Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Day story


Outside my window, a hound dog asleep on the patio by the French doors. Geraniums in window boxes, bold and red. My dad's truck in the driveway, still.

Giving thanks for quiet days. Reprieve.

In the school room, a tabletop getting cleared. Library books stacked high, and I wonder why I can't just read what I own, that I add to it exponentially with borrowed books. Next to me, booklists and items checked off. Today, purchasing next year's curriculum. It feels good.

From the kitchen, a favorite kale salad. A book (not an affiliate link; from the library--which I then added to my online cart under the guise of "curriculum" for poetry tea parties. It counts!) of possibilities for crafting next week's special tea for Erin and a friend ... and their dolls. Thankful my kids are still kids.

I am creating a new rhythm. A summer song. It is gentle and slow. It is intentional.

I don't want to forget watching Babette's Feast with Erin and reading subtitles. The spurts of French, a welcome and familiar word. The messages, multifaceted. A beautiful story and a beautiful message of the power of community, the power of a table, the power of sacrifice.

Around the house, Satsuma in the air. Laundry washed and dried for my sister. A grocery list, incomplete. A steady week of rehearsals for a weekend's show. But in light of these months, there is no hustle in this. This is light. This is easy. Perspective. Self: remember this. Slow down and savor.

I am hearing my kids finishing lunch, and Erin's twitter laughter. She talks about her dolls and how each year they age like she does--but when they get to be 'adults' she will start them over, because she doesn't want them to grow up. I understand. 

A view of my favorite things

summer splash


Haley and Comet

First frog

this wonderland


Random finds around the house

celebrating my sister

the kind of dad he is
At the table, earlier today an impromptu coffee with a friend while our girls visited. Talks about curriculum. Walking new roads. I felt thankful for her, and thankful for the life the table invites. Oh, tables matter.

Monday, June 19, 2017

And still counting (10,541-10,565)

sweet cherry picking at a neighbor's
sour cherry picking at a friend's
summer blue skies
good breezes
time with my kids

splashes of blue


a Wednesday training to redirect my thoughts
chances to laugh in a hard week
Your sovereignty

a bumble bee cookie for Erin
frozen bananas
walks in the community
grass cut
French vanilla coffee

a birthday balloon for Lori
cupcakes to celebrate

texts with Marshall's Mom
Lori's smile
Happy birthday, sister

a birthday tradition continued

yard work with my man

celebrating him
a quick, soaking summer rain
an early morning call
a practice run on the controls
My view for the morning

and a debut weekend directing with a great video team
time with dearly loved family
close hugs and hearts
a packed room
Jenna's life and influence ... in dear and loving memory

Wednesday, June 14, 2017


When she chats me up from the backseat on our errand drives, it's like a bird's twitter as her laughter mixes with her words. She speaks in this laughing song. Her smile is big. And every thought pours out in delight.

She plays "Ronald and Donald" on the floor. Little farm animals spilled out like rainbow sprinkles.

She collects rocks, still. And laughs at her foot getting swallowed by a mud hole. She digs in clay. She considers the reservoir water with longing.

She holds my hand almost anywhere when we walk. She accompanies me to the nursing home to visit my sister. She's with me at the store. She spends time with me in the garden. When my feet are in the water and I feel summer's spell, she calls out, "Mom! Look!"

Her hair has copper highlights that catch the sun. Her eyes are blue like mine, and when I gaze into them, I imagine dandelion fuzz.

those eyes that day, before we knew
She would love it if her closet were full of beautiful dresses, and she would wear them all. 


She plays the piano and fills the house with beautiful music every day.

She likes company at the table, and always hopes I'll make a cup of coffee for her. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes. And likely more often now.

She still reaches for my hand on the neighborhood walks. We have real talks, truthful talks, hard talks. I like this about her. It refreshes me.

She is focused, determined, disciplined.

She loves music, but not shopping. But if I ask her if she wants to go to the grocery store with us, she often says yes to that.

She shares my love of reading. She waits for me to watch a movie with her--on purpose, because she wants me there. And suddenly I'm reminded of her at the end of second grade, that summer we would move, having an end-of-school-year slumber party in my room--nails painted, and a Dick Van Dyke movie playing until she fell off to sleep. She tried so hard to stay awake. It was "Mary Poppins."

Sometimes when she's next to me in the car, I reach out to hold her hand, never entirely sure she wants to hold it, but especially grateful, especially now, that she does. She has never refused it. I hold hers close and store its warmth in my heart, that it would last me a lifetime.

coming back from cherry picking at a neighbor's that day


Now. Especially now.

In loving memory, Jenna.