Today as a (totally bummer) postcard:

I woke up late this morning. In the night the power had gone out and my alarm clock was blinking 3:45. I was late to a staff meeting.

The children were needy, needy, needy today.

I came home to a missing rooster who had been chased down the road to my neighbor's house (several hundred yards away) by their daughter's dog. He was dazed and missing tail feathers but alive. I caught him and tossed a sheet over his head and carried him back up the hill in my lap in the passenger seat of the car.

I ate soup with my mom tonight, just the two of us at her place, and felt deeply grateful to be cared for.

I keep forgetting where I've put things: a sign of too-tiredness. I can't find the notebook I use to keep my lists. I've seen it and can remember seeing it but cannot remember where. It is maddening.

How was your day?

Dig in and read.

It is midwinter here in my small corner of the world and also in my blue-roomed heart. I’m tucked in, my pulse moving slowly and full of trepidation like water running under pale knocked together shards of ice. Self doubt circles like a pack of coyotes, their tracks mushy and dark where the earth collapses, pressing up close to icy ribbon of river.

This is what winter always brings: a bareness; an uncomfortable edge; inadequacy. Things seem so blatant; personal deficits larger than life, like the huge fiery orange sun we watched today. It tangled in the bare branches of the trees near us at the top of the sledding hill, then slipped away, leaving the snow stained pink with longing.

I spent the morning in a quiet house reading Francine Prose’s Reading Like A Writer, and coming face to face with the blunt edge of my own lack. In the back of the book, “119 Books To Be Read Immediately” and I’ve read only a small handful. I’m a slow reader, with a tendency to dally in the text. I soak up sentences. I read with a pen, marking, dog-earing, rummaging back through previous pages. But I’m also a sporadic, undisciplined reader, and I’m ashamed of this.

Books have a way of inhabiting the drawers of my mind, like so many jars of gesso and paint, easily jostled, staining the surface of my day. I have a hard time shaking free of them, and carrying on, so I have a certain reluctance grappling with anything weighty unless I have the means to hunker down and read it for an entire day.

Also, I am lazy. I drag my feet about finishing books that don’t catch my interest in the first few lines (fickle, I know). I lack analytical fervor. I read simply for the joy of language, story, and words, which I’ve always loved and carried covetously around in my pocket on the scribbled pages of a 4x6” Mead memo book. But I lack critical finesse, and also time, clarity, and a hundred other things have thus far prevented me from reading the list of books I probably should already have read.

Somewhere along the way I’ve also let myself start thinking that time spent curled on the couch with a book frivolous leisure time, less meaningful than time spent clicking away at the keyboard, constructing jagged sentences about blue shadows falling long across bright snow. Have no doubt: I’ll devour books by the authors I love (mostly contemporary writers: Kingsolver, Diddion, Munro, O’Brien) and I’ll jealously leaf through books by new authors who are rising like sudden shiny stars into the literary sky. But I’ve rarely gone back to the masterpieces, the ones that have endured: prose and plot and construction indelible and profound across time. And lately, as I’m grappling with my own writing more and more, I’ve started to feel a hunger for these texts: knowing that as I read them, I’ll be carried across time, into the world of ideas, word by word.

Word by word, closer to what I need to know.

So I’ve decided to make this my year of reading. This, simply, is my mondo beyondo and my one little word. Read.

{ Tell me: What two books most changed the way you see the world, writing, life, etc?}

Good times + Art Everyday

Happy & merry to all of you!

It has been a BUSY week. (Thank you for all the well wishes!) I've somewhat recovered from the most horrible sinus infection/fever combo I have ever had. The word misery does not even serve it justice. Seriously awful.

But, I'm mostly better, and we had a wonderful Christmas. I made baked pears in wine with orange zest and served them with mascarpone, toasted walnuts and chocolate, on Christmas Eve. Delicious. Bean was rediculously cute Christmas morning. Eyes WIDE, wide, wide. We used tissue paper and colorful ribbons to make the unwrapping that much more fun--and it was. He's been playing with his toys non-stop ever since (a wooden kitchen, a Plan City parking garage, lincoln logs and tinker toys were the big ones.)

