Listening to the new Indigo Girls album.
Reading After the Ecstasy, the Laundry, by Jack Kornfield, and a manuscript by someone in my writing class. Both, wonderful.
Noticing how entirely Grace and Whit have internalized our Notice Things Walks. They notice things everywhere now, with new patience and quiet alacrity. The blue jay out the kitchen window, the few red roses around the corner that survived the frost, a new smell (“it’s crispy!” exclaimed Whit) in the air in the morning.
Buying Christmas presents for my godchildren and nieces and nephews. We have very simple, gift-light Christmases in my family, but I like to put a lot of thought into the gifts we give to the very special children in our lives.
Struggling to trust that the pain in my body will ebb. In the very struggle, I fear, are the seeds of my failure. Increasingly I suspect that trying hard is not only not the way to trust, but something that may actually keep it at bay.
Playing games before bed with the children instead of their watching TV. Boggle, Guess Who, Connect Four, Uno.
Photographing morning sunlight on ever barer tree branches, trying to capture its golden, animate quality, and failing every time. This light, like rain falling, seems to be one of those essential metaphors of nature that resists capture in literal ways. Only the poet can really describe it.
Eating a lot of sweet potatoes, spinach, miso soup, kale chips, peanut butter, and homemade applesauce.
Waking up early and running in the night-dark morning, watching the sky crack open and begin to bleed eggshell colored light just as I return home.
Wearing a new pair of brown pajamas from eberjey that are so soft I never want to take them off.
Leaning towards home, towards quiet, towards softness, towards my children and a handful of the dearest and gentlest people I know. And away from everything and everyone else.
Asking the universe, or my personal image of God, to reassure me that everything is going to be okay.
What little things are you doing these days?
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