We who have so much

cannot comprehend, but that we keep trying...

The Gift

The day my mother dropped a net
of oranges on the kitchen table
and the net broke and oranges
rolled and we snatched them,
my brother and I,
peeled back the skin and bit deep
to make the juice explode with our laughter,
and my father spun one orange in his palm
and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938,"
said it without bitterness or anger,
just observing his life
from far away, this tiny world
cupped in one palm,
I learned I had no way
to comprehend an orange.


by SEAN LAUSE

Happy Thursday in December.
May you find your joy
in the day.

Peace.

Happy Holidays!

Make a Smilebox slideshow

The names we give

My mind has been pondering names a lot lately. The names we're given, the names we forget. As many of you know, the boy has been traveling his own path with names. The name we gave him at birth morphed into Joey as he became a bundle of energy and words. In the last year, as he discovered the world of Guitar Hero, the passion of rock music, he came down the stairs with a slip of paper, on it written his new name: Jos. It sounded edgier to him. Recently, he discovered the ElfQuest comic series and, after a character, has taken the name Cutter.  Cutter is so named because he has skill with a blade and cuts through deception to find the truth of a matter. 

We are, most of us, myself included, amused by this boy who chooses his own name. I wonder what happens if I deny him these names. If I refused Cutter, would I also refuse some part of him that wants to be brave, that desires to be strong and protect his loved ones. The name I call him does not matter so much to me, as I think he's an amazing being regardless of the word he's taken to describe himself. 

I wonder about those names we once wished for ourselves, and what happened to them. As a girl, I loved Kallie Marie. I suppose it sounded musical and unusual, coming from Jennifer Dawn. Later, in college, I was drawn to Xavier, my own edge and shadow. 

I ask, what name have you forgotten? Who have you hidden inside?

How I Give Thanks

or why I gather grey feathers and fallen leaves with my son.

Happy 

Thanks

giving.

Peace.

by Adam Zagajewski

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the grey feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

The grass is always

long or cut, green or dry or not grass at all, but clover and full of bees. It is rarely truly greener, but instead a different shade of green. Kelly or olive, lime or pine, even celadon. A shade of green you don't even know the name of, or a shade you recognize only too well.

Those of you who have loved the Voss and Armstrong family have also come to recognize and perhaps even love the family of my sister, the Newcomb family: Cole (aka Nikki), Ryan, Olivia, Sophia and Brodie. Next Wednesday will find Joe and I in the hospital green of a waiting room at University of Michigan's Children's Hospital as Cole and Ryan's youngest, Brodie, undergoes surgery for a tumor in his brain. This  is not our story to tell, and while it does affect us, and I will likely write of it, now is not the time. I recognize the shade but cannot put my name to the color. 

For those of you who have offered support, and with permission of Cole and Ryan, the website to check is www.blogoffive.blogspot.com 

Peace.

100 things I love

I am trying to make a grocery list. I am trying to write the next line of a poem. I am trying to respond constructively to the lines of another writer's poem. I am trying to remember that this adult world and its fears are not the fault of my child. I am especially trying to remember this when the computer has frozen and he continues clicking the mouse. I am sometimes failing more than I would like. I am going to stop trying for a moment to remember why I try. A list I made months ago, probably from a prompt in some artsy book about how to free my soul. I forget sometimes it is free. What tops your list, frees your soul from the trying?

black tea, mushrooms, light blue, candy shops, homemade bread with real butter, hand-dipped candles, spinach sauteed in lemon, pumpkin orange, East Africa, cherry red, Austin, molasses cookies, vanilla, photo booths, tamales, San Francisco, the first spring crocus, Joe in the morning, peppermint mochas, antique furniture, the heat of summer, heated seats in winter, board games, ink pens, beautiful journals, art work, space, blank canvases, charcoal pencils, cute erasers, play-dough, instant coffee, nutella, maple syrup, woods with rivers, singing, Ben Lee, Amelie, lino cuts, wabi sabi, vodka martini triple dirty, swirled marbles, libraries, aquariums, unschooling, handwritten letters, stationary, beads, bone, found objects, printed fabric, resale shops, banana slugs, caterpillars, deer, old barns, soft pillows, quilts, yoga pants, running, trampoline jumping, swinging, stones, big waves, handmade soaps, etsy, laughter, pregnancy, making lists, eyes, red cheeks, curly hair, sleeping, my bed, peanut butter, strawberries, children's picture books, playing the piano, the coast of california, driving by myself, dr. suess, the pound and salt of the ocean, wind in my hair, scrabble, my grandma's kitchen, sticky buns, 50 cent words, sun on my face, my fingers in sand, speaking french, speaking spanish, prayer flags, reading into the wee hours, love stories, scalding hot showers, baths, the minds of children, rolling change, magic tricks, thunderstorms

Time the predator

Jos has been very into coral reefs and deep sea life lately. We've been reading books and watching nature shows and looking into scuba lessons. Watching a recent flick on the Great Barrier Reef, fish began attacking a crab that crept into the open. Jos didn't want the crab to get eaten and I explained that bigger fish would come along to eat the crab-eating fish, and he said, "Yeah and then the biggest fish will get eaten by Time and nothing can eat Time." I wonder why it takes the rest of so long to realize that no matter how many escapes we make, we're all going to get eaten by Time, in the end?

Jos found his Halloween costume at the resale shop last week. After online checking, we discovered it's a Power Ranger, DinoThunder, though I'm still pretty sure that it's actually a device for human suffocation.

Walking to the bus stop in Holly to pick up cousins Olivia and Sophia last week, Jos and Aunt Nikki and I reminisced about making the same walk with Isaiah. About his desire to pick every dandelion, stop at every pile of rocks, about how long it took to make the walk. Jos said, "Just because he was slower doesn't mean it wouldn't be fun to still have him here." He is coming into his grief, and it is hard for me, because it would feel so much easier to not remember, to not have Jos experience sad. Consider this your friendly PSA reminder: feeling is hard, but worth it. Because I don't really want to forget Isaiah, and I do want Jos to have every memory he can to hold for as long as he can.