late night, january 31st, 2014 | a letter to my oldest

who knew, stumbling upon this life of motherhood, i would love it so fiercely. nothing else has defined me as much and nothing ever will define me more. i am sure of this.

as i watch you gallop away into the arms of adolescence, i hold back little sobs of joy.
 you love. you are fiercely loyal.
 you love to argue your points.
you are slowly becoming a man.

 as much as i love this, i would, in an instance, turn back time to walk down the doors of your childhood once more. drink cup after cup after cup of cup of tea made in your pretend kitchen. bake with you, play dinosaur with you. hide out in forts with you and camp again under the stars knowing that all is right with the world.

in my dreams, i sit on the edge of a long pier. my feet are dangling off the end and as i stare off into the expanse of the mist and layers of fog lifting off the lake, i see that i have worlds of unknown lives to still live, but i don't ever want to take the plunge, i don't want to heave off the end of the pier into the water, i don't want to stop being a mother to your littleness, i don't want you to be big and me to be older. and as much as i don't want it, i know it will still happen, even if i had ten more children, it would never stop you from leaping into the unknown of adulthood, and me watching your ripples slowly slip away as you swim out of sight.

xxoo

4 | 52

this one. wraps his eyes around my heart, even when he doesn't mean too.

as a matter of fact, all three of them do. xo

december writing | quilt

My mother.

The backing to the quilted squares of my childhood. At times scratchy and uncomfortable; often times well worn, beloved and soft, like the snowy down from the underbelly of the gander. She was as traditional and as untraditional as she could be.  She was as cruel as she was kind, as aloof as she warm, as penitent as she was indifferent. She clung to her children as if they were the only raft keeping her afloat.  By the time I was in 4th grade she had 4 children, two of whom were adopted from Korea, had opened her own children's clothing store and was mis-diagnosed, then diagnosed with the one of the most advanced stages of breast cancer. I think there must have been days when she longed to crawl back under the quilted covers of her youth; to wrap herself in something else other than what the stars had scribbled out for her across the sky, or at least to discover a meaning and explanation for the long hours her waking days were made of. But the answer to her questions never came, yet somehow she moved forward anyway; sometimes without much grace and an overly bitter taste in her mouth, but she was moving. forward. anyway.

I wonder, if she was living her life now, if she was a mother among my peers, if her oldest was at school with my 4th grader, where she would be. How would the fates sew her life if she was living it through these years of pink empowerment, "leaning in" women gatherings and inspirational TED talks? Would she finally have time to stop, rest and just be? Cling a little less to her children and her desire for perfection? Would she embrace a bit better the messiness that Life is? I don't know. She was not a child of this age, but from a time before that.

I imagine her Shade walking along the playground, fetching us after school, the ghosts of my childhood. Glimpses of her in the setting sun amongst the swings and slides. Standing there, arms crossed, loving the small, scattered, laughing children ghosts so. Wishing she could scoop us back up into her arms, afraid if she held us close we would disappear, but that if she didn't she would fade into the night.

So here I am, with small traces of her life left inside my heart. I am not a cobbler. I am not a quilter. I am left with only the small tools I have, the small attempts at re-writing her story, not able to relive it.

I cannot sew, but I string together words along a thread, a quilting bee of her life.

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find more december prompts here over on write alm. 

tuesday's notes | oh tannenbaum!

 Dear Boys,

We need to work together a bit more. Seriously.

I will love you until my dying breath, but truly, when you three are arguing with each other (as well as with me) over the size shape and variety of tree we want to bring home for this holiday season, I am so ready to jump ship and swim to the shore in the New Year.  I know that three of us are particularly visual and creative, AND strong-willed opinionated souls, but thats why we need to work as a team. We could storm castles with our out-of-the-box ways! But when we are feeling fractious and divisive -well lets just say that there is nothing as cheerless and merry-less as that.

All things being equal, we did, in the end, pull it together.  You younger two realized the need, at least this year, for a tree that is not the size of Mt. Everest, and I was forced to let go, temporarily anyhow, of my need to control the situation when my perfect tree was sold to someone else while we were bickering. In the end, your dad and, you, mr. oldest, saved the day by just taking the tree where we had some kind of consensus and purchasing it. Phew.

Then we all relaxed! It was amazing! 

