but what about...?

Aah yes, there we go.

update

2009-01-27T11:33:00.000-08:00

Found it. Mmm. That feels better.

One World-One Heart

2009-01-24T10:35:00.000-08:00

The winners of the focal points are:

Michelle at Fairie*Dust*Dreams and Rosa at Living as Rosa! Thanks to all who played and thanks again to our fabulous hostess, Lisa!
This year, I'm playing along with Lisa's One World-One Heart Event. The idea? To host a giveaway as a loving way to connect with other bloggers throughout the world. I am giving away two little pieces of art. I originally made them with the idea that they could be used as a focal point for a laboring mother, but they could really be anything: a baby shower gift, art for the baby's room...
To enter to win, leave a comment on this post before 9:00 PM on February 11th. If you like, you can specify which piece you prefer. I will announce the two winners on February 12. Make sure there is a way I can contact you if you win!
Happy playing. Visit the site for plenty more giveways! Here's to a loving world.

Link to my main blog page here.

Comments closed. I'll be back to announce the winner.

the thing with feathers

My friends are fancy!

Rainy Day at the River

Corners Thursday

A Day to Cherish

An angel

Gifts from the bay

Five Views of a Sunset in California City

Now we are seven

Happy Halloween: Morning pictures

October 5

On Writing

To my children on the first day of school

these summer days

Windows

Happy Easter!

Preemtive Dyeing

Just a post

handmade hats

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

What nine looks like

Fly, all your life

Remains of the Day Journal

To my reader friends

A Better Day

A post for Liam

First Day of School

Last Day of Summer

Reunited and it feels so good...

An Altered book by Ireland

Costume Fun

camping

Belated Father's Day Post

Gifts

remains of the day

Daughter

To Charlotte

Janet Fitch's word prompt: Open

Sunday Scribblings: Deadline

One Small Change: April

Prompt: Clip

Sunday Scribblings: The Book that Changed Everything

Prompt: Bowl

Eight

Prompt: Mexico

One Small Change: March

My love affair with San Miguel

Hearts and Sugar

Our *Amazing* Journals now

One Small Change: February

Sunday Scribblings: Milestone

Sunday Scribblings: Yes

On bad guys and parenting

Today

Our *amazing* journals, thus far

One Small Change: January

Five

Dr. Seuss Christmas tree

The Nature Table

tis the season...

nanojoumo

Halloween, 2009

Beautiful October

What do you get when you cross a pumpkin with a steamroller?

Gulf Fritillary

A little premature

Very First Soccer Game---Ever.

A date with my guy

Notes from a wedding

August

So True...

A Story by Ireland, age 7

More random bits.

To my children

Snapshots from camping: The natural world

Summer Craft: Father's day bookmarks.

Craft for the first official day of summer vacation: Felt Friends

June

Not just a pale shade of purple

Stitchin Trish!

Our Amazing Journals now

Our amazing journals, thus far