firstfruits

I'd plunk her down
On a blanket spread over green grass.
Newborn baby girl, squirm and coo,
So peaceful, idyllic as little one lay quiet beside
mother me, gloriously and carefully planting my beautiful garden. . .

Yeah right.

Charli--poop her pants and smile--Wusk
would look angelic on her little blanket,  
for a time.
But the real pastoral scene came in static bursts
between stoccato steps of momma feet wearing a path in the grass.

I'd begin to dig a furrow - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Plant some seed - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Finish the row - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Cover the row - wah!

Slowly, through action squished between slow stints of consolation
our first garden went in the ground.
Somehow cultivation followed frustration to lead to
Crisp color yums
from backyard dirt, sweat, and patience.

Firstfruits.

awake alive

today I sit

alive

awake

filled with desire

for creating

for living

for being

this me that is emerging

new job

horizon

new home

trusting

new

sweetheart sides

I sit heavy, next to her mechanical bed 

noticing its angle.

Her hospice tongue lulls in her mouth.

Ice will only satiate the need.

I wonder at the tired eyes of my mother,

watching her mother.

His distracted foot twitches as he prepares

to somehow be without.

How will he have tea alone,

without her to share the tea bag?

"Nan and I" starts every story

--A life side by side.

So young for her to marry.

All thought her knocked up.

But no.  Just in a hurry

with the war nipping their heels.

Poor and sick most her life, but with her Bud.

How do sweethearts live alone?

How do they be without?

a writer

As I have been reading "On Writing," I've found myself again and again drawn back to the idea of myself as writer.  I came to this realization of identity during the Nebraska Writing Project, and it was emboldened throughout the dissertation writing project.  I had a piece to work on, I was constantly jotting notes in my little notebook, and begrudgingly dragging my computer to the coffee house or my sunroom at early hours in the morning.  While I hated this time in my life, I've now found myself missing that piece of identity.  I've written a few blog posts, a few poems, but I have this burning need to be working on something bigger--to have a project.  I've planted a garden, made plans for creating a baby quilt, but nothing seems to satiate the need.  I need words.

"If God gives you something you can do, why in God's name wouldn't you do it?" 
- Stephen King


I certainly don't think I'm some amazing writer, but I keep running into books and articles online that leave me thinking, "I could have written this. . . but I never would have written this."  I want to write something that gets at my thoughts about life and living it well.  When describing how he made his living to his mother, Parker Palmer said, "Well, I spend half my time at home writing books and articles, trying to communicate with readers about things that matter to me.  Sometimes, people read what I write and invite me to give a speech so I can talk with them face-to-face. And… Well… That's about it..."

I've been reading Michelle DeRusha's blog, and her posts are more and more often about the journey into being a full time writer.  At this point in my life, I don't want to abdicate my position at the college, or my part time gig at the church, but I do want to settle into my writer self again. While my new little addition keeps me busy, she does spend a large amount of time sleeping throughout the day.  Just yesterday I planted half my garden in between her waking times.  I essentially have three months left of my leave time, and I want to steward that time.  I want to create something.  But what?  


When students faced me with this question, I was always quick with response. . . 
Tell the truth.
Write what you know.
Get your butt in the writing chair.
Get on Google.  Ideas don't just spring out of the air--even for the best writers.


Perhaps I need to take my own advice.

more convincing

I forgot that I had said I
would sub on v-ball
tonight at 615.  Should be
home around 730.  Love
you, maybe we can rent a
movie.

Holding my phone. 
The txt springs tears that I didn't know were bubbling.
New mom has them in full supply.
"Lovely" I want to type.  But don't.
I want to write things about selfishness
about responsibility.
I want to be a complete ass snob,
writing "Sure a movie is all I want from life"
but instead of send I click backspace. backspace. backspace.

I am sad that I'm not going to book club tonight.
I am sad that I didn't mention it yesterday.
I am sad that I'm not going to my friend's graduation tomorrow.
but most of all I am sad that I decided not to mention these things-
because I wanted to be home with my new little family.

The trouble is I wouldn't rather be at bookclub than home with you.
But I would rather be at bookclub than home alone.  again.

I wish you wanted to be home.
I know you do.
I know you're caring.
I know you love us.
I know I won't say anything, because I want you to want to be home.
I want to keep this relationship happy--after all it's the only adult convo I'll have today.
And the only one I'll have tomorrow.

It's just hard when all these hormones make me need a little more convincing.
And hard when my whole day is spent waiting for you to come home.

midnight in paris

"No subject is terrible if the story is true. If the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure." 

I just watched the most lovely movie. . . all by myself.  I wanted to try and watch all of the Oscar-nominated films before the big event on Sunday, but a couple of them are neither in the theater or out to rent yet.  Anyway, for a former English teacher this one was very fun with its allusions to writers and artists.  As I finished the film, two things keep ringing in my mind--renaissance begins now--we always want for another time, either living in the future or the past, but the real time is right in front of us.

"The artist's job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence."

Shrove Tuesday

Shrove Tuesday (or Pancake Tuesday) is a day of confession.

I must confess that I have been away from writing.  It was nice to rest in the needed hiatus following my dissertation, but I have decided that it's time.  Time to write again.  This year for my lenten devotion I have decided that I am going to write every day.  Something.  Every. Day.  While a large majority of this stuff will be crap (that is for certain), just the idea of writing every day means that perhaps something will come out in the writing.  After all, I like to tell my students that an important tool in writing is their butts.  A butt in a writing chair got a lot more writing done than most other tools.

So each day I will write.  Starting tomorrow.  I am not going to narrowly define my topics or wrangle myself into writing things that I hate.  Instead, I am going to simply follow the intent of this blog in the first place--to focus on how today is a REAL day--a day to live life to the fullest.  Within this lenten season will come the birth of our first child and the time that comes following that.  I see it as a good time to document.

I have debated about giving up FaceBook for lent.  I toss and turn the idea.  Just this morning I learned of a friend leaving youth ministry.  I wouldn't have without the good 'ole FB; however, I have come to see that each morning as I lazily scroll through posts--most of which are simply a waste of time--that I am missing the magic hour at the start of the day.  I am missing it.

Perhaps that is my Lenten devotion this year more simply--to stop missing it.