Once in a Blue Moon :: thoughts on the eve of new year

Blank pages, empty squares. Waiting with anticipation for all that will fill our days. We pull down from the wall the record of what we've done, where we've been. Days crossed, notches on our belts and lines marked on the wall.

One day at a time.

I prefer to keep a short view, a close look. Intentional myopia, keeping the big picture in my peripheral vision. I like to take life one day at a time. I don't miss as much this way.

It's a new outlook for me. I used to thrive on planning, scheduling, finding ways to mark the passing of time. I'd divide and devise, rationing the year into months, quarters, seasons. There was a semblance of security and control to knowing what was coming, to planning ahead; blocking off dates for trips and marking milestones on the horizon.

But time passes so much more quickly that way, when I looked ahead, anticipating the next season or stage. And I didn't want to wish it all away - spending the now preparing for the later.

I've made no secret about my shift in outlook. I rarely look at the calendar these days, instead taking each day as it comes. I like it this way.

About a year ago, I decided to let time pass at its true pace. Like I've said before, I want to let each minute last sixty seconds. I don't want to cheat the hour out of it's moments, to rush the days away. It's been a year of mindfulness, and it's no coincidence that I've enjoyed it as one of my best years yet.

Tonight marks the eve of a new year, and we have the rare chance to ring in twentyten with a blue moon. The second full moon of the month doesn't come around too often, and that it falls on New Years Eve seems to me a good omen for the coming year, the decade even. Tonight the full moon will cast it's glow, wherever we may be, and let us see a little more clearly at a time that's usually dark.

Maybe twentyten will be our year for clarity.

This blue moon will shine it's goodbyes to 2009 and greet 2010 with a bright full face, shedding some light on our paths and brightening our vision as we look back at our tracks in the snow, the footprints left in our wake; and ahead to the open road, the fresh trail where we have the chance to start off with hope and resolve.

Once in a blue moon. Don't miss it, don't let it pass by unacknowledged.

At some point tonight, whether you're at a packed-full party or home tucking little ones into bed, step out. Step away from the chaos or the calm. Bundle up, head outside and turn your gaze toward that rare blue moon.

Say goodbye to this last year and let go of regrets for what you did or didn't do. Because the earth is going to keep on turning, and regret can't slow things down or change the trajectory of your path.

Offer up a little prayer or a wish for clarity in this year to come, for a guiding light to shine on your path like that full moon on this cold, December night.

I know I will.

photo credit here

Happy New Year!

I only started blogging in late April, but here are some of my favorites from the second half of 2009.

Top 10 from '09

For Better or Worse (May)

I Should Have Known (June)

Raindrops (August)

Gratitude (September, reposted at Happy Bambino's Blog in October)

Growth (September)

Aftertaste (September)

fall(ing) (October)

Silhouettes (November)

Hope (December)

Drive (December)

Read more...

Why things have been a little quiet around here....

As you can see, I've been terribly busy.

And yes, as any good mother of boys will tell you, that was a body slam.

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Christmas, past

Red velvet dresses and patent leather maryjanes. Curls in our hair, cableknit tights. Heading to church on a cold, dark Christmas Eve to sing in the program at church. We stand up front and it's Joy to the World and Away in a Manger. We file out, collecting our books of Christmas Lifesavers, and we head home to open presents, mom and dad and five little girls, Sunshine and Snowflakes flooding the livingroom.

...

Every year, stairstep girls sit side-by-side on the piano bench, plunking out melodies and harmonies, duets played and sung, with gusto. Angels We Have Heard On High, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, What Child is This, sheets turned until we've played them all. Five of us taking our turns, pairing up and sitting down to play and sing again and again and again, year after year after year.

...

Dad loves Pachabel's Canon in D. So I secretly learn to play, practicing when he isn't home or on the neighbor's piano. And when it's time to exchange our gifts, I sit at the piano in the diningroom and play it by heart.

...

My parents church on Christmas morning. Familiar faces line the pews, ours is the homecoming church. Children grown, back every year. A tradition, all and every is invited to join the choir in the front for Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. I stand next to sisters and cousins, a section over from uncles and aunts. And we sing with all our hearts, organ piping away, and I watch my Grandpa smiling in the pews. His voice rings into the stillness when the last note has been sung, Amen!

...

A quiet night. By the light of the tree, we share stolen moments while my parents and sisters sleep down the hall. And in a blink, he's on one knee, a box of sparkle open in his hand. There's no other answer than yes.

...

