3am

it’s the time of night between dark and light, the smell of stringy throw up, the eyes wanting to close, the nauseating rocking that is insisted upon.

3am makes me do strange things.

 

3am found me searching for scissors and later cutting the neckline off the shirt i was wearing. why? i don’t know.

3am you make me feel claustrophobic.

 

3am found us with no more clean towels sheets or blankets.

3am found me leaning against the washer starting my second load of laundry.

3am you make me feel as if i’m losing my mind. when he wakes up chipper with no fever. but come 4pm it’ll be back and i know i’ll see the likes of 3am again. 

3am i’ve met you for four nights in a row and don’t take it personally or anything but i hope to never see the likes of you again.

3am found me wanting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2pm delivered us an answer.
bronchitis! i’ve never been so happy to know an illness.
thank you for all your well wishes, river now officially on the mend taking his first ever antibiotics.

“momma, she said it would be yummy because it’s cherry banana, but it’s not yum mom, it’s yuck!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i think this sickness will be filed away in the rolodex of my ‘mom memory’. forever reminding me of craziness and strength and all that lives in between the two. i’m sure everyone’s got a filing system like this, it’s a basic survival skill… to remind us of how bad it was and how good we’ve got it and that we can get through anything that is thrown (up) at us.

fight or flight

it was early morning. early enough that the sirens and flashing lights cut through the sunrise. what was the season? i had been washing my car earlier that evening. it was spring, about six years ago.

i looked out across the cul-de-sac and saw the smoke lifting from the busted front door. i saw the trash in the front yard and the blackened bricks. i wondered where his dog was. i hoped everyone was safe.

i waited on news because they were in california and two hours behind in time zones, still not awake. i knew his roommates would come over and ask me to call because he was with my husband on a jobsite installing a sea of solar panels in the simi valley. they were wanting to be home, missing texas. and i was wanting to be away, ready to leave my job and start my tour of self employment that would last me six years.

he got on the phone and i had to tell him his house caught fire during the night. that all of his belongings were burned. that he would come home to nothing. no clothes, no cd’s, no home. but his dog was ok. i imagined him blinking because there was much silence over the static of cellphones. i filled in the gaps with the story his roommate told me. how he woke up out of a dream with a jolt. he smelled smoke and immediately jumped out the bedroom window in his boxers and nothing else. he found the garden hose and kicked in the front door while another neighbor called the fire department.

that was amazing to me. that he didn’t try the doorknob. that he knew instinctively not to open that door even in his sleepy state.

the firefighter said if he would have opened his door he would have been burned alive. he was the only one in the house with no smoke detectors and a friends dog at his feet.

this is fight or flight. right? this is something that is born in us. either we have it or we don’t. either we know instinctively what to do or we misstep, misgauge, misread ourselves into misfortune.

i don’t know why i’m thinking of this, remembering this. maybe because river’s skin is a heat furnace on me now. maybe because i’m questioning myself, the only adult in the house, while my son fights through the highest fever i’ve ever seen on him. the weight of responsibility is heavy to bear when sickness swirls dangerously close.

i often think through scenarios just to know all the routes, get familiar with all the exits, incase i should need one. i am armed with medicine and love and friends and phone numbers.

somewhere in the dark of 3am he wakes and asks to be rocked. so i lug him onto my lap and we bounce on the yoga ball at the foot of my bed. he sweats into my shirt. he breathes fast with the smell of sickness, fever, vomit, flu. i feel all skin and bones right about now. i wish i had more of a bosom to comfort him. i would eat a pound of ice cream a day if i could make myself softer for him right now. for these moments when only momma will do. and momma will fight the sickness all night long for you.

you, who are not me

i see your eyes. i see the way you carry the lunchboxes with overflowing arms. i see both your kids; the way one hides behind your legs and one bursts forward greeting everyone as family.

i knew it about you even before i knew all the details. as if i could smell it on you, passing between us with casual words of morning exchanges. even though i couldn’t put my finger on it, i knew it was there. it floated over our heads in the space between us and our children.

