It’s Time, I Suppose

It’s time, I suppose, that I really looked at myself–my eyes, my body, my life.
“How have you been?” I might ask
but probably I won’t
because the answer is “I’ve been with the children.”
I already know.
Instead, perhaps, I could say
“What color of lipstick would you like to wear?” or
“Those shirts are so old and worn, let’s find something new.”

It’s time, I suppose, that I pulled out my notebooks
my scribbles, my art
and pored over them again
to remember where I was
when I quit writing.
My fingers have been drumming
on the dining room table
writing out a grocery list that goes
Broccoli
Avocados
Milk
the milk spilled
we must have more
Cream
my coffee needs
I need
a break from boring lists
to write about how I love
living near the wild things
where tall trees bang into each other
when the wind whips up
and dark clouds rush overhead
heavy with hail and snow and
it’s so cold
I can focus on one thing at a time
Butter
Flour
Eggs
Sigh.

It is time, I suppose
because I’m restless
and the children are napping
and I can’t remember who I was
I can’t remember what I was doing
what was important
before they came.
Not that I plan to try and go back
I don’t so much want to go back
as to figure out where to start
becoming who I am now.

It’s time, I suppose
after I finish this list
after I put together something for dinner
something with the jalapenos
which are about to go bad
a few diaper changes
some fresh pajamas
it’s almost time
bedtime is soon
I’ll tuck them in
and kiss their sweet heads
read a few stories
then it will be dark
and quiet
then I’ll start
maybe pour a glass of wine
then I’ll decide
where to begin
becoming who I am now.

Where I’ve Been

I’ve been wandering the woods
with messy hair
wearing babies
sipping cold coffee
thinking about what to make for dinner
and budgeting in my head
for car repairs,
the basement,
the leaky water heater . . .

I’ve been sharing everything about life that amazes me
with my children.
I want them to feel that amazement in their souls
and always know where to look for joy.

I’ve been awake a lot.
But not exactly awake.

I’ve been setting up the art table
and cleaning up the art table
folding and putting away the dress up clothes
switching out the six month clothes for the nine month,
the nine month clothes for the twelve month, the twelve
for the eighteen . . .
I’ve been making bread
making pie
making play dough
making memories
with my wild child and my sweet baby boys.

I’ve been walking into the wind
that is grief.
Wearing myself out wishing
for isn’t and can’t.

I’ve been waiting to shower until the next day
or the next
Waiting
until the boys are napping
to brush my teeth
to start prep for dinner
to get the laundry started or folded or sorted
or at least kicked into one corner of the bathroom.

I’ve been waiting
for everyone to fall asleep
so I can fall asleep.

I’ve been so very sad and so very tired.
Having lost and left more in the last four years
than the thirty-two prior to that combined.

And I don’t know what this next year holds
If it will be better or worse
a respite or another rip tide
But
I feel strong today
stronger than I’ve felt in a long time.

In the Garden (a mushy repost from 2013)

I have been aching to write and working on new things when I can, but while I do that, I’m going to go ahead and repost a few favorite oldies.  This one was written in the spring of 2013 when Carl and I had been married three years and were reviving his hop tower for its second season.  It feels like the perfect time to share it again.  Partly because this summer we’ll have been married ten years.  Partly because we’re almost ready to transplant our seed starts to the garden box outside.  And mostly because I still feel just this way about my man.  : )

Redneck Hop Farming

 

In the Garden

I am watching our hands in the garden
yours with the snips cutting away,
mine pulling last year’s dried vines
from the soft green shoots trying to come up

I am watching our hands in the garden
yours are big and calloused
but I find only gentleness and comfort in them.
While mine seem so small by comparison
but I don’t have to prove their strength
or worth to you.

I am watching our hands in the garden
and I love the way they work
together, yet apart
different tasks but a common goal . . .

Our wedding rings gleam in the fading sunlight
as our fingers dance in the dirt
we are building more than a hop garden–
we are tending our dreams.

Unburdening

Sometimes, no matter how hard you pray, no matter how many right steps you take, no matter how badly you want or need something to go a certain way . . . it doesn’t.

And the end result is this thing–dark and heavy, ugly and mean, that sits on your sternum, but can move in a blink to your throat.

It’s everything you wish you’d done differently.

Everything you want to be but aren’t.

