Letter to my Heart

If I were to rise every morning, with you, and with the sun, maybe then my butterfly wings could shake off their dust. Maybe then, with your breath hot on my cheek, a little antenna could pop out of my cocoon. There is dust on these translucent wings, and on the sun too. I have been living long without you and the moon makes less of an impact on my day.

Rise, with me, and the sun. Ask to see the wings and ask for liquid. The darkness has been long cast and the shadows have grown. The dust has laid thick upon the floor and is too heavy for flight. Oily hands brushed it aside, only to create muddier pools.

Stay here.

I cannot have one without the other, so please lay your flame down. The fire will dance in light, create darkness, yes, but above all, my wings can shine in this. This too will burn off the layers, burn off the thick skin, and burst my calloused wings into gossamer hope once again.

Bookstore Whisperings

Somedays I walk through bookstores, just for the smell of it. To hear what they quietly whisper to each other, bumping up against spines, running a tired finger along their backs.

Somedays I wonder about the magic contained in words, about the magic that seems to sparkle and crack in the dust of bookstores. Someone's breathing, beating heart, laid down and quieted in typed print, only to explode and live again in someone else's mind.

Perhaps the only way to beat the bittersweet impermanence of this world is to write. To write and to hope that someone reads. And even if no one reads it, even if no one sees it, to continue to write. To continue to breathe and lay your beating heart down into something that will outlast our crumbling bodies and our aching hands. To outlast the twists of fate and the he said-she said moments. To outlast the lack of sleep and the pitter patter of your child's feet. To out last the break of your heart, and the mending of your shoes.

To live amongst the moon and the sun so that someone, somewhere, will know that you lived. Will know that you too, broke, and you too loved, and you too, once had a beating heart.

Perhaps words are the only chance we have of being remembered. Words and the way they make you feel.

I would like to be remembered for words, but also for my hands and their disappearing creations. Cookies and watercolors, cakes and lost notebooks, dreamcatchers and wiped tears, holding hands and holding you, and all the things in between that make up the span of a day.

I think we would all like to be remembered, even if only for the simply perfect way that your eyes curve and crook and squint at the sun. Remember as much as you can. And then give it all back.

Whirlwind

Whirlwind life! Whirlwind days! 
Whirlwind hearts growing and breaking and opening and closing, and in the midst of it all, still trying to look the world in the eyes. Does your heart break open too? 
At the simple beauty of babies feet and the heartbreak of hunger waiting on every street corner? 
Mine splits open and open everyday, just enough to let a little more light in, just enough for the jewels to spill out into my eyes, and create a little more beauty than sadness. So here are words for the day: for a day that is the perfect amount of time. 

"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
      And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
      And how else can it be?
      The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
      Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
      And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?"
--Kahlil Gibran

Breaking Open
Everyday 
            my feet surprise themselves
                       by getting out of bed

Meanwhile my heart breaks

          babies laugh
Children starve
          we fall in love
lovers die
          men rape
women break
          chickadees sing
my neighbor goes homeless
           my friend is jobless
rivers flow
          roses blossom

Meanwhile I breathe
      the world turns
           the sun still rises
                                      and sets
Babies are being born
                                to good homes and bad houses

Everyday my heart surprises me
                  by mending just enough to sleep
and break open again tomorrow

Playing House

We like to play house. We hang sparkly lights and a dreamcatcher above our crashpad nest and we set up the tent in our living room when we miss camping.

We eat eggs, bacon, and fresh peaches and we laugh about getting older. We drink out of jam jars because we forgot to buy glasses and we eat on the floor because we haven't bought chairs. 

We drift to mountains and streams and play in the water like little kids. We throw rocks and yell and make faces. We tease and fuss and fight. Mostly though, we love each other, and mostly that is what we spend our time doing. 

Crab Nights

Some nights are slow. There is crab strewn across the table, mouths licking buttered fingers, and slow conversation dripping down our lips. In between long dregs off of cold beer we share simple stories and simple conversation.

Some nights aren’t special but they still linger on my tongue.

Banana Blueberry Muffins

These are my mother’s muffins. They were her staple breakfast muffin and I knew it would be a good day when I woke up to the smell of them baking. These are one of the most nourishing comfort foods for me.

I am my mothers daughter, and these are my go-to muffins for the morning after a disaster, or when someone needs some extra love. Always, the taste of memory adds an extra sweetness, but even without the history, these muffins are delicious.

Banana Blueberry Muffins

1 cup sugar

2/3 cup butter

¼ cup buttermilk

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups flour

¾ tsp baking soda

1/8 tsp salt

1 cup blueberries (or replace with chocolate chips)

3 large bananas (2 cups)

Preheat oven to 350

Combine sugar, butter, buttermilk, eggs and vanilla. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt. Add bananas and blueberries. Bake for 20-25 min. 

Remembering Roots

Rhubarb pie for breakfast and the tones of home linger softly on my tongue. Each bite is infused with more than rhubarb and sugar, but rather the spice of memories filling in the spaces.

The weight of history presses on my tongue.

I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like. To someone who has never had it, I cannot even imagine what it must be like. But I am the world’s best food critic if you want to know what rhubarb laced with memories tastes like. 

I can tell you about seeing my mom chop it up into bite-size pieces and the way it made me feel taken care of. My eyes are barely peering over the counter top, her soft beautiful belly just at head height: the perfect height where I can lean gently in and let her take all my weight. 

I can tell you what the garden tastes like. My small feet press an inch down into the freshly turned earth baked by the sun. Scooping up a handful of dirt only to let it drop between my fingertips. The feeling of a tiny weed squished between sausage toddler fingers. 

I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like.

But rhubarb pie--I can’t tell how much sugar is added, or whether the dough was made correctly, or whether there is too much cinnamon. 

All I can taste is the sweetness of innocence, the pillow of my mothers belly, the brittle warmth of summertime, and dirt under tiny toes. All mixed together, joined together by unlikely forces, dancing together in a never-ending parade.

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