An unlikely setting for celebration. Family gathers Christmas morning in a hospital room. We pass presents and food, laugh and cry, celebrating amid the heavy fog that hangs.

...

A crisp, sunny morning. I hold my weeks-old boy and watch as my love helps the older two unwrap their surprises from under the tree. New traditions, we're making them ourselves. I wonder which stories these boys will recall.

...

O Holy Night. The stars were brightly shining, it is the night of our dear Savior's birth. Long lay the world in sin and error pining 'til he appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

...

I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Luke 2:10

...

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

***

Closing comments, as I'll be unplugging for the next week.

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Drive

When you can't afford therapy and you've got yourself a mind-full of swirling, whirling thoughts; it doesn't feel so much like settling to opt for an open stretch of highway with a brand new playlist and a full tank of gas.

It's an icy, cold Tuesday. The kind that bares its teeth and snaps at your nose and bites your fingers, the kind with pale blue skies and wisps for clouds. The kind that has you feed your kids breakfast, hop in the rusty blue Subaru to drive 130 miles to attend a funeral, and drive 130 miles home in time for dinner and bedtime.

John burned me a playlist he made the night before so I could have some music to distract me, to enjoy on my drive. I saved it for the drive home, not knowing what was on it, and feeling certain I needed to keep things mellow for my drive out.

The thing is, having the car to myself felt like a vacation. Two hours of silence. Or music. Or me singing at the top of my lungs. But I didn't have to answer anyone or tell stories - I just got to sit there and think.

The funeral service was beautiful. Thoughts to unwrap another time, I think. But I'm so glad I went. One thing the pastor said, just as he was starting the service, was this:

Relax into your emotions. Whatever it is you brought here today, God's big enough to take it. So sink into it, whatever it is. And God will meet you there.

People show up at funerals for a lot of different reasons, and I find it easy to be caught off-guard by what gets dredged up out of our own grief chambers, what triggers unresolved anxieties to flare up again, by what scars get ripped open.

Relax into it, he said. We don't often give ourselves that permission.

::

I'm heading home, driving southwest. The road curves and bends, and the sun passes back and forth across the car. The early hour at which the sun is slipping out these days never fails to surprise me. And while I'm not blinded, the scene is backlit by the setting sun, barns and silos becoming silhouettes, dark blank slates masquerading as road signs.

It doesn't matter. The route is both familiar and foreign. I know it by heart, but it could be Midwestern Countryside, Anywhere, USA. The view depends on where you're coming from, where you're going, and we all create our own maps of the landscape.

I slide in John's CD, my mind buzzing. It was C's funeral, but there were so many there who had lost. A grandmother who lost her grandson, and barely hung onto her daughter. A husband who lost his wife. A brother and mother, missing their sister-daughter, grieving for the children she left behind. They shared their stories, carry-ons towed along on this trip, the telling of stories marking lives and loss on the map.

Chris Cornell wails from the speakers, and I belt out the lyrics with the full force of my voice. I crank the dial to the right, and it doesn't go back down for 100 miles.

Why does it feel so good to sing at the top of my lungs? Why do I envy the impassioned release of the singer?

Relax into your emotions. God's big enough to take it.

I need the release. There's a lot whirling around inside and if I don't open the pressure valve, something's gonna blow.

The familiar drum beats and the Beastie Boys are screaming in my face. Listen all y'all, it's a Sabotage.... And again, I sink into it. I drum the steeringwheel and yell as loud as I want, right along with my Boys, and they don't care whether I get the words right.

And then it's Ben Folds, plunking out a melody and crooning along with his piano. He's there with me - Oh, I've been thinking a lot today.... And on it plays, and on I sing, and on I drive; the sun sashaying overhead, the center line guideing me over hills and around bends, past farms and fields, dry and brown and brittle and cold.

The Black Crowes pick at their guitars and slow things down. I settle in, I quiet myself. It felt good to yell, to belt, to pound the wheel with my palms. But when she carries a lock of hair in her pocket and a cross around her neck, it becomes too much and I surrender and the road blurs with tears for too. many. people. and I relax into where I'm at, and God meets me there. Taking it - my anger, my fears, my grief, my hope, my tears.

And I drive.

My husband knows me. His music transports me as surely as this Subaru. I listen and I'm there.

He splices in some old school Black Sabbath to curl my lips into a smile and some STP Art School Girlfriend to send me back to the smoker's wall outside our college dorm and a little Cake to sing the praises of a girl with mind like a diamond, who uses a machete to cut through red tape. I laugh and I remember the easy days, care-free and self-absorbed, heady and brand-new in love, the days before I grew my mother-heart, before I got the ephemeral nature of my days or the gift that is waking up healthy each morning. I remember and I laugh and I sing and I drive.