‘it’ is this thing that sometimes happens to people. people like you and me. and many many others. i see in your eyes all that you are doing, wanting to do, wishing to do more of, wondering which things you’re doing wrong. i see your eyes tired the morning after putting them to bed and needing space to zone and not think or go over pounds of paperwork. i see you only for a few moments at a time. 

i wish i could tell you it will get easier. i wish you would believe me. many people told me it’d get easier and i heard their words, i read their words. but they went right through me like hot water through a coffee filter. they came out steaming on the other side before i could grab them and rub them into truth. believe me, i wanted to. i knew those words could shine. but one cannot will life into existence. everyone must go through this alone. at a time when what you need the most is to be anything but alone. i’ll never know why that is. but i think of it the same as i think of birth. no one can do this but you. and somehow on the other side, you realize the gift that was hiding in all those layers of pain.

you are in it now. in the thick of it, you see no one else but the two lovelies at your feet. one step infront of another, because laying down is simply not an option. i see it in you and it pains me because i was just there myself. somehow i came out, even though it’s still undone, i came out on the other side. now it’s just bumpy is all, now it’s just working out the kinks. now it’s just getting used to the new rhythm. now i hear my internal critic say “this is my life now and it’s okay.” now i really believe it. because it really is okay even though it’s not all good.

i know a bit about your fears. i know that anxiety is a black demon. quite real. it takes up residence in your mind, becoming your unwanted guest. it lives and thrives like a microscopic parasite: on one part truth, one part fear. no one can feel it there but you. and everyone is wondering why you look so sick and tired. it’s the parasite, it’s very real as it eats up your insides. anxiety becomes reality. i know this. i wish i could put my hand to your shoulder in the way that strangers sometimes do, i wish i could somehow transfer all of my mind into your heart. zap! then you’d know. then you’d believe. then i could somehow make it all better.

you’ll come through. but until then, try to find the light, it keeps the demons at bay. i keep your number in my pocket because i am obligated for safety. but also because i want to. i am momma bear and i hope to somehow share this weight. let me carry your burden while my shoulders are still strong. once i was anxious just like you. i know the thought of letting them out of your sight burns like bile at your throat. it’s the fear of the unknown. the worry of the unpredictable mind. and wishing a child’s love could conquer an adult’s  anger. i hope that it will. maybe not now in the thick of this jungle. in the heat and humidity and lack of fresh air. but maybe someday the breeze will blow sweet for you again. but until then i want you to know that your kids are safe with me.

go vote!

huh? i thought we were already enjoying the fruits of a new president!

yeah, this is a photo contest. it goes on each month with a great prize! this month the theme was LOVE… and a photo of mine is a finalist! yay me! so go on over there and check out the photos!

there’s alot of photo love this month (every month aimee finds some amazing photography), so share your vote for the photo that moves you!

a walk in the rain

it’s rainy season here. every year i forget and then remember again. oh yes, it’s nearly spring. this is our season for weather. glorious weather.

i’m backing out of the driveway for my lunch break, river’s buckled in the backseat and i step out to lock the gate. i grab my camera because the foliage here is always hiding something beautiful.

“what are you taking a picture of?” she startles me from across the fence, my bubble is burst. huh?! who me? i always am me, assuming guilt or wrong-doing or worry of trespass when in actuality people are just people being friendly who want to chat. it’s something internal, from my childhood or simply how i’m wired. i know that even when i’m white haired and eighty i’ll feel like the 16 year old looking over her shoulder with one toe over the law.

my camera is about three inches from a plant, the plants that grow up and over her fence. “i’m taking a picture of the raindrops” i tell her. she lingers and i dont’ know what else to say. “you’re a teacher?” she asks, and asks me my name. “and you’re a photographer too?” i’m feeling squirrely like someone’s trying to pin me down and i’m the slippery fish who wants to swim away. she learns my name and i learn hers between the raindrops and the engine that’s still running with a patient four year old in the backseat. “i like details” i mention like it’s an important thing to know. perhaps it is. she has probably seen me on my knees in the dirt or with my face in the foliage before. “did you get the photo?” she asks, still watching me. “yep.”

she smiles and i smile before we both head back to our own little worlds.
“The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

we drive in the rain down the block to the park, and we put on our boots and hats and take a walk in the rain. we have the park to ourselves, and it’s white all white from fog and rain.

i revel in the details.
because that’s what i find important.

when i am with my camera i have an easy time of getting small. small, smaller, smallest. the tiniest details are what tell the story. everything else can be a blur, the blur is part of the art. the beauty of the unknown and the colors that swirl around with it.

and so i am with my camera alot these days. my camera makes me feel good, makes me feel accomplished. i’m ignoring my words these days. maybe because i hear myself repeating “use your words!” all day long to young ones just learning. but my words seem to come out of me with large swirling motions. with a largeness that i cannot harness and reign in. a largeness that overwhelms my need for detail and love for being small.

so for now i procrastinate my deadline. a real one with word counts and need for editing. i procrastinate because it feels too big and i don’t know yet how to chisel and chip it down, to work it so small that it won’t crack or melt from the heat of my hands. it catches me off guard, this realization. this ease of camera and stress of words. if i were to dream my dream and write a book, how would i find the moment, the tiniest drop that becomes the power to explode concentric rings from within? how would i narrow it down to just one moment, one breath? and how would i make that breath stretch and last from the deepest depths back up to the light at the surface?  