Everything you so desperately hoped would happen that never will–

The path you can’t take.

And somehow it goes with you on the path you’re on

until you dig it out

set it down

and

walk away.

 

 

 

 

Of Course

Of course I am lucky.

Lucky to have had them,

lucky they lived so long

lucky to have loved them so deeply

and felt that love returned ten-fold.

Of course I understand.

I understand they live shorter lives than we do,

that it was always going to come to this and

that I did all I could with all I had

to keep them here and happy and healthy.

Of course it will get better.

Of course life will move forward and so will I.

One step will become twenty will become a thousand

and I’ll be in another time

where missing them is not white hot and searing

but a golden glow–

warm sweet memories I can sit beside . . .

1

And of course,

none of this helps at all.

Welcome to Grief,

where knowledge is not power

and there is no way out but through.

Tristan

What can I possibly write?
eighteen years of your unconditional
(if sarcastic and a bit dry) love
cannot be condensed into words.

For three days after your passing
I wrestled with whether I truly love horses
or I just loved you.

Turns out, I don’t know
but I know I love my sweet SoCo and my wild Daisy, too.
And that’s enough for now.

Writing season is just around the corner,
but who will carry me out of myself
when the words start to pull me under?

No living being on this earth
will ever be so patient with me
as you were.

I used to feel good that I could read your eyes,
that your ears and the set of your mouth
would tell me how you felt.

But in your absence, I keep asking
did I give you even a fraction
of the strength, joy, and peace
you brought to me?

Tristan, I am lost.
And you aren’t here to take us home.
Tris-n-Me-Sept-14th-042.jpg

 

 

My Pleasure

It is my pleasure (if also my pain)
To turn and wait,
as you amble along
stopping to rest here and there
pretending to sniff
when we both know you’re quite tired.
I remember well how you used
to turn and wait
cocking your head
as I tried in vain to keep up
with your racing paws.

It is my pleasure (if also my pain)
to forgo the kibble you have eaten all your life (17 years!)
but do not eat anymore
with your old dog teeth.
You may have the
tastiest morsels of meat
from our table
you have earned them.

It is my pleasure (if also my pain)
to clean up without fussing
when outside is too far
for old hips and thin cartilage
between well-loved joints
that have carried you so many miles.
I wish we could do them all again.

It is my pleasure (if also my pain)
to curl up in your bed with you at night
to rub your ears and scratch all around and over
the tumor that grows and grows
on your fine neck.
And to wipe your crusting eyes
and to remember old stories
of wonderful things we have done.

My sweet Why?lee,
what wonderful things we have done!
The places we’ve gone,
the people and animals we’ve met and loved . . .
how lucky we are to have enjoyed so much together.

It is my honor (if also my near to unbearable pain)
to know that this must be our last adventure–
your growing old, and my trying (if failing)
to let you go.

Lines

Having just finished reading through my older writings, it feels like a good day to re-post one from a few years ago that still resonates.  It was inspired in part by who I am and in part by the beautiful artwork of my friend Sara, which is included at the end.

Lines over lines

I am made of mistakes

Every try, every fail

Recorded in my skin

While success,

somehow more temporary,

comes and goes with a smile.

If you could see underneath,

there are miles of

lines over lines

I’ve drawn over my mistakes

Inerasable.

Bleeding ink over the page

When my veins are empty

and even my breath is drawn dark with regret.

Fingers clenched–

my unsteady hand continues its path.

I cannot stop,

Or, I suppose I could, but

I won’t.

I am seeking

the perfect slope of cheek and chin

The right touch of stubbornness and

intelligence about the eyes,

wisdom and courage,

compassion and discipline . . .

Falling short, picking up, beginning again.

I am made of mistakes

Lines over lines over lines over lines . . .

photo(2)

Your Daddy

IMG_0055
He is a strong hand to hold when you’re nervous.

A flip in the air that makes mama nervous.

He is crooked diapers and all the best snacks,

adventures at the hardware store,

and getting to swing a real hammer instead of  just your plastic one.

He is books read in the funniest voices

and silly sounds whenever you touch his face.

He is your rescuer when you cry in the middle of the night

and tucks you back in when all is well again.

He is tall towers made of just about anything that will stack,

broad shoulders that never seem to tire,

and big bounces on your little trampoline.

He is safety, confidence, fun, and big love.

He is yours forever:

your daddy.