Skip to main content
Late Spring has proven a bit blog-dull as I haven't posted in a while. I began this blog in an effort to share a bit of our daily life with loved ones near and far. I began this blog because after an ugly divorce, public journaling became the only way I could write. I began this blog because I wanted to slow down the fast-forward moments of everyday life...to pause and treasure the mundane, the ordinary, the common-place. I began this blog for many reasons and now I find myself asking if those same reasons apply for continuing it. I am in the self reflection process right now, reinvisioning my relationship to the cyber media and how I would like to see it evolve or not evolve. Occasionally, I feel like a blog lends itself to a onesided reflection of life or self (particularly when I read the inviable blogs of others, oozing with creativity) . We rarely post photos of the many hair tearing moments, or post about the many airballs, stumbles and jostles of humanhood. And yet it is the whole picture that is truly beautiful...the guts and the glory... the sticky, dirty grime and the flowering, blossoming radiance. It is the union of these that provides the basic warp and weft of life. I am trying to find balance, while treasuring the beauty in each moment... the muddy child who poops in his pants rather than leave the treasure trove of dirt and water he has discovered, the flower blossoming in agonizing splendor, a body struggling toward health, a ten year old growing up achingly fast, a fabulous man seeking to discover himSelf, and my own imperfectly evolving self who continues to surprise, disappoint, astound and inspire. Yes, all these and a life so filled with beauty that I ache to remove the blinders of self to see it clearly.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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...
2 comments
Read more

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.
4 comments
Read more

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 ...
4 comments
Read more