“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers,

‘Grow, grow.’”

 

love is

i don’t always give money to people on the street. i usually don’t even have money to give, but occassionally i have some thing. and they have something too. they have the old black dog with the white trimmed mouth and eyes who is holding a sign in his mouth that reads “i need bones.” it makes me think of sweet old dogs i have loved and nuzzled.

most often they have something that i need like a word or phrase on their cardboard sign. or all that they have is the grey sky on a cold valentine’s day. i dont’ have money, but i often have snacks with me: a granola bar, an apple, a bag of goldfish. so sometimes i give food. not to everyone. not all the time. but sometimes. and i get some thing in return.

his skin was so rough, not a fine grit sandpaper, but full on road rash. and all i had was an opened box of valentine sweethearts, you know the kind that say “cutie” and “fax me” or “dear one”.  i rolled down the window and he walked the length of four cars to my outstretched hand.

“it’s all i have. happy valentine’s day.”

maybe he was surprised by me. as i find myself feeling surprised when i hang my arm out the window sometimes, reaching across space to someone i will most likely never meet again.

“thanks!” he said, “i’ll see you in heaven!”
my face broke into a smile.
“alright” i said.
it was such a pleasant thing to say, to hear, to share.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

now rewind six days.
monday
mondays are difficult days.

coming back to momma still sick, still with many layers… i often dont’ even recognize you when i see you. physically yes of course, but emotionally there is a disconnect. when you go out into the world you are not who i know you to be. your safety, your coping mechanism is in your layering. i know this. but the layers come between us. it’s a language i don’t understand. you swimming on the surface. you, hiding your depth. and me trying to reach you.

mondays are difficult especially after being sick all weekend. mondays are difficult with hitting and screaming.

wailing.

i know why, i understand that it’s painful for the wall to come down. to peel back those layers. to realize in yourself, in your child’s mind, that this must be confusing. you are two people in two places in two times. the moment you come back home you’re still hidden from view, you’re still there waiting until the right moment when you are able to snap back into yourself. into what i know you are.

and until you do, there is much dischord.

mondays are especially difficult after eight long hours of this, i hear my words and feel that stretch of disconnect make an inpassable gap between us. you wail thorugh the door. through the perfect circle hole where the doorknob used to be. the doorknob i removed because you locked the cat in your room and closed the door. i’m no good at picking locks. i simply remove the obstacle.

mondays are difficult when i feel myself slipping away into that place of nonchalance. after eight hours and not wanting to be hit anymore. not wanting to be screamed at anymore. not wanting to be the target. when i am the only target.

i pick up the phone. i don’t know what else to do. and you answer thank god and i’m somewhat speechless at first, not sure how to start the conversation. but you hear him in the background and i put you on speakerphone.

he’s a puddle on the carpet, he’s probably leaking through to our neighbor below by this point. he’s on his side refusing to hold the phone so i lay it next to him, close enough to speak and hear.

and the mindless angry screaming turns into soft cries.
“come get me. can you come get me right now?” he asks.
my heart is breaking.
my heart is breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.
i am the worst mother in the world.
and i love his little being so very much.
“i’m leaving right now.” you tell him, ” i’ll be there in a few minutes.”

he sits to put his shoes on, and instead of objects, now he throws words. words i can’t dodge. they hurt worse than fists. he’s pushing the boundaries to see if i’m fit. if i’m strong. to see what i’ve done and if it can be undone. if i can handle it. he’s pissed at the boundaries i set. it’s hard having two parents when they have a different set of rules. even if they were still living in the same house. it would be hard.

they go on a walk. i’m left holding a handful of tangled ropes, fraying on the ends. wondering how to piece it back together with what i’ve got, because i can’t go back. i call a friend. i cook dinner and catch my breath. this is normal. he’s angry. it’s always this way on a monday. he needs more stability. he needs two parents on the same page, setting the same boundaries. he needs two parents to make the responsible choices so he can go back to being the kid. he needs two parents to guide him. i say all these things because i truly believe all these things. again it’s something i just smell. it’s not something i read or hear from someone else, it’s just my gut churning me in the direction of change.

after thirty minutes i hear a knock on the door. i open the door and he seems so little to me standing there alone at the top of the stairs. his attitude is still big, “i’m not gonna eat my dinner” he announces as he crosses the threshold. “hi!” i say and welcome him back in.

you and he discussed hitting. that it’s not okay to hit. ever.

at dinner i feel some of the layers peel. it’s not something i can see or hear. it’s only something i can feel. it’s a lightness. a shift in weight. it falls around him at the kitchen table, it drops quietly to the carpeted floor.

we’re sitting down to eat now.

