so what have we been up to?

Well the first thing occupying our time and energy is Maia,

our puppy. She is an absolute sweetheart and a total pain in the arse.

We have all spent an inordinate amount of time and energy scooping pet excrement. To which Owen can often be overheard saying, "Lay off the chow Maia", when he is not dry heaving.

When not playing and rolicking in the back yard, dry heaving and hollering at the dog, Owen can be found curled up in his favorite spot on pop.

Shane enjoys it in equal measure, although trying to squeeze in a few pages of Larry McMurtry's book is never an easy task.

Bodhi has been playing with typical abandon:running, sliding and enjoying the forty degree weather we've been having.

And me, I've been pursuing health with a vengeance. Here you see a delicious lunch I made:
Steamed kale, topped with cucumbers, red peppers and both sundried and fresh tomatoes. It was delicious.

Until next time... when I might actually WRITE something of merit.
Much love and blessings,
Angelina

Comments

china cat said…

i think i might actually like these posts the best - what does occupy our time? the mundane. but the importance of it! mine would look like this.

raphael's been answering emails and the door.
i've been lying in bed, sick.
i eat vegetable soup every few hours and a cup of herbal tea to follow. every now and then i muster up the energy to open up the computer and temporarily entertain myself until i fall, exhausted, back on to my pillow.

ahh. to life!
love you sister. hugely. muchly. like two big walloping heart throbs.

February 2, 2009 at 8:57 PM

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment. It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float. It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within. It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains. Eyes closed. Eyes opened. A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being. It takes courage.

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...

grief

Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the ...

angelbirdflies

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