And thank you for allowing me to kill time while your dad had to run go get cash, with my camera and you all as models.  See how much fun we have when we are not bickering (and I realized, how much you all need a haircut before the 24th). 

 cheerio for now boys!
love you three so very deeply!
xxoo

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This is a series called tuesday's notes. You are welcome to write along if you want, just leave a comment with your blog address if you decide to write one and I will be sure to come say hello. These "Notes" can be notes to your self (future, past or present), notes to the rude person who cut you off in line, notes to your children, note's to your parents... I think you get the idea. Would love if you "wrote along!" xo

ten | november writes :: texture

there is something about the sweet soft smell of a newborn; his wispy hair and milky, creamy-like skin. i always felt that there was nothing quite like it.

for me the scent, the feel of the tiny wisps of hair on the head of a babe was the golden payment, the source of nourishment for my soul, the small counter act against the exhaustion that comes with being the mother of those tiny, fragile, yet ever so fierce, little things.

in those early sleep-deprived days, as i would nurse, i would cradle my baby's head and feel the peach fuzz wisps of hair on his head. and when the wee one would finally fall off the breast into a sleep induced drunken milk stupor, i would bring him up to lay on my chest, his head just under my chin,  and i too would fall asleep with the quiet sounds of his breath, and the soft, silken hair gently touching my face, letting me know that all was well in the world.

now they are all older, and i still kiss their heads, lay my cheek upon their mops of hair.  in these small moments when they allow such a thing, i can feel deep in my heart, that somewhere in there, through all the ways they have grown and are growing, is the tiny newborn that was at once so fierce and so fragile.

monday messiness and mothering

It is almost full circle. The first year of my mother's passing. Yesterday would have been her 73rd birthday. It seems like a rather old number when I write the number 73 down, but my mother was never an old lady. Her spirit was very young, her face always youthful, despite her years. 

Life moves on and now the end of this first year without her is coming to a close.  I find myself taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly.  And, despite my desire somedays to do otherwise, I find myself moving forward anyway, without her, and yet very much with her. 

Moving forward in that great upward spiral of life. xxoo

the clickety clack call of the week's end

It is early here on this Sunday morning and the youngest has crawled into bed with us. He smells of boy, and in particular of a Saturday spent in the heated Indian Summer Fall, playing sports, relentless movement from morning till early evening. He smells of a slightly sweet sweat with a musty aroma of yesterday's dirt trapped under his nails and peppered across his brow; the smell of memories in an exhausted autumn sun, too tired to bath, too tired to keep eyes open at dinner.

Last weekend he smelled of nothing but roasted marshmallows and the unseen cloud of a campfire.

All of these smells are filled up with memories for this mama, sitting here, sorting through photos and listening to the sound of our youngest breathe a sweet sleepy early morning breath. In my mind I am sorting memories of this moment, memories of this weekend and last; sorting memories of the arch of my life, the pulling back of the bow and the taught string that sends an arrow flying high towards its intended target.

So I write some down. Trying to trap the scents on paper as one would trap a firefly in a glass jar, trying to momentarily hold onto to something that really is intangible, that exists only on the threshold between day and night, in those stolen moments of the sun chasing the moon through the heavens across the sky.

how has your weekend been? xo

a boy. a birthday. seven

 "Mommy. Mama. Mommy." he breathes raspy on my neck, his sweet boy face close to mine and his arms tight around my neck. "Mama. I can't wait for tomorrow. I cannot wait to be seven," he tells me for the hundredth time today, the millionth time this past hour, "I can't wait!"

"I can't wait for you to turn seven either!" I exclaim as he begins to pull away from me.

 He stops. "Heeeeyyy.....You are supposed to tell me you don't want me to turn seven, you want me to be five again." (Which is what I had been telling him all day.)

Happy birthday my sweet seven five year old. 

(I think his long Lego-ed limbs give his seven-year old-ness away)

xxoo

midweek messiness :: view from here

Oh the messiness now that we are back! I am trying to find a rhythm as we slowly approach the return of school. A balance of days, of creativity, of boys.

Monday I rearranged the younger two's bedroom so that there was a better flow to it. It is a tiny, tiny house we live in (though feel so blessed to be IN a house in West Los Angeles) so their room is tinier still. Both of them struggle to take space when they are upset, so I am pondering on ways to create a private space within their space (ideas gladly welcome!).

Yesterday we went to the farmer's market, which is always satisfying and lovely. There we fetched fresh farm eggs, milk, several different kinds of pluots including one called Dinosaur Egg. We also feasted on fresh homemade Pupusa's. I fell in love with the sampling I had and must find a recipe worth making and sharing.

