I love watching her upper lip thin with concentration, and her little fingers not grasping but cradling the “Magna-doo-doo” pen.
“Want me to draw your face, Mama? Yeah, okay!”
Her fingers—themselves, art.
Her grip—strong, delicate.
Her work—contemplative, detailed, practiced.
Her movement—slow, steady, sweeping.
“You are smiling!”—
We love her faces, Jay and I find ourselves saying repeatedly, these days.
Another voice trills from the top of the stairs. “Mama, I just pooped in my diaper a little bit.”
Happy Friday morning to me.
Any fun quips from your life to share? I’d have a hard time believing they’re cuter than the ones to which I am witness.
As for me, I’ve also been:
Reading
poetry. Namely, “Downhearted,” by Ada Limon from her book of poems, Bright Dead Things, which I purchased with Christmas money. I found this poem shortly before we left Canada. It seems to be hitting the spot this week—the spot where my heart has fallen down.
Listening
to my own playlist, #6: Renting the Dream, which memorializes our time here in this house.
I’ve been a maker of playlists for years, following after my dad’s mixtaping, haha! I don’t think I’ve made something as cohesive yet convoluted as this one in a long time. From the Doxology to Chance the Rapper—I hope you enjoy, if you’d like to give it a listen.
Making
some secret things, one in particular, but also, a scarfette you might find me wearing soon, with my birthday shacket. The fingering-weight dark chocolate wool Melanie sent me from Alberta, Canada for my birthday has been a challenge to work around small needles—a necessary grounding practice for me this week.
To keep it real, I’ve also found myself:
Crying
After waiting nearly two weeks for a follow-up email, I was notified Wednesday evening I didn’t get the job we had been anticipating for about a month now. And, ya know, my mom has cancer—recently lost her hair and has been suffering from her second chemo treatment (but is on the upside, it seems).
This week, I’ve wrote and talked and cried out a lot of sadness which had been piling up. It takes me longer to get around to crying than it did when I was younger. But when I cry these days, I feel fuller than I did previous to releasing the tears.
Let ‘em flow, I’ve told myself. Let them flow.
and Philosophizing
While making coffee this morning, I text Jay in frustration; his wind-up clock I got for his birthday was about fifteen minutes off, making me think I had no time to spend in the quiet before the kids woke up. But I did have time!
Which got me thinking (and texting Jay about six texts he won’t see until the lunch hour, along with this post):
Unpoplar opinion: Time is arbitrary.
Or, rather, "time" as (Western) construct.
We have more of it than we realize, less than we think we do.
Any thoughts you’d like to add? Or questions, perhaps? 😁
See you soon,
C
Okay, but how cute is Sequoia!! I definitely see you in her smile. If you're back in Chillicothe, I'd be happy to send you a coffee or DoorDash one day when you're home with the kids, to say "thinking of you." I'm hoping and praying for your mom's healing!!