::

What is it about driving? The control? The forward motion? The speed? The solitude? The forced time to sit and do nothing but think?

The music blares and the rubber rolls over miles and miles that stretch like days ahead of me.

I'm approaching home, but I'm in another dimension. I know that if I pull in that driveway and walk through that door to house-full of chaos I will be scattered and fragile. I need to ground, to gather my thoughts, the contents filling the car, threatening to spill out a window cracked, to reel myself in and plant myself firmly in the moment.

So I take the next exit and pull into a parking lot, pulling out my journal and my pen. Thoughts and feelings spill onto pages, emotions running over, dropping as ink splots on paper. I purge, I ground, and I put it in drive.

I feel like I'm coming out of Savasana, bringing myself back to my surroundings, rubbing my fingers against my thumbs, opening my eyes into palms, light seeping through the spaces, a gentle re-entry into stark surroundings.

The farms fade, the city emerges. I pull into town as the sun lowers behind the buildings, behind the trees. The hazy yellow tint that shone on my drive, the amber glare that filled the car is gone. Like that. I blink the straining out of my eyes, and I see clearly. It's blue and grey, a subtle pink and a pale orange where the sun had been. There's snow on the trees, cars full of people heading to and from their Christmas shopping, heading home from work. A jet glides across the sky, coming in for a landing; and I'm ready to see my kids, my husband.

I round the last corner and pull into the driveway. The lights are in the house and I can see them through the windows. It's been a long day, a long drive.

The needle points to damn near empty, but I'm feeling very full.

***

Linking up to Gwen Bell's Best of 2009 Blog Challenge (#best09), response to prompt 'best drive'

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Because I need to lighten up a little after that last post...

While my last post was very meaningful to me, and you all blew me away with your comments and emails in response, I am feeling the need to lighten my heart a little. So in good mama-blogger fashion, I will share snippets from my cutie patootie children to inflate that balloon and carry us all off to a happy place. (Ok, at least me and the grandparents will think it's cute. But it's my blog, so I do what I want. :P)

I will share with you two stories from my sons, whose coat tails I will ride into early retirement because they are so clearly future Pulitzer Prize winners. One tends more towards memoir, while the other leans toward fantasy fiction.

But sit back, and enjoy two tales of our trip paddling and camping on the Wisconsin River.

I go to the Wisconsin River by Owen (6)

It was all bushy and there was a big dam of rocks. This person helped us get through the dam. We went through.

We were going to the big island. We paddled there and we saw a lot of islands and we saw some leaves in the water and a stick.

There were a lot of barrels in our canoe to carry stuff.

When we got to the island we parked our boats with an anchor and I walked around and played with our trucks. But then later me and Dad went out to the big point on the island and we fished. And we caught some big fish.

And we camped in a tent that night. And we had a campfire and we ate some marshmallows.

The end.

Camping as we go to our campsite and there is our tent by Eli (3)

Once upon a time, this day it was a beautiful morning and the guys, they just got stuck by boulders and the guy helped us out. There was two little boys and one was named Eli and one was named Owen and one was Axel. And they got stuck by boulders and the guy helped them out and they went through.

Once upon a time, it was a beautiful day. We were in a tent. It was right on the sand this far from the water. After we got through the dammed boulders, something happened. A huge shark came up and it ate us and it ate our tent. And we were inside the tent and the tent was inside the shark. And then a whale just splooshed up and the shark swam away.

And then suddenly, I just stepped in our fire and my foot burned up into flames. Two of my feet, and I didn’t have any feet. And suddenly, something caught my eye. And then, I….

I felt good. I liked it. But I did not like that huge shark. I did not like that shark. And I did like that whale. I like whales.

There was some lily pads. And suddenly we had to go pee, so we stopped at a little island and we went pee. And then, there was some bits that I liked.

In my story, our boat sunk. I had a very good idea to get us out, to get the boat out of water. I pressed a button under the water and the boat went way way up. It had feet under it, and a big huge head (and we were in the head, the boat was the head, and we were in the head), and the feet went way up and it walked off, it walked us all the way to the beach. All the way to the land with the stick and those leaves.

There was a sponge and I cleaned the house with a sponge, and that’s the end.

The end.