Yesterday we went skiing and I am finally good enough to not be horrible, and I love the thrill of zipping down the mountain carving great curves in the snow. I'm still pretty terrible, but no longer terribly afraid and that makes all the difference. In fact, I LOVE it. DH also gave me a gift certificate for a climbing class in January, and I am thrilled to get back on the wall. I haven't climbed in years now, and I miss it.

For the month of January I've decided I'm going to do some art every day & post it here. Anyone want to join me? It's so easy over the holidays to get all blurry around the edges. To forget to focus inward, even though I think that's what the heart of wintertime should be all about. I'm looking forward to having a commitment to create something every day, as my life seems to be chronically busy of late, and I've been struggling to stay focused amidst the tornado of things that clamor for my attention daily. I haven't done any art in months, and I miss that part of myself. If you want to join me, respond in the comments and I'll make a special sidebar links for Everyday Art in January.

And so the week is gone

I've been sick. A major yucky head cold + fever combo that has left me wimpy and whining watching re-runs on TV. I hate being sick. Especially around the holidays. To distract you from the abundant LACK of posting going on around here, pretty pictures: My boys whispering in the early morning light, while I got up, snuck downstairs and slipped something into Bean's advent box.

Breakfast this morning. The thrill (yes, it really is) of going to the coop and getting freshly laid green or blue shelled eggs has not warn off. Talk about fresh.

The kitchen, post breakfast. The penguin's name is Snowflake, and Bean is in love with him.

Feeding the sheep & lamas is a regular weekend activity. I love the lama's eyelashes, and the way the barn always smells sweet with hay and is warm with animal breath. Our neighbor's always put on a full nativity play in their barn every year. All the local kids act out the parts, and everyone sings carols and eats cookies & goes sledding afterwards. So fun.

Getting the newspaper on the way back from our walk. We sled down to the bottom of our drive, then pull the paper up.

My little mischief maker, "helping" me make Christmas cards.

satisfied

Outside a wood pecker hammers into the trunk of a poplar and the sky is the color of snow. I finished my manuscript yesterday, and couldn't have felt better about it. The stories work, I think, and they've begun to carry themselves, the characters leading me to new discoveries and scenes. It's how I mostly imagine writing should feel--and I've decided there is absolutely nothing better writing for two days straight, hours blurring, in a quiet house. DH too Bean over to the inlaws, and I cozied up by the wood stove, clacking away at the keyboard as content as a clam.

Other delights:

My lovely hens have started to lay eggs! Regularly! I've been particularly enjoying them soft boiled with a little salt and pepper.

I was inspired by Ali's beautiful advent boxes to make a set of my own for Bean, and he's delighted at the advent fairy's tiny gifts: yesterday a miniature tape measure; today a handful of tiny dinosaurs that grow when submerged in warm water (remember those? So fun.)

I spent the morning vacuuming and straightening, and mopping. The floors now gleam, and this makes me happy.

This afternoon, after a wee nap, I think we’ll head to the craft store to pick up tissue paper and card stock to prepare for the holidays; and also to a home store for throw pillows. Every couch needs a good collection of throw pillows, and we have too few.

What are you doing/eating this Sunday afternoon?

Tidbits

Bean said, "Mama, why do we wake up instead of down?" *

My spine feels looser after yoga. I had fun, watching him, hearing his breath, moving through the sun salute.

*

We bought pfeffernusse cookies today; a holiday tradition from my childhood.

*

Snow is falling in fat, wet flakes outside.

*

UPDATED: My brain = mush. Too little sleep. Too many words. I'll resurface on Sunday-ish. Until then, tell me what are three of your favorite things to receive in your stocking?

A mini photo documentary of my day:

Another morning to myself. Sitting in the sun at the table writing with the cat.

Re-reading shreds of story, and trying to figure out a better system for filing story ideas, works-in-progress, etc.

Back from a run. Downward dog.

Listening to good tunes on my iPod while soaking up the sun. Post run cool down.

