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good words. VI.
Ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in. – Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”
Keep Reading . . .
Guatemala: Day Two
a little grief. how the time passes.
school planning over here …
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just so I know
Walking back from the beach one evening, completely unprovoked, and with sincerity, my three year old son says, “When I turn four I am going to turn into a tree frog.” Alright son. Thanks for the heads up.
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then. now. next.
Vividly, I remember it all. (Sort of.) But so clearly, so recently, it was true, that I often brace myself for the reality of it right now before I look around me and am reminded that time has escaped our clinging grasp and changed our present as it is wont to do. There was a time when our house was overrun by littles. A bevy of tinies we had. A stir. A commotion. An entrance – we made one everywhere we went. Five children under the age of six. That was our reality. Two toddlers six months apart. A newborn when those two were not even three. Diapers for a…
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the end. (of vacation)
Last morning. Last walk down the sandy road, across the wooden steps, over the damp dunes, down to the ocean’s edge. Low tide. And I guess I just want to to say goodbye. A farewell to the beach to the thick salty air that sticks in my hair. Farewell to lazy mornings and late night swims. My shadow made long in the early morning sun. Feet wet all week. It’s been good. So good. The redemption of Fripp Island is complete. And I am grateful. The shooting stars. In one night more falling stars than I’ve seen in my entire life. Lucky. The whole sand dollar. Just being here with…
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Ages 8 to Adult
How do you know your children are growing up? When you introduce them to the game of Monopoly, that’s when.
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the city for me, if a city was for me
I’m definitely more of a country girl than a city girl. I need green more than asphalt. But there’s this one city that appeals to me. Makes me reconsider my hard stance against Big Town and gets me to entertaining thoughts about the loveliness of stepping off my front porch right onto a city block. Savannah. I think it’s all those squares. The green space planned right in to the thread of the city. The statues. The history. The exquisite homes. All that old brick. The Spanish moss. And the trees. It’s just so lovely.
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holding her hand
I lie in bed with my four-year-old daughter. We’re holding hands on top of the blankets. Her eyes are closed, I’m half reading a novel and half gazing at her tender, sunburned cheeks. My little Finnian. Our time together is both sweet and bitter. You know the combination. We have our moments – my youngest daughter and I. She is strong-willed and she is loud and she demands attention and as the youngest daughter in a family of so many, she currently adheres to the philosophy of “by any means necessary”. She is me. And I am her. You can imagine the struggles that creates. But I love her. Oh,…
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island thoughts. the difference four years make.
The rain never came. King Solomon, the weather ap, the forecasters behind that free tool – they were all wrong. And we were grateful. We held the day like a gift (as all days are). Fripp Island. It’s been four years since we last visited. And goodness, how the years have changed us. Years measured by the height of my son against the waves. And I can’t stop myself from saying . . . “Last time we were here -” Otto didn’t even exist! Piper Finn was wearing swim diapers. The preschool crowd we ran with was afraid of waves. No one except Riley could even swim. And now. And…
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sunny days. rainy days. island days.
The forecast looks a little bleak. Miniature storm clouds with tiny strikes of lightning and six raindrops below each cloud. That’s what King Solomon’s weather ap is displaying right now. But we’re here anyway. Weather or not. And tonight, immediately after our Suburban’s wheels crushed across the oyster shells in our driveway, we all tossed on appropriate swim attire and booked it down the street to the beach. The sandy, beautiful salty warm water. The Atlantic. Low tide. After six o’clock. No need for sunscreen. Foam. Sand. Shards of sand dollars. A yellow bucket. Hand me down swim suits from one sister to the next. Face masks from Sherry that…
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Awkward
Overheard while standing in the laundry room . . . Piper: Otto, hey – let’s put our bellies together. Otto: [silence] [apparent acquiescence] Giggles. More giggles. Exuberant giggles. Piper: That was awww-kward.
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six flags over georgia.
Summer reading programs abound. In fact, I often lose track of them. Suddenly it’s September and I realize that I missed out on the chance to get three free books from Barnes & Noble. Six Flags offers a year-long reading program that we took advantage of last school year. For reading the required number of books, each child receives a free ticket (and one teacher ticket too!) to the Six Flags amusement park of your choice. We chose Georgia. And yesterday. Thanks to my kind friends Hannah and LIndsey, Otto and PIper were well cared for all day so that they did not have to wait in long line and…
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it’s inescapable really.
Sigh. Yes. I am beginning a post with a sigh. A written sigh. A written sigh that implies a verbal sigh. The deep-chest-breath-in-hold-the-air-as-long-as-you-possibly-can-until-you-breathe-the-sigh-out-between-pursed-lips kind of sigh. And you know what? I’m not entirely sure why. It’s just the kind of day I had. Or chose to have. Or narrowly escaped from having. Here’s the thing. Yesterday, I lost. I lost the battle most of the day. I let everything around me dictate my attitude. I let the heat in our home make me irritable. (And I mean irritable.) I let the list of trying-to-understand-and-adequately-prepare-for-the-onslaught-of-paperwork-that-is-homeschooling-a-daughter-through-her-senior-year weigh me down and push me into the dirt. I let the children tugging on…
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reminding myself.
Quote by Annie Keary ….. I think I find the most help in trying to look on all the interruptions and hindrances to work that one has planned out as discipline, trials sent by God to help one against getting selfish over one’s work. Then one can feel that perhaps one’s true work – one’s work for God – consists in doing some trifling, haphazard thing that has been thrown into one’s day. It is not a waste of time, as one is tempted to think, it is the most important part of the work of the day – the part one can best offer to God. After such a…