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HOPE

I stare out my bedroom window, propped against pillows, wrapped in down. The bare branches of the lilac bush bow deeply, face to the ground, bent heavy by the weight of a dense snowfall.

The tree heaves with burden. The branch would break were it not for the gift of bending.

: :

When tragedy struck close enough to home to rattle my walls, I rubbed my eyes and looked hard at life. Shaking off the excess, I found the core. I saw what matters and shed the rest, layers falling away, dropping to a heap at my feet, where I stepped over them and set off on a path, fresh.

It’s hard to learn, change, adapt, evolve in the face of despair. The weight threatens to pull you down, to break you. But if we orient ourselves toward hope, growth is possible. Clutching hope, we bend until the the burden lightens, and we rise up, arms extended, face turned toward the sun.

: :

Only months ago that tree bloomed fragrant bursts of purple, a fresh breath wafting. In the beauty of the blossom we didn’t see it coming, the naked branches, the brewing storms. (Do we ever see it coming?)

But for everything there is a season, and the hope of another bloom hides beneath the weight of snow.

: :

Hopelessness takes on many forms, Despair shape-shifts.

Cancer. Abuse. Divorce. Natural disasters. Stupid choices. Sometimes we mess things up ourselves, and other times the mess drops in like a winter storm, dumping piles, sitting heavy on our hearts.

I’ve wondered if what I’ve witnessed over the last few years is unusual, an extraordinary degree of tragedy, a pileup of unwanted phonecalls and too many afternoons dressed in black.

Or maybe I just started paying attention. My mother-heart feels an empathic despair that I didn’t always know. War, floods, homelessness, sickness, freak accidents. I think of the parents faced with moment-to-moment crises response, the kids without comfort, health, or safety; and my stomach knots and tightens, sick with angst for these families, be they strangers or kin.

The last few years have been rough for many of my most-loved ones, drop kicked by pain and suffering, betrayal and loss; they have walked through darkening days, seasons slowing to a standstill in the cold winters of their lives.

: :

The holidays spin with images of joy and cheer. But they also pull back the shroud, juxtaposing pain and loss against the glitter of the season. Amid the cheer, they’re there. Burning candles, waiting for the return of the light, celebrating the birth of a baby-king; with empty chairs or hidden bruises or dark, black secret pain weighing down their hearts.

I’ve been touched by the concentric circles of tragedy and grief that ripple outward, but have been lucky to be mostly on the periphery. From where I sit, I can see the hope that sparks, that waits for the fan of the flame.

: :

There is hope in the branch that will bud, hope in the candle burning, hope in the turning seasons, in the return of light. There’s hope in rescue and redemption, hope in humble beginnings with great promises. Hope in a baby's birth.

I want to live hopefully, to raise it like a little candle in the dark of winter. It’s easier to do from where I sit; the trick is learning how to hold on to it no matter the weather.

: :

Hope is knowing that you can bend pretty deeply before you break, that when that snow melts or you find the means to shake the burden from your branches, you will snap back, arms raised high, face to the sun, reveling in the weightlessness of a burden gone.

The seasons change, bringing storms and sunshine. But for everything, there is a season.

: :

That tree out my window may have weathered a hundred winters, but each time the storm hits and the burden bends branches heavy and low, it must wonder, how far can I bend before I break?

When you're bent deep with burden, face to the ground, it's hard to know hope.

But I hold my spark tightly, cupped in palms through the dark and through the light shining, through the cold, heavy snow and the fragrance of lilacs that wafts in on a breath of wind.

* * *

Linking up to Blog Nosh Magazine for their holiday blog carnival sponsored by the Tide Loads of Hope program. Please click over to read about this unbelievably worthwhile cause and to find other stories of hope. Have your own story to share? Visit Blog Nosh Magazine for details and link up.

And per Tuesday tradition, please visit Chatting at the Sky for Tuesdays Unwrapped.

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Friday Fiction: character development

This post is in response to a prompt from {W}rite of Passage, an online writing group that posts weekly challenges, this week's being Character. I want to stress that this is a work of fiction, so if any of you see yourselves in this, it's just your insecurities (or narcissism) talking. ;)

Edited to add: and because I had to get a glass of wine or two in me before working up the courage to step out of my public writing comfort zone (I haven't tried to write fiction in over a decade -- or longer!), I am going to link this up with the Half-Drunk Challenge at Momalom, a writing challenge to try something a little more daring, a little less comfortable, a little more challenging for yourself in your public writing. So here it is.

