Thursday, November 28, 2013

Thankful for:

The bald eagle that flew down river yesterday, right past my window. The small rafts of ice that are gathering, clumping together on the frigid surface, gliding past with a noise that I get to hear all night long. The smell of the snow and downed leaves as my son and I walk to the post office together. We don't have to talk, we just walk and absorb the sights and smells of a winter day. The feeling that to be alive is enough, and yet so much more.

The boy who lets me be his mama. The quiet, thoughtful soul who says more with his eyes than his words, which is perfectly fine with me. The healthy little heart of his, the strong body, the soft skin, the clear eyes, the curious mind. He is all of me and all of his dad, and yet he is better, somehow. He is more than us, and it makes me wonder what fireworks we created when he became more than just matter. Sure, every parent thinks their child is special. I think mine is special for me. Not for you. Just for me.

The man who lets me be me. The one who, after 6 years, I still want to write poetry for, but not the flowery kind. The naughty kind you give to someone when nobody else is looking, because you hope they take you up on your offer. The man who fights me back, who lets me win, but reminds me that while I may be right, I am also a giant pain in the ass, and for that, I love him more. The wonderful man who sighs and let me snuggle up to his back at night, even though I am impossible to sleep comfortably next to. He give me presents of books, he reminds me that I forgot to take the trash out, he works harder for us. He comes home to tell me how this woman he saw today doesn't stack up against me, and how he couldn't imagine being with anyone else. He is my comedy and I, his comic book.

The home, the yard, the car, the dogs, the cats, the friends, the shoes on my feet, the ability to type this. The things I am thankful for will go on forever, ever getting smaller and smaller...the functioning mitochondria that make each day possible. And bigger and bigger: the enormous star-studded black sky, in which I can name the constellations to my son.

The family. I cannot elaborate more, they are too much. Too much to describe because there are too many, too noisy, too wonderful. Just keep classy, Curry Family.

Life. You honor me with your presentation of wonderful choices. Thank you.

God. You nameless thing, you. You are the alpha and the omega. You remind me of how very small and how incredibly enormous I really am, all in the same millisecond.

This year has been good. Next year will be better. Happy Thanksgiving, world.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Permission Granted
David Allen Sullivan

You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don't have to bury
your grandmother's keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.

You don't need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.

You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.

You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.

Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world's pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes ...

Sometimes the desire to NOT choose the more practical items or the less expensive things is so strong within me. Sometimes I feel the urge to dress in heels and silk and simply trip around the world without stopping to think, "oh. Can I afford this?" The fact is though, life takes from you. The deer in the woods don't think about debt or the state of the economy. They are worried about when that damn mountain lion catches them having a sunlit nap. They are concerned that while the weather seems to be holding out, how long will it last? Life just takes, without any kind of discrimination, really. It just takes. We cannot hope to understand the way it happens. But we can hope, we can revel, we can dream. Those things make us different. They make us unique. Our meatsacks really aren't that amazing. It's our ability to be creative with them that makes us so different. My ability to create is unique to me, and if I do nothing with it, that's ok, too. Yes...

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Oooohhhhh, terrible blogger I am.

So, I've been busy. Life has gotten so wild as of late, and I love it. It's the kind of wild I want: the real wild. The kind that involves seeing a bobcat run across your path, and realize your favorite view in the whole world is right there in front of you, asking to be taken. I couldn't ask for much more.

My parents bought 80 acres out on the edge of the world. It is untamed and gorgeous. It is raw potential. They are building a house on one corner and we are helping with the plans. But the rest of it is up for grabs, to hike, to rock climb, to picnic, consider as a homestead. So here we are, looking at the possibility of being pioneers. Do we go for it? Do we test our potential and say yes to a bare hillside, waving with sage and rabbit brush? Do we say yes to the bob cat, the tarantulas, the deer, the snakes, the coyotes and the very, very black sky overhead? Do we say yes to the hard work, and the tears, and the sweat, to find the perfect fit? It's all so invigorating, these intense thoughts.

And who knows, really? Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. But for now, I have a hillside to hunker down on and enjoy the view that I love so much, hoping the wildlife doesn't come for a nibble.

Friday, November 1, 2013

A love letter

(I wrote this yesterday, but got busy and forgot to post. Sorry!)

Dear Adam-

It's 4 years today. We got married under a yellow tree 1461 days ago. Since then, we have moved what feels like a kajillion times, had a baby, changed our careers a few times, and flipped upside down our way of looking at the world. I wanted to tell you that I would not trade the long nights, the times when we had less than nothing, the moments that felt like they would break us in half for anything in the world. Those moments brought us here, to day 1461 and counting. That, my brave heart, is why we are here. Because the days keep marching on. Because we are only given a small time together, and by God, we plan to use up our days together.

I would not have it any other way.

You don't really like poetry. That's ok, I don't really like manga. Somehow we still jive. But I will keep telling you that Billy Collin's poem Litany is how I feel about you. Depending on how you read it, it can be my mood on any kind of day. I need to write my own version of it, honestly. One where you are the sunlight coming through a dark pine forest. Or the smell of a wheat field warmed by the summer heat. Or the plate of eggs and cup of coffee steaming on the table early in the morning. You are all of these wonderful little things to me, all of these perfect moments smushed together into one being. Sure, we have our tough times. But to me, you will always be the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and somehow, the wine.

Thanks for all these years, love. Can we have some more? I would love that.

To Day One of Year Five! Cheers!

Mush, mush, mush.