Making a post-run smoothie. Frozen peaches, raspberries, strawberries, wheat germ and yogurt.

First person!

Bean drew a picture of a person today. See? The long legs. The shoes. Up top is the body and head all rolled into one (could that possibly be the way he sees us? His tall mommy and daddy with our long legs and our heads way up high?) There were also, at least while he was painting, blue for the eyes and red for the mouth, but they rapidly became blurred. The long arm going off the page is holding an "orange race car."

Sitting on the kitchen floor and watching him paint made my night.

Pumpkin carving

Anticipation angst

This morning called for errands in town. Warm cinnamon buns from the last farmer’s market of the season, and people watching in the rain. Returning home for a much needed two hour nap among soft white flannel sheets (with the cat at my feet) and then an afternoon cleaning in that wholesome, down to the nooks and crannies kind of way that is utterly satisfying. Tomorrow we’re having a shindig with several dozen people. All good friends and neighbors. Cider, pumpkin carving, a rip-roaring bonfire. And though I can’t wait to have everyone in one spot, I’m way out of my comfort zone.

Throwing parties isn’t something I’m good at yet. I’d like to be. I’d like to be better at social things in general—and it was a resolution of mine this year to push myself in this direction. Being the Aquarius that I am, I’d prefer to be holed up somewhere creating, or with a few friends huddled over steaming lattes in a bohemian cafe. I don’t do new social situations with ease—or, more honestly, I don’t do anticipating them well. Once I’m actually in the midst of it all, I’m generally fine. I fly by the seat of my pants and hope everyone’s having a good time. But the residue of the ahead-of-time angst makes me nervy for the first twenty minutes or so of any new circumstance.

I look back on my quiet, almost cloistered home life as a child, and find my anxiety coiled there. We rarely had guests. My parents never “entertained.” Hence I really only have the random collection of fall-back experiences from my late teens and early twenties, and mostly those sucked. Red plastic cups of cheep beer, etc. But I’ve always craved more. I love people, and I love good food, and I love these in combination. Like a chapter out of an Isabelle Illende novel, I want my house to be full of the vivacious, bubbly, cacophony of voices and laughter. I want this to be the memory Bean has. Friends, always welcome. Dinner parties. Gatherings. Ruckus chatter under starlight, as people gather around a fire.

synchopation

I have the day off and I’m gleefully miring my way through an inconceivably long to-do list. I have yet to figure out how to accomplish my every day life and everything else that needs to get done.

The biggest thing I’ve accomplished: completely reorganizing and painting my studio. Last year sometime, in the middle of the winter, under a blanket of depression, I painted my studio a pale blue, which felt like a bad idea almost seconds after the last coat was applied. Without meaning to, I began to use my studio space less and less, until I would go for a week or two without ever entering it.

This affected me on a subconscious level. I felt creatively terrified. Performance anxiety corroded any attempt to splash color across the page or really sink back into a routine of writing. Without a space I felt comfortable in, I resorted to writing at the kitchen table, in the midst of the hubbub of daily life, and routinely sabotaged my own efforts even there, buy skimming through my favorite blogs, or trying to keep up with the voracious demands of my gig over at Parent Dish.

Somehow the entire month of September (and nearly all of October) was swallowed by the murky creature of un-ambition. All summer I was entrenched in the rich sensory beauty of the outdoors; of leisure; good food; good novels. Then fall arrived with the first nip in the air and the hillsides turning orange, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. My syncopation was jagged and blurry; like a scarecrow trying to dance. Somehow with the shift in seasons I stopped doing all the things that I love: running, writing, art, and instead became (maybe necessarily) submerged in the fabric of work.

Headlong there, in the classroom, participating in the daily alchemy of turning eighteen individuals into a working group of learners; time spent watching spiders eat grasshoppers in the terrarium; and writing stories about magical shrinking potions. Time spent tying shoes and counting shells and navigating small sorrows. Time spent feeling nearly exhausted every afternoon; always empty, hungry, anxious.