“today was a rough day, huh? sad and mad and happy and angry all at once. you were mixed up and i was mixed up too. hey i’m wondering if you are mad at momma because daddy and i dont’ live together anymore?”

“yes” he says. “i’m frustrated at you.”

“do you know why momma and daddy don’t live together anymore?”

“yes” he says. then adding quietly, ”tell me more.”

i swallow. we have spent the past seven months coasting through our own waves of bullshit. it’s been awful. he has given us this. this time to figure it out for ourselves. now he is asking we be the grown ups and turn our focus onto him. he’s demanding it. he’s been patient, but he needs us now. and i hope that we can come together to provide him with this, this is what he needs.

“well.” i start, “we used to live together in our old house. and you know that momma and daddy both love you very much. but we weren’t very happy living with each other. so we decided to not live together anymore. realizing this was a little sad for us, even though we knew we’d be happier. and now we live in different houses. and we both still love you very much.” 

he’s chewing. and thinking.

“it must be hard to miss daddy when you are with me. and it must be hard to miss me when you are with daddy.  it must be really hard to always be missing someone you love.”

he agrees but is still listening. waiting for more.

“you know that daddy is never away from you. he’s always in your heart. when you are with me, daddy is in your heart. and when you are with daddy, i’m never away from you. i’m always in your heart.”

he seems to like this and taps his heart.

“daddy’s in my heart right now?” he asks. then he starts beating on his chest and smiling broadly. “hey! now i’m hitting daddy!”

welcome back.

you asked to go away from me. and you returned with wet socks and shoes from puddle jumping. you asked to go away from me. and you returned thirty minutes later and shared with me a piece of my own heart.

and this heart rock. hand delivered.

“Love is patient, love is kind.

It does not envy,
it does not boast,
it is not proud.
It is not rude,
it is not self-seeking,
it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts,
always hopes, always preserves.”

and now we are four

happy 4th birthday river!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.

If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You’d sail on water as blue as air,
And you’d see me here in the fields and say:
“Doesn’t the sky look green today?”

Where am I going? The high rooks call:
“It’s awful fun to be born at all.”
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
“We do have beautiful things to do.”

If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You’d lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You’d say to the wind when it took you away:
“That’s where I wanted to go today!”

Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

-A.A Milne
from When We Were Very Young

blessings

most often with me there’s this mix of emotion. it’s bitter and sweet. it’s truth and truth, in it’s joy and pain. it is standing when strong and sitting when overcome, in a circle of friends and feeling it drop by drop. it is accepting it and welcoming it and crying while laughing. it is so very good.

sunday was that day.
a surprise.

i still don’t have words, but my heart is overcome. it is knocked down with truth and filled back up with the very same truth. it is hands working to create, to love, to embrace. it is an arm’s length of fiber so strong and warm. it is mindful arrangement in collecting the positive holding tight to the positive, and it is a handful of heavy rocks to let go of the negative. it is all powerful.

the words, the collections, the actions, the moments, the power of a circle, the strength of that circle. today it is beyond belief.

what we wouldn’t do for each other. all of us. in our humanness. i am so very lucky. i really know this. i am so very blessed. and i won’t ever forget it.

so, today was to be a photowalk, my favorite place to be. my preserve, the place i return to again and again because it’s the closest to peace i can find being so far from a coastline.

today i was tired from little sleep and had my camera slung in hope, but i walked into something much more beautiful than anything i could capture with a lens. a blessingway, a ritual, a ceremony, a recognition of transition and life changes. i have not cried in this way for quite some time. crying out of joy and disbelief in my luck, in our power, in our love. crying in truth, in acknowledgment, in feeling arms around me.

it is the most beautiful thing. and i’m so lucky to have this in real life. these friends who are so gracious, so strong in their arms to carry me when i need it most, to build me up, to remind me of what i am. to gather all the pieces of me, the pieces that have scattered over time with friends so far from me, with places i’ve been and people i knew then, with circumstance of virtual kinship … kindred spirits i’ve met along the way and will always cherish.

to collect all these pieces of my life and those who i’ve touched and who have touched me, to put them down on paper, with words beautiful words, to speak them to me as if annointing me in oil, my ears hear these beauties, these truths of me, the beautiful words. to roll them, fold them, to say thank you again and again, to treasure them in a jar of joy for those times i forget myself and all that i am.

this time is now.

