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.
There’s a gluten-free, dairy-free pumpkin pie in the oven. The house smells delicious as I sit at the table sifting through photos from years past. I’m making sure we have pieces of the past to hold on to. Little tidbits that will help us tell the stories that make us each who we are.
There are so many places we have called home. Each one conjures memories of a time in each boy’s life. Time is frozen, in a sense, in the places we have left. G-man will forever be a babe in a sling in Edwards and a fire fighter at Eagle Rock; E-man a chicken-loving four-year-old in Taos and a backhoe-obsessed boy who sings when he talks in Edwards, and B-boy will forever be a wandering toddler at Eagle Rock and a playground daredevil in Louisville. I guess we grown ups are a bit frozen in those places, too. Or maybe those places are a bit frozen in us. Either way, it’s nice.
But, I do wonder how it will feel to look back in time from a single place. It’ll be a while before we get there. It will simply take time (and not moving!) to look back at years already lived in one place while still standing in that same place. I look forward to experiencing that one day. It’s been a while.
G-man crawls on my lap as we both look to B-boy to see if he’ll notice. (He’s not sharing his mama so well.) But B-boy is busy climbing to the top of the dining table and the kitchen counter in search of ice cream bowls to lick. He sings the best rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle. Ever. He zooms in to put a soft hand on my face, utters a lilting Mama, and gives me a quick but intense twinkling gaze that says I love you. E-man, mesmerized by the vastness of the universe and in love with the idea that we are just floating in space around a star, delights in the work of astronauts as they repair Hubble on the Nova special we are watching. He is sad at the idea that Hubble may die, never to be touched by human hands again, and then enlivens at the thought that he could be the astronaut that returns to space one day to repair a magnificent telescope — all thoughts that seem so grand, but so perfect, for this almost-eight-year-old boy. G-man, the boy who seems so clear about his path to become a fire fighter, declares he will never be an astronaut because it isn’t safe. His whole heart believes in safety, kindness and goodwill. And I, in this perfect ordinary moment, have the most profound connection to the fact that there are no boundaries between any of us. That we four sitting there watching a Nova special are not actually four separate beings, but just part of the Great Mysterious soup along with everyone and everything else. And at that moment everything is perfectly clear. We are. Love is.