And then I came home a few days ago to an empty house (Bean and DH were out running errands) and despite feeling hungry and grumpy, I decided to pull on my running shoes and head out in the perfect autumn sunlight for a run.

On the way back, passing a long field that follows the road for a good stretch, a small pony saw me running, and cantered up to the fence and then ran with me. I stopped and petted her tousled mane, and then continued, delighting in the unexpected equine attention. And then I realize: I was no longer either hungry or grumpy. My mood and body had been off kilter because I’ve been so out of rhythm. My soul misses running, it seems. Just as it misses moving through steady sun salutes on my yoga mat on my sunny studio floor.

So in the past few days I feel like I’ve come back into orbit around the quiet fire of my inner self. I’ve started running again, and I want to do it nearly every day. My body needs to move, just as my mind needs the quiet emptiness of one foot falling in front of the other along the gravel road.

So I’ve cleaned my studio and tackled my to-do list, and finally feel like I’m at least leaning towards a place of balance. Not quite there yet, but at least facing the right direction now.

As I write, thousands (really!) of lady bugs have migrated to our house. They are landing on the windows, twirling through the hazy autumn air in their bumbling flight. Do they hibernate? What are they doing here? Some say lady bugs are good luck. I'm content to imagine that they are.

'Cause I'm swift like that

Tonight, while painting my studio, I pushed a box that bumped a table that bumped a shelf on which our portable phone sat. The phone arced through the air and landed I THE BUCKET OF PAINT. No joke. I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning it with q-tips. It still seems to work.

Okay then.

My studio is now a yummy golden pumpkin color. While the paint dries I'm eating dried mango strips and espresso chocolate while my cat is curled at my elbow. The woodstove has made the house toasty. Rain is spattering the windows. Dark noses in at the glass.

How did you spend your day?

(Time in parenthesis)

We took a weekend trip. Just us. Two. Without the little scampering sweetness we've created. It was the first time, since him. The first time to loll about in bed, taking advantage of uniterrupted time spent both horizontal and unclothed. And also, time to laugh and sip martinis at the open bar (we went to a wedding) and to tear it up on the dance floor. Time to giggle and eat ice cream and walk hand in hand. Time to watch mallards landing on the Delaware River, and the fog lifting. Time to poke into ecclectic hippie shops and glass blowing galleries and cafes. It was, simply put, an amazing weekend of rediscovery. We have so much fun together. He rocks my world, still. More now.

Snippets

Several of you made me promise I'd tell you when my piece hit newstands in Mothering Magazine. The editor says nice things about it here. And also--I need your help: Dh's b-day is this weekend. Any fun ideas?

Spontaneous delight

Spent some quality family time the past few days. Downtown, eating nutella & coconut crepes on a park bench, people watching yesterday evening. The day before we were there running errands, and ended by ordering iced chocolates from the local chocolatier shop, and then stopping to watch a motley group of b-boys (break dancers) put on a show. Totally awesome. Bean loved every minute. Today we passed more than an hour of time in a local greenhouse/garden center that has a lovely little cafe with tables among the greenhouse plants. Nothing like eating a fresh mozzarella, basil and tomato sandwiches under hanging baskets of bromeliads by a quoi pond. Made a mental note to self: go here in the middle of winter, often!

I love days like this where we’re all together, getting things done, and then we tangent off into something unexpected. Little spontaneous bursts of delight. Most of the morning was spent at the tile store—we’re building a hearth for our new woodstove, to be arriving in a few weeks. It will be fire-engine red, and toasty. Cannot wait.

What have you all been up to? Do you have any favorite little places to go that bring you delight?

Ready, get set...

In nineteen different places today, all at once. The sky is blue, but winds are roaring up our valley making the birch leaves show their silver underbellies. By my computer on the bar in the kitchen are a row of ripe peaches. Outside hawks are calling. It's getting ready time: laminating folders and organizing books, every random hour spent at school in preparation for a new passel of kids. Also trying to find the right things to say to Bean so that he understands that our routine will be changing. We've had such a fun summer: taking rambling walks and playing on the back lawn. Here are some pictures from our walk yesterday evening.