this time we will look back on and remember with disbelief that any of this happened, for all of us… life happens to all of us at some point. but the truth is that we remained standing in the current that lapped our feet and tugged at our thighs. at some time in the future we will realize that when we thought we were so weak, we were the strongest version of ourselves that we know.

this is the middle place. where i stand, and today i know in my heart that i’d rather be nowhere else than here. looking over both shoulders, backwards and forwards at the same time, seeing where we’ve come and where we’ll go and knowing today is right now.

so again. thank you. thank you. a hundred times again. all of you who were with me today in real life and in spirit, all of your words and thoughts and memories and laughter and reminders traveled all the miles and found their place in my heart today. and i promise you this: they will never leave.

there is no disbelief anymore.  there is only truth.  raw and powerful.  words in print, spilled from mouths formed, lips parted with love, shouted, whispered and repeated over and over again until this moment.

this today.
when i hear.
and i believe.

this moment, these hours of seen transformation are of the few that will never be forgotten.  just like a birth or death or day of wreckage.  this is the day of rebirth and celebration. the sky and how it looked, the windy gusts, the peacocks yelp, the childrens laughter, the sounds of the gardens, the hands around a circle, the voices of women i love (near and far) … all of it is in me now forever. turning dark into light into words into paint into memories.  and i know this fact that i will never forget agin. that i am not alone.  that i am loved.  that i am blessed.

one week. one month.

this week, somehow i managed to change my perspective.

i was in a hole and i pulled myself out by the camera strap. i started walking on my lunch breaks at work, and i brought my camera with me. capturing a beautiful (to me) photograph makes me feel accomplished in my day. (not that mothering and/or teaching 9 hours in a class of 14 three and four year olds, all of whom are in a brand-new-to-them-school, is not accomplishing anything) but seeing something remarkable with my lens is what feeds me on the inside. it’s what keeps me going.

this week i gave myself a thirty minute photowalk every day.
and every day i saw something new that i thought was beautiful.

i thought alot… not just about the landscaping of the neighborhood of my school, but the fact that we have come through one month. one month of major change. moving, beginning work, starting school, making new friends, etc etc. we came through it!

wow. we can do anything!

this afternoon with arms full, with tired muscles, and dinner waiting to be cooked. river stood on the driver’s seat and asked “momma can you carry me?” and i answered honestly… “i would love to carry you.” he barely fits in my arms these days and won’t be asking for much longer i’d imagine. “how can you carry me?” he asks from up high on my hip as we tramp through the parking lot to our apartment. “because momma is strong. your momma is the strongest momma you know!” now, this may not be true, we actually know many strong mommas in real life, but it sure felt good saying it. he smiled and repeated it, “you’re strong! you’re strong because you ate so much food you turned 33!”

well, yes love.
but not exactly.

it’s funny when you are on the inside of something much like a tunnel you forget which way is in and which way is out. when you are in the middle it’s a bit like groping at the walls to find your way, following your gut like some primal voice that leads you back toward the light. darkness makes you forget time, place, dates. darkness makes it hard to find beauty.

it’s not something anyone can fix. it’s not something anyone can walk you through. it must be hard to watch from the sidelines, friends wanting to help, but knowing nothing much can fix the darkness of that tunnel.

so, simply keep walking. in either direction. as long as you’re walking you’ll be fine. just keep walking and hopefully your steps will lead you to where you need to be.

treasure chest

a few weeks ago a little something arrived in the mail for me. i sat surprised at the treasures tucked inside. surprised and ever so thankful. what i uncovered was something far beyond heart rocks and handknits and treasures more precious than silver and gold. it was a blog friendship box. a true treasure chest. and it had traveled across many miles to arrive at my doorstep. thank you so much for including me in this journey.

it all makes me think of how special this feels in space and time. how blogging to document turned into blogging to write and photograph which became so much more connection than a simple network of friends. some of the most creative, inspiring, successful, powerful, wise women i have met through this medium called blogging. a word that i don’t even necessarily like… well, it has quite simply changed my world. as the world gets smaller we learn of each other humanness. i am you and you are me and we are all together. somehow it flows and warms my heart to know the world is that much smaller and kinder.

so, this box.
this treasure chest.

it came to me from maine. and i sent it out to california. east coast to west coast baby! it was hard to choose one blogging friend, but i could think of no one other than sheri to share this friendship with right now. because it all comes full circle. afterall, she sent me my very first friend print, she shared the same blue wall, the love of birds, the simplicity of tea and pretty pretties. she’s been such an inspiration in photography for me, and the writing oh the writing. i could go on and on.

so, i hope this treasure chest finds you well! and i hope it enjoys many more miles between friends! it liked visiting austin but is ready to see other corners of the world!