And be kind -- I haven't tried my hand at fiction in over a decade. (But it sure was fun!) Ok, here goes:

A Mess

He folds the greasy circle of cardboard and crams it in on top of crumpled Kleenex and banana peels, cinching the handles before heaving the bag out of the can.

“Shit!”

Plastic bags and cans spill to the linoleum, splattering his feet with forgotten swigs of rootbeer.

“Dammit,” he says, scraping the bottom of his foot against his Wranglers, tiny shards of Doritos sticking between his toes and crumbling to the ground.

Sighing, he bends and creaks, knees to the linoleum, grabbing trash and shoving it into a new bag.

“Get outta here,” he says, shoving away the old black lab. The dog keeps nosing the Hostess wrappers, knowing he’ll never follow through. He never does.

He swings the trash bag out the back door, plopping it on the porch when he realizes the bin is still out at the curb.

“Hey Joe!” chirps the woman next door, heading in from the backyard with a baby on her hip.

“Hey,” he shrugs, before ducking inside. She acts nice, but she’s a real bitch. Never lets her husband out. They think no one can hear them fighting, but on a street this tight, you can’t flush the can without the whole neighborhood knowing.

He settles into the recliner and flips the channel. He can’t take the news anymore. They’re all corporate shills and blowhards. Might as well turn on the game instead.

He lifts the footrest, and the old chair groans and cracks, sounding like he feels. The phone rings, startling him as he cracks open a rootbeer, sloshing the sticky mess and soaking his t-shirt.

He reaches for the phone, sopping up his shirt with the corduroy armrest cover. Incoming call…Mom. He tosses the phone aside and lets it go to voicemail.

He doesn’t have the energy to deal with her tonight, to tell her again that he’s not coming on Sunday. That he has a life and doesn’t need the company every weekend. Besides, those dinners are always so awkward. His parents were easier to deal with when he was drinking. Without the social lubricant, they're smothering.

The old lab noses against his hand, dangling over the edge of the chair.

He scratches the sweet spot, just behind the ears. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’re the only pal I got.”

###

Be sure to check out the other posts written by {W}rite of Passage participants (list below) or click over for the list of Half-Drunk entries at Momalom.

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In Memory

In the dark quiet of the night, the stilling of breath.

She shed the chains of pain, labor, cancer. And though those of us who loved her will miss her dearly, we feel peace in the knowledge that she was ready.

One of these days the Lord is going to take me, she said. And I'm not afraid.

I love you, Corrine. I'll miss you very much.

me and my C, from our last visit

Comments are closed, but prayers and thoughts for those grieving are appreciated. Thank you.

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Behold, the crazy (or waiting rooms will kill you.)

I've often believed that waiting rooms offer a tidy cross-section of human nature. Sometimes I forget this, venturing to an appointment unprepared for the crazy that awaits me.

Last Thursday Axel had his one year checkup. We play in the waiting area, a healthy family amid the sick and ailing. Eli joins a snot-nosed hacker at the magnet table, while Axel strengthens his immune system by crawling the premises, fondling the furniture, and thumb-sucking.

A suuuuuuuper old lady hobbles in, immediately befriending my baby. I find myself wondering if she's sick or just in for a check up as she draws Axel's outstretched chubby hand to her lips. Repeatedly. He really is too cute to pass up, so it's hard to blame. When she moves on to find a seat, I discreetly reach for the hand sanitizer to my right.

I'm glad to see you doing that, a 60 year old fingerwagger yell-whispers to me from behind US Weekly.

I see a woman eying me from the corner. I smile and go about my business. She's joined by a man with a baby in arms. I can't hear what they're saying, but they're staring and pointing in our direction. Ahhh....the baby factor.

I have a baby. They have a baby. Therefore, we must make friends. I can't help but wonder if I'd lose my appeal as a waiting room friend if I had all three of my boys with me, therefore disqualifying me from the New Parents Club, members known for a proclivity to age, weight, and milestone comparisons. I fear I'd only disappoint. By the third, I can barely keep track of my kids' names, let alone their stats.

But with one at school and another contracting a virus at the magnet table, I'm a prime target and so in they move, Daddy leading the way with Jr in arms.

Hi! What's his name? How old is he? He looked like he was a little ahead of our guy. This is Finn. He's 10 months. Crawling, but not walking. (wipes snot from Finn's face.)

Oh, what nice blue eyes! I wish Finn's eyes were bluer. (Befuddled silence from me.) I have a bias for blue eyes, he confesses. (Bouncy bouncy bouncy) Hi Axel! Oh, you can wave. Finn can't wave yet. How much does he weigh? (Bouncy bouncy wipe wipe.)