Chicken coop in the evening light.

Goldenrod is waist high in the fields now.

Bean & his red wagon.

Wild grapes, ripening.

Slug love.

I love ferns.

Overgrown mailbox.

Bean in the green.

Jewel weed.

Autumn's first red.

Sunday doings

Eating french toast, house hunting with the inlaws, listening to the crickets, chasing the chickens (we think one is a rooster) out of the flower beds, counting down the days (eight) until I go back to work, planning hikes, planning big art pieces, thinking of tie-dying (has anyone done it? tips?), thinking of re-painting my studio (again), and scheduling a massage. What are you doing?

A dare

This is a dare. Find good light: late afternoon is preferable, when the sunlight falls in long golden angles through the window or the trees. Take some pictures. Of your face. Of you. Good pictures, that you can love. Maybe go in front of a fan, where the occilating wind tosses your hair about. Maybe smile. Maybe hold the camera out, or prop it up on something sturdy. The important thing is: take pictures. Take enough to be sure there are a few you can look at and immediately love: no criticizing, no rejecting, no nit-picking. Post them. Leave your link. But mostly, just take the pictures.

Here’s why: You will not always be the age you are today, and someday you, or someone who loves you will want to look at these pictures, lingering over the way you looked so beautiful right in that moment, in good light with the wind in your hair.

This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. How life moves at an exponential speed. When you’re two, one year is half your life. When you’re thirty—a year is one thirtieth. Time compresses, blurs, flutters, but always moves forwards, and with it, you. Always changing. Who you are right now will be a smudge on the window of memory in a handful of years. Take some pictures. Like a watermark or a timestamp. Something to remind you. What are you like, right now?

I’m at this point in my life where I’ve just started to notice that I’m aging. Tiny crows feet dance at the corners of my eyes; a furrow between my brows forever marks the way I frown. Some days, when I kneel in front of the mirror with my little boy, his skin fresh and flawless, I am startled by how changed I am. How old I look. Of course, I know that for someone a dozen or two years older than I, nearly thirty is spring-chicken young. But that’s what I mean: sometimes in the moment it’s hard to just appreciate.

So go do it.

The start of August

Peaches with juice spilling on the soapstone when we cut them; blueberries fat and sweet; cinnamon swirl toast from the farmer’s market, hot with butter. Summer mornings make me happy. We sit around sipping coffee, flipping through various papers, making each other laugh. It’s been an entire week of sunshine. This means: I’m finally starting to look tan; the chicken coop has been painted red; the grass is starting to look dry.

With the first of August I slipped back into accomplishing mode: tearing through lists of things that have been lingering all summer and forcing myself to return to the page to edit work that has been lingering, troublesome as a hangnail since June. I also snagged a fun writing job I’ll be telling you more about very soon; and am crossing my fingers that another piece of mine will be showing up in Mothering in a month.

More good news? My inlaws sold their house—and will be moving up to take care of Bean in a few months. Whenever they’re around, I always notice Bean’s language skills skyrocket: Nonna never stops talking to him, and he’s smitten with the both of them.

To celebrate, we’re going camping with Bean on Saturday! His first real trip. We’re packing life vests and sunscreen, marshmallows and hotdogs. In the mail, a glorious four-person tent arrived and when we set it up on the lawn, Bean was ecstatic. Of course I will take nine-million pictures and foist them on you.

The crickets have started their tremolo, indicating that summer really is winding down. August is the hottest month here, but already the first yellow leaves have appeared, and monarchs are gathering on the milkweed, roadside. Next week I’ll head back to my classroom, painting bookcases, sorting papers. I had my first classroom dream last night. I always have them in August before I meet my new class.

What’s in store for you this August?

Time outdoors

Soaking up summer. Taking walks at a two-year old's pace. Noticing the minute beauty of things. Splashing water. Throwing pebbles. Picking wild raspberries and licking the juice off my fingers. Rediscovering how much I love my camera. Bee & queen anne's lace.

Milkweed blossoms.

Bee & thistle.

Bean exploring at the neighbor's pond.