I stood at the edge of the tracks, very close, maybe too close. But I’d never had a train pass within feet of my body. I did not know what it felt like to be nudged by that great wave of air coming fast in front of the engine, and I wanted to know, just in case. So I stood close and felt a cracking pain in my eardrum when the whistle blew. ...
I wonder if a butterfly hanging wet-winged and upside down from a slender branch doesn’t look up at the grass or down at the sky and think to herself, “Hello, Grass,” or “Hello, Sky, I have been away for a while. But I am here now.” In June of 2010 started working full-time in order to provide for the family during a long financial dry spell. I found out quickly that I was not Super Woman. I failed often at work, excelled at nothing at home. I stopped writing, crafting, cooking, stopped playing a meaningful role in the homeschooling. The loss of eight, nine, ten hours of every one of my days forced me to abandon nearly every parenting practice and homekeeping habit that I held dear. It was all I could do to survive from day to day as I tried to keep work tasks, thoughts and stress from completely taking over my mind, body and spirit. I just…stopped making a home for my family. And after two years, this became a new normal, and I thought that this “who I am” was going to be forever. ...
The older men always doze on the evening bus ride back to suburbia. Their heads nod in unison, lowering to their chests, and with each pneumatic sighing press of the brakes, their heads flick upright, as if mounted on hinges, and so they nod their agreement that, yes, their days are numbered.
School in the mornings, play in the afternoons, writing at night after everyone else has fallen asleep, so the days pass here. Our days have found a new rhythm that quite resembles the old…well, except for the sun. The new kitchen and dining room get lots and lots of delicious morning sun. I love nothing more than to sit in it and bake my poor bones, made frigid by five years spent in one of the snowiest, cloudiest, rainiest cities in the States. I’m not sure when I’ll ever be warm again. We’re heading to the National Zoo on the Metro today to see Cyrano the giant anteater. I wonder if he likes sitting in the sun, too?
Last night I had such a vivid dream of the beach house in December: huddling against the bitter wind blowing through the uninsulated front wall, trying to coax water to flow through frozen pipes and out the tap. The winter will be long.
I do like this time of year, when the outside colors are shifting from vibrance to reserve, diving deeper down into their end season. I, for one, think grays and browns are quite lovely, and bittersweet.
I water my garden every morning. When I’m finished, I sit on my front steps, tuck my hands between my knees for warmth, and listen. The water makes a crackling noise as it seeps into the concrete at my feet. If the windows of the passing cars are open, which they often are, I can make out the wax and wane of NPR or Coldplay or Taylor Swift, or an ad for a car dealership in the city. Through the open door behind me I hear the kids crunching their cereal in the dining room. They both sing wordless, keening little kid songs between bites. I close my eyes and memorize the sounds.
I sit down at the table with a perfect cup of coffee: a preheated mug filled three-quarters of the way with Freedom of Espresso’s organic blend, finished off with really long pours of both white sugar and heavy cream. As I take my first, second, and third sips of the morning, I can feel my mood lift from conscious to maniacally chipper. High on caffeine and eager for conversation, I look over at my seven year-old as she works on her spelling. ...
Beginning last summer, John and I felt a need to be really present at home and in our neighborhood. We planted a garden and hung out more with neighbors. We listened to the church bells ring through our little village and tucked into the moment. Now in the deep winter the pull of the local dovetails nicely with my cyclical, borderline agoraphobic, hermit-like desire to stay inside my house until spring. I was pleasantly surprised to read this article and discover that I am accidentally hip, timely and eco-conscious, it seems.
It’s very hard to write eloquently about a subject that’s already been written into the ground. A death in the family tears you off of your feet and out of the everyday, unwilling, stunned into silence, glancing over your shoulder at what should have been as you begin walking the rut of the mourner. Gather at Mom’s house, wash dishes, murmur reassurances of eternal life through Jesus that land on unwilling ears. Bake the casserole, wipe off the table, wince as you overhear every unfeeling cliché being directed at the widower. And as you work you pine away for the normal, not just for yourself but for the whole family. You’d rather Sunday never happened. If only we could be grocery shopping, solving math problems at the school table, putting in the next load of laundry. At this time of year we should be at Mom’s house to decorate Christmas cookies. Instead we keep busy with glasses and hot plates and the napkin pile as Mom prepares to bury her youngest child. ...