yellow blue moon in the eastern sky
three boys: one tall one six one small
flash lights darkness
a few short years
darkness will be home
to a teenage boy
and the whole of them)
this moment is truth:
rejoice in them
that is all there is
As I write, jars of peach syrup “ping” as they cool. Fifteen pounds of plums picked from the neighbor’s neglected tree sit on the counter awaiting the same pureed fate. All three boys are in bed after a full day: some school, some sword fighting, a visit with friends, and lots of reading and being read to. Their bodies wrestle under the sheets after another well-lived and perfectly ordinary day. At home.
H O M E.
It’s a little bit location. It’s a lot of other things: contentment, service, commitment, gratitude, work, imperfection, love. My feet are sinking into this dirt. This grass is plenty green.
she sits on her nest as if that is all that there is to do.
can i just sit on my nest like that?
as if that is all that there is to do.
i’d like to.
is there anything but the nest?
it seems we all think so.
but how big is the nest?
perhaps it is as small as basket of twigs and as big as the universe.
i think the robin knows.
to speak slow when words come fast
to go deep when the water is shallow
to feel what is when seeing what isn’t
to seek what isn’t when there is so much that is
to be free when everything is sold
to be found when lost
to find words where there aren’t any
if i stop breathing, maybe i’ll hear the hum of bees visiting the apple blossoms across the street while i stand in my kitchen. the air is motionless. a welcome heaviness envelopes me. light floods my being and lifts me, but i fight hard to hold on to the heavy feeling.
there’s been a lot of movement, a current pulling us down a river with twists and bends we couldn’t foresee. it’s time to crawl ashore and sit. in stillness. where a fresh breath of beginning is infused with the musty odor of memory.
that’s where i’ll be dwelling in my soul. i’ll be happy here alone. maybe someone will pull up a chair and join me on my porch in that quiet. or maybe i’ll just sit with the birds and the bees for a spell.
i am happy.
You are already eight. And you are only eight.
Today as I watched you,
I glimpsed the man you will become.
It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
And I felt grateful to be your mother in a whole new way.
This shall be an era of motherhood I will savor.
My son of eight years,
within you lies infinite possibility.
You grow my heart bigger and stronger everyday.
There’s a little one in this house who I call my baby. But the reality is we’re starting to get a feel for the emerging boy.
True to his first two years of life, he is joy. He’ll be a glass is half full kind of guy. Heck, I think he’s beyond glass is half full. He’ll just joyfully celebrate that there is water and drink up!
He’s a caretaker. As lover of animals, he’s got a predictable gentle touch and a sweet, soft voice reserved for all things furry. His favorite books feature horses and kittens. He’ll turn to the same page over and over. The page with the horses running in the snow to the farmer bringing them fresh hay.
He’s an adventurer. Always on the look out for a high climb, a big jump, or a fast slide. There’s little need for worry though. He knows his limits pretty well and I can trust him to heed my warnings. He’s a sensible adventurer. I love that about him.
We are relishing these fleeting years: I love to steel glimpses of him sleeping, his bum in the air. As we sit down to dinner, he extends his hands to family, and smiles as we say the meal blessing. A few minutes into the meal he’ll grab hands again, ready for another blessing. Sometimes we have five or six blessings. He loves to caress my face to tell me he loves me – no words needed. He speaks so clearly with his eyes and hands. And he sings. Oh how he sings!
He is joy. Pure and simple.
Happy Birthday Little Berg.