We're first time parents, says Dad, picking a slimy crumb off Finn's face. And eating it. (Oh, man. He did not just do that. I'm working, man. I am laboring to keep it together here, but this is not easy.)

We exchange pleasantries for a few more minutes before Great-great gramma hobbles over to share her germs (I mean love) with Jr., freeing me to wrangle Eli away from his new virus-laden friend.

The New Parents's names are called, and they head back to see the doc, Jr. riding on Dad's shoulders. Finger-wagger glances up from her mag to whisper-yell, I wish he wouldn't do that. My daughter's friend's husband carried their baby that way. Dropped him. And then she mouths, Dead. before going back to the latest New Moon review.

Our name is called, and not a moment too soon. Great-gramma is wondering if the baby might be getting cold. Did I know it's cold outside? And more snotty hackers have moved in on the magnet table.

Waiting rooms, man. Behold, the crazy.

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weekend update

Today is the first Saturday of the month, which means Elizabeth Esther hosts the Saturday Evening Blog Post, a place for others to link up their favorite post from the month. Head on over to read the Best Of's from many other writers' and bloggers' November repertoires.

In other news - if you are in Madison I want to tell you about a very cool upcoming project and an opportunity to jump at tomorrow (Sunday, Dec 6).

Greetings From Motherland - a collaborative, multi-media art project led by community artist Mindy Stricke and hosted by Happy Bambino. I had the pleasure of meeting Mindy last night and I am really excited to get involved. Expect to see more about it here in the future. Read on, and sign up to participate if you're interested.

Also - as a fundraiser to pay for the project (so it can be FREE OF CHARGE to participants!!) Mindy and Lea (of Happy Bambino and Nursing is Normal fame) will be offering portrait sessions for individuals or families for only $25 tomorrow, Sunday Dec 6 from noon to 3pm. Visit Happy Bambino's Blog for more information.

From the 'Bino's blog:

Greetings From Motherland
An evolving community art project by, for, and about new mothers.

Come make art about your experience as a new mom! Greetings from Motherland is a participatory art project that is investigating the culture shock of the first year of motherhood.

In this series of workshops we’ll explore and share our experiences of becoming new mothers as a group using a combination of photography, writing, sound and other media. Your contributions will become part of the larger evolving project that documents the often rocky transition to becoming a new mom. At the end we’ll celebrate by presenting a final exhibition of our work to the community (MMOCA Gallery Night, May 2010). Childcare will be provided, and no experience necessary.

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a good trip

Some mark the year by the flip of the digits, and I usually do; reflecting as the mark that ends our year draws nigh.

But sometimes, a different marker emerges as the X that marks the spot by which we gauge our time.

My baby just turned one. And when that date rolled around and popped up front and center, I realized that this past trip around the sun was one of the best I've had.

1. In my last days of roundness, belly cradled and fondled, I promised myself I would not let the days whirl by. Busyness begets Brainswirl -- as I go go go so goes the time. If this third boy of mine was to be my last, I wanted time to pass as slowly as it should.

So with discipline and gratitude, I worked to ground, to center, to stay present and it's often hard but it does come easier with practice. I've said it before. I've gotten better at letting each minute last sixty seconds. It felt like a year to me. And I am so very glad.

2. My boys have grown into their brotherhood and made it their own. Neither John nor I have a brother, and we peer as voyeurs into their world - joyfully fascinated at what unfolds before us. They play as well as they fight, with fierce love and rage. Even the little one owns his place in the pack, holding his own in the chaos and the mutual adoration.

What we saw this year? Only a hint. The tiniest.

3. We may or may not be done breeding. (it depends which one of us you ask.) Regardless, the birth of Number Three let me settle into life. Before he even swirled as a dream in our minds, I had the sense that we were waiting for someone. In those moments as a family of four, laughing around the dinner table, I found myself thinking, I love these guys. Won't it be great when everyone's here?

And now we are. We're here. And we're on this trip together. It's been my best one yet, but I hear a little whisper -- it just keeps getting better.

* * *

Joining in with Gwen Bell's Best of 2009 Blog Challenge. The writing prompt for Dec. 1 was TRIP.

Click over to check out how hundreds of other people interpreted the prompt.

* * *

It's two-for-one! I really like these photos I took this week, so I'm going to link this post to the You Capture challenge at I Should Be Folding Laundry - this week's prompt:

What makes you happy. (Appropriate, don't you think?)

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