However today we are stuck at home as the middle one has been felled by a tummy bug (it is making the rounds in the family: I had it this weekend & my oldest had it last week).

So this is my view from here. Anticipating the school year. Tending a sick one. Dreaming of food. 

Typing away at silly dreams and editing photos for unforeseen projects.

Where are you these days? I would love to know. xo

sing song swing of summer

details are subtle. lawnmower outside. plants need watering. music from the oldest's stereo. exhausted, the middle is up, yawning, waking from a mid-day nap. the youngest, hiding out playing games in his makeshift fort.

what is happiness

happiness is a walk in the woods with my boys, high above the world. contentment. happy lucky me watching them build dams. running with their dad. freeing themselves, momentarily, of the chains of the day to day. stretching out, making-up stories, heralding their imagination to the moon.

mothering, a round, full circle

in a round.
in a circle.
i come back around
to my childhood,
to my home,
looping back,
to the beginning,
to the place where my mother's illness grew.
where the ALS* spread slowly,
taking her body away from her,
taking her away from us.

like the seasons that circle us,
where the cycles encircle us.
round, i spin back
and also forward,
dusting away the thick motes of memory
and the holding pool of hope in my hand.

so i come back,
back around, in a circle,
walking through my childhood
my home. circling around in my mother's thoughts.
circling around death
 and life.

and the strength of my children.
and the strength in my children,
circles, back around,
back around, from my mom to me.
a circle, round, holding me
in.

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*ALS is also known in the states as Lou Gehrig's Disease, however abroad it is know as MND (Motor Neuron Disease). There were many visits to Colorado last summer and fall as my mother was dying from ALS. She died this past November of 2012. This is my first visit to Denver since her death. So in this trip, I am very much thinking of her.  

linking in with Lou for her Nature in the Home Series. 

hope you all are well. xxoo

the quiet::holding onto time

It is quiet here this morning. The boys are sleeping in a smidgen. And I am taking the chance to relish in the atmosphere of it all. The dogs are at my feet. The sun is slowly waking up the world. I hear my husband getting ready for work in the back bedroom, but the boys dream on. I realize that despite all the glory of summer, there have been very few moments for me to just be quiet with myself; holding my soul in a space a part; slowing my thoughts and listening to my breath. I love summer in all its lounging and boyness, but it has been filled to the brim with my children and I hadn't realized until this moment how noisy my head has been with my busy bodied babes and their adventures (and in-fighting grumpiness that occurs when you are getting used to being around each other all the time again).

So far this summer has been interesting. The oldest is slowly pulling back from the day-to-day play of the younger two boys. He is absorbed in his books and his music these days and I sense that the younger two feel him pulling back a bit from childhood as well. He has always been an old soul, mature and caring, so it is not a surprise that he is entering into this phase, even though it makes this mama's heart ache a bit for the boy in him.

The younger two are growing in leaps and bounds as well. The middle is sprouting. And the youngest, lost his first baby tooth last night, just after I took these photos of him in our bougainvillea in the backyard (searching high and low for something red to photograph for Lou over in Littlegreenshed). There have been days where the younger two have fought like crazy, but they have also had days like yesterday, where they find a beautiful happy medium, immersing themselves in creative play and imagined adventures. I am so thankful for each one of my merry men. They have pushed me and pulled me; made me grow as a human in ways I never thought possible.

Yet I am ever so grateful for the moments when I can be quiet, stop for a moment and hold onto time. Taking in the slow breath of life. The slow brewed coffee. Yesterday's memories. Writing for a hushed small bit of time, uninterrupted. These are gifts for a mother's soul as well, just as the busy squishy hurried moments are.

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What ways are you finding the quiet (or are you) these days? Do you find it easier or harder when your children are home all day on holiday? How do you step back and hold onto time amidst the chaos? I would love to know. xxoo

linking with Lou, theme: red at Nature in the Home

mothering :: poetry in circles

the quiet rim of your glass after milk has been drunk,
stained, a foggy white
with the small circled line left behind
on the deep auburn wooded table.

baby lips circled in a laugh.

blinking back tears made in your saucer cupped cerulean eyes.

life as a mama seems to be made in circles.

the baskets made for carrying,
the circle of the hands that wrapped around you when you were born.

the polka dotted thumb prints on the once clean window,

honeyed golden circles on hot biscuits,
tiny parts crumbling, dancing around your plate.

the way my life encircles yours
then at the end of the day, always circles back around.

