Polaroids

So, needless to say, it's been wayyyyy too long and I'm quite sorry. My technology avaliability is difficult to describe while in Maine; it's wonderful to never worry about overusing the computer, but the ten minutes it takes to load my email every three days generally just isn't worth the wait, so I'm sortof off-grid now. In many ways, it's wonderful.

My life now is three photographs. I wish I could post them (again, technology and my own impatience) but I'll describe them for you.

#1. Sitting on a wire-frame red chair at an outdoor wire table with Nate; behind is a flowergarden growing out of a bathtub. On the table is a half-devoured plate of fried pickles (the waiter is out of the picture, probably still fetching the tempeh burritoes). I'm wearing a scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers; Nate is only in a t-shirt; and I'm barely avoiding being skunked in cribbage.

While I spend most of my time in the amazing Patagonia outlet with amazing people (think: beards, big llama eyes, easy laughs, plaid shirts) the most memorable part of work is the hour drive. Photograph #2 then is me in the mussy black interior of my car, an apologetic apple core in the cupholder along with three pairs of sunglasses and a Maine gazeteer; the two front windows are rolled down, as is the sunroof but I'm wearing the same scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers; Avett Brothers or Matisyahu blasting. (I guess you won't be able to see that in a photograph...oops.)

#3. Armed with a blowdrier, a bag of bricks, three pillows, six sets of playmobile guys, and a bin of blocks, I face my cluster of sqealy, wide-eyed primary kids. The girls are wearing any dress that sparkles or has flowers, the boys are generally to be found crawling under the table. I am terrified but determined. The scarf, jacket, and green crocheted hand warmers are nowhere in sight.

Anyways. I'm sorry again about the terrible pause (and the rusty writing...). I'm trying to repent with more phone calls and fewer facebook posts. I miss you all! xoxo

An Oldie

This one is from two, maybe three years ago? It's been through a few drafts, but it's always exciting to look back at old work, and pat yourself on the head from where you've come. Not that there's a ton of progress, but it's sortof nice to reread the oldies. K. Enough chatter.

Sketching in Periodicals

today, in the mellow gold of the library,

I scraped the lines of your arm,

tracked the ruffled arc of your hair

as it crept into curls around your ear.

The gentle curve of your fingers were childlike,

vulnerable-

your eyes so smooth,

gray swoops on my page

and I stared and stared at the way

the ridge of your nose slipped into your eyebrow.

It took time for me to get that right.

when I was done, you were there

dropped in the margins of my Economics notebook,

where I could shuffle back

and locate you easily;

quietly nestled between Positive Externalities

and the Law of Diminishing Returns.

I watched your face a minute longer

and suddenly

wanted to reach across the table

to rub your forehead, as if you were my little brother

sleeping on the couch on a Sunday

afternoon.

Island Dreams

Don't you wish you could go back to that time when you were 9, and summer began with you walking out of the asphalt, brick and chain-link cage and heading into the forest path--the Snake Trail was what it was called--and through the tall, spiky grass (remember the milkweed plants? And the caterpillars who clustered there?) with your backpack slapping against your back and chafing your shoulders, until you reached your white house with the peeling blue porch paint--

--and you dropped your bag, thunk, on the stoop---
--and opened the door ("hi Betsy, hi Betsy! Down, girl!")--and yelled:
I'M HOME! IT'S DONE!!!!
as loud as your little lungs could manage.

And then there were cookies from Mom, and a quick review of all the papers you had haphazardly shoved in your lime green backpack, and a reminder to call home--
and you were off to the woods again, up Centennial Ave and to the Whale Rocks or the My Side of the Mountain fort that you and Sophie had perfected last week or even, to check on the tadpole clusters that Echo had found in the concrete pond. It was sunny and not too hot, and you could wear a bandanna to keep the sweat out of your salty eyes anyways. And afterward, on special nights, you would find the soft, bleached log that had washed up to Centennial Beach, and Dad would bring the djembes, and you and Spencer would dance in the sand, kicking up the dunes and singing; the dark waves giving their measured, hissing applause while Mom bobbed her head in time, tapping the thick trunk.

Who says childhood is idealized? That's the truth, straight up. I lived a magical life, I think; I still wonder where I can bring my children to have their Island dreams.

On Human Sacrifices...or something.

K, new poem! This one needs a title and lots of constructive comments, though, so go to. We're still at the butcher knife stage of drafting, so don't be shy...

Poem. (<---title goes here. Ahem.)

