Love letters, fences and SCOOBY DOOBY DOO!

My beautiful boy is reading and writing up a storm. This explosion into the literary world is wonderful to witness but the treasure of his love notes warms my heart in a way no words can describe...aaah motherhood.

The two of us spent Sunday finishing the fence, fooling with the breaker panel (which took me a while to figure out and once I did the compresser kept throwing out the power until I figured out that the extension cord was probably to blame) and pulling ivy off our brick wall. We enjoyed fish tacos for lunch and smoothies with air popped corn drizzled in flax oil, stevia and cinnamon for dinner. Now he is snuggled under a blanket watching Scooby Doo before bed time and I am astonished by how happy I am to be a mom. Honestly I don't know who I would be without my boys and I don't want to.
Love letters, fences and SCOOBY DOOBY DOO!

Comments

Wind said…

I know exactly what you mean! Those wee ones make it soooo precious.

November 20, 2012 at 7:52 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

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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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