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::foliophoto with bedsidesign 

(Sandra from raincoast creative salon is taking the summer off)

next week the prompt is climb. 

Click through to bedsidesign and find out how you can link up and join in the fun!

xxoo

resilience, hope

and in what we thought were the confines of our humanity, there is hope, there is resilience;
there is a stretching out across the continents, through puddles of blue, and oceans of despair,
hands held together by the common thread of deep love for all of humanity, for all of our children's sake.

we keep our little rafts afloat. we refuse to sink. we refuse to stoop to base convictions that evil should be met with evil and violence met with violence. we meet way out in our tiny little basin of stars, and agree, that as long as we are camping out here on this planet, this little corner, this eternal turning towards the sun and revolving through the ages, we will hold each other accountable to do better.

we will change our tattered pages of history. we will sew down the frayed edges, mend broken spirits and rethread a new story in this quilted milky way of stars.

thank you, every single last one of you, who kept watch in your hearts with me this weekend. who said a kind word on my blog, or hugged their children a bit closer.  thank you, thank you for handing a stranger a look of hope on the street, or offering to carry someone's worries for them.  thank you for your random acts of love and the beautiful dance you create as you step through your day.

thank you for keeping a light on in your hearts, and in your home. xxoo

on raising boys.

Trying to raise tender yet hearty men is as easy as learning to be a concert violinist overnight; it feels absolutely impossible somedays. Oh I know they are all tender hearted souls. I witness it in different ways on an almost daily basis. Last week when my youngest was home sick, I let him watch a movie, "Honey I Shrunk The Kids." One aspect of the plot is this: the children in the story are shrunk to the size of ants, then they befriend an ant. Then the ant dies. As a result of this plot twist, I found my little man weeping into his pillow over  the untimely death of the little baby ant. My heart swelled with achey love and I wanted to scoop him up, hold him and wipe away his tears...however, he wanted none of it. He knew that he was vulnerable in his weeping and my show of affection made him more so. It was hard to let that moment go.

old soul reads

We flew to the east coast today. It was a hurried blue blur of folding, fetching, cleaning and packing before we left early, early to catch our 6am flight out of LAX. Exhausted beyond belief but enjoying the boys' in flight preoccupations I put to use my small fraction of time and read, from cover to cover, the book "Kira, Kira" by Cynthia Kadohata. The prose was simple yet lyrical and it was not a surprise to me that the short but intense read won a Newberry. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted. Perhaps because I have suffered loss in recent months. Perhaps because I know how much my mother would have loved this novel. Perhaps. However this 'perhaps' is written, it's achingly beautiful prose had me weeping openly on the plane for the last 1/4 of the book. This small moment in time left me reflecting on how we, as a society, pass through grief, bury our loved ones, put to rest our dreams.

Hello Monday!

Hello Monday!

You are almost over and I am quite content.
This day has been a whirlwind, fast descent.

a day with my merry brood :: happiness abbreviated

+get up. later than you wanted. again.

+make coffee. this entails grinding the coffee, getting out mugs, feeding the other mammals that inhabit your home, all whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. remember you wanted the Chemex coffee maker, even though it takes a million years to brew, it makes the-best-damn-coffee-you-have-ever-tasted, so you don't mind the wait. well maybe. when its all done and poured, you then wait for the coffee to wake you up. again.

on the first day of may :: midweek messiness, perfection and flowers

Perfection is my midweek messy. The house is actually(semi) clean as I spent a large part of yesterday afternoon folding laundry. When the eldest came home I had him clean his room and it inspired me to do a mid-week vacuum as well. The younger two boys are running track this spring so I feel like I have an extra hour to get things done on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons before the daily dance of homework and dinner making.

Oh that perfection though, it messes me up somedays; the desire to be the best, to be perfect at whatever I do. This desire doesn't always surface out from underneath my skin, but I think that the small girl in me, who never seemed to do anything quite right, so wants to be perfect at...something. This leads to quite an awkward outlook on life at times because it hinders my ability to see clearly or at least to have proper perspective on things. Perhaps my perfection is a desire to compete, a deep desire to compete with my Self. However healthy competition may be, I don't think that this internal struggle to be perfect, the lofty pedestal I place things I want to do or make, is healthy; especially because upon failure, I want to abandon ship, leave my wrecked project on a forgotten shore.