We all place our best work at the feet of God.
Sure, there are different way of saying it.
Back in the day, when the fiery angel dropped to prick the earth with his voice
(to Adam, to Eve, how tinny a voice that must have been!),
Abel settled his sheep (the whitest, the fleeciest, the warmest)
securely on the alter, then turned away, afraid.
Later, when Abraham rocked his baby on the stony crib,
sweat and lullabies streaming onto his child’s face,
or when Moses offered his tongue, his sandals, his future
to the glory of that electrifying shrub,
we stop and gape, amazed,
and poke our neighbors in their wooden pews
and quiver to compare ourselves
with those ceramic brows.

But, what is the difference then,
between us and those great, glassy men;
enamored in our gazes?
You and I,
we litter His feet with our own, private bounties;
tedious gray hours kneeling at the side of His childrens' beds,
hands hung over keyboards for long, long minutes, waiting to drop the perfect hosanna
onto the paper’s generous spread,
fishermen pulling in their sodden lines and pushing off, away, away,
preferring to hear God’s voice in the pulse of wave after wave after wave;
(what contrite thankfulness for salt and flippering fin!)
Even with a boyish whistle in the face of stark winter morning,
we honor His great hands.
And what greater proof do we need, in scripture or in hymn,
that we travel through our lives, whispering our hushed benedicti into our
handkerchiefs and to the insides of our scarves,
and finally, in that great moment of emergence,
when faced by mountains,
those resonant purple thumbs of God,
we stand up, and rub our palms together,
and sing.

On the First Three Days of Being in Love, Age 17.

He
is the one buried in her furtive glance as she swipes three grapes
from the plate being marched to the dinner table
and it is his voice that echoes with each drip of the faucet
into the metal mixing bowl,
plink plink like tinny elevator music, punctuating the conversation with
such measured presence.
Today she finds his smile on fifteen street corners;
because every idle pedestrian knows his name
(and the secret weight of his hand on hers)
and they each wink to her
in silent confidence: yes, yes, yes.
It should be no surprise, then,
when he threads himself through the stubborn
air-conditioning vents of her car
(tickling the secret arcs of her calves)
and into the tangles of her morning-tossed hair, and oh—!
even now, his face appears
impressed into the pattern
of crumbs on her plate after Sunday morning waffles,
bobbing in a slick of syrup.
He waits patiently,
waits to be speared and devoured;
so small and so hungry.

What a Babe.

Happy Mom Day Everyone!

Today in church, while Bismark was describing Ghanaian tooth fairy traditions, I started thinking about my mom.

Her name is Karen.

Isn't she a babe?

(Photocredit to my amazing Aunt Jen--check out her amazing blog.)

I could write Tolstoy-sized volumes on my mom without scrabbling for ideas. She is, in a word, stunning.

So, sitting in church, I did what I did best and began to make lists. And, while it is certainly sub-Tolstoy sized, it is still worth sharing because it IS mother's day and she IS an amazing, amazing person. So here goes:

(ahem) The Qualities I Hope to Inherit From My Gorgeous Mother:

• Goal setting: My mom is the world champ, no joke.
• Money matters!
  
• The quality of never being satisfied, in the best possible way. Mom is always looking for ways to improve, to stretch herself. She is always searching for excellence.
• a knowledge and love of the scriptures
• SO. MUCH. ENERGY.
• In her free time, Mom hangs out with her family! (Good deal for us.)
  
• ADVENTUROUSNESS! She rock climbs! Tries vegetarian adventures! Bikes! Moves to Boston! Runs a Boy Scout Camp! Sends her kids to far off lands! Wears interesting clothes! Marries an artist! (Is there anything she is afraid of?!?!)
• She NEVER complains. Maybe she "constructs" on occasion, but never complains.
• I have never heard my mom say anything bad about her family or children to anyone else. Ever. (WAA?!?! Isn't that crazy?!?!)
  
• She doesn't care if flowers are particularly beautiful as long as they smell wonderful...aka she likes things that are useful. She's not a knick-knack person, but a utility/artistry woman. An amazing thing, really.
• she has excellent taste in clothing
• she loves and values education, and never backs down from an intellectual challenge. (Her response to why she studied medicine and chemistry in college: "Because it was the hardest thing I could find. I didn't want a 'just looking for marriage' major.")
• She can raise good men.
  
• She loves delicious food.
• Wayyy spunky. (In the righteous sense)
• She has a burning testimony of the gospel.
  
• She loves, values, and defends motherhood.
• She has vision. (A favorite T-shirt of hers: "Dorothy had the shoes, but she didn't have the vision. Take the controls: Women Fly.")
  

What an amazing person! What an amazing mother! What an amazing precedent!

What a babe!!!!

Sometimes You Just Need Time to Think

(kazachenin)