Sunday Morning Thank You


Like many of you, I'm sure, I've just had a week. The house is cyclonic, there's no clean underwear in my drawer, and Loretta reminded me last night that I still haven't paid her piano teacher for the month. I facilitated seven back-to-back retreats and trainings since Monday and it's as if my "ON" switch is stuck, the motor about to burn out.

So waking up this Sunday morning to a quiet house without anything on the calendar feels too good to be true.

Our four-year-old neighbor was here yesterday afternoon. Loretta played dolls with her (she keeps them for that purpose) and all the accoutrements are spread out over the couch. (At least that means the dog won't sleep there.) On the kitchen table right now is a New Yorker, a baby present bought for a friend, stacks of mail, Yancey's computer, my computer, a shaker of red pepper flakes, a Bluetooth speaker, and some books for work. And some little plastic fingerboards that Wyatt was doing tricks with last night. On the kitchen counter is Loretta's bike helmet, a cooler we used for road-tripping to Wyatt's basketball tournament yesterday, Wyatt's computer, Loretta's book, and little flakes of kosher salt over everything.

And I woke up this morning happy about all of it. I stayed in bed reading Bill Hayes' book Insomniac City about moving to NYC after his partner died, about falling in love with Oliver Sacks (who had never been partnered at 75), about taking photos in NYC, watching the sunset from their rooftop. I got it from the library yesterday, started it at 10:00 last night, and finished it from 5-7. One of those kind of books. The kind I wanted to get up and tell you about. Divine. Perfection. The kind that breaks your heart and makes you love life all over again. And then I wrote this poem. Happy Sunday.

Sunday Morning Thank You

Finally, a free Sunday.
I wake up at five, eager to exploit
the commitment-free hours.
I plan to clean the fridge and make it look
more like my friend Lisa’s fridge,
little tubs of roasted squash and cut carrots
beautifully waiting for the week.

Then I will fold the laundry
that’s been piling up for two weeks,
dumping it out on my bed,
maybe listening to a little early Christmas music,
and probably reminding myself
that I need more socks.

My daughter and I have planned to go to church.
The men of the house are gone,
leaving us free to revel in the little rituals we both love,
probably slurping Vietnamese soup afterward
and debriefing Sunday school, where she is the oldest
(which she both loves and hates).

There will be coffee and later, wine,
maybe a walk with the dog when the rain lets up,
maybe a letter written to Emily
whose mailbox I love to fill.

But first—blessedly first!—are these two hours
under the covers with the old gooseneck lamp humming,
these two hours when I finish my book,
the one I got just yesterday
from the library, the one about finding love,
the one about grief and curiosity, the one
that makes me want to write this poem,
to notice every last thing about this day which,
inexplicably, I’ve been given.

Don't Blink


Oh boy. I am overrun with nostalgia lately. There's nothing like your kid starting high school to 1) Make you feel old and 2) Make you teary all the *&#*ing time.

I have finally started to call myself a poet, accepting that I love brevity and that, for better or for worse, I'll always be trying to collect images and crystallize them in as few words as possible. It sure is helping these days, when I can hardly keep up with the world inside and outside my doors.

I've been riding my bike more lately, too, and I've found it's a recipe for more clarity, more connection to myself and what's happening around me. That's what happened this morning when I passed Whatcom Middle School and immediately looked for Wyatt on the playfield.

Wherever you are today and whatever you're doing, I hope you're happy and wistful and engaged and growing.

Don’t Blink

Riding past the middle school playfield,
clusters of kids in the morning sun,
I remember with a jolt
that you aren’t one of them anymore.
I thought I’d have those three years
to stretch my legs, take a breath,
get my parenting act together.
Teach you how to cook a few essentials,
maybe take you to Yellowstone or New York City,
figure you out more than I have.

High school started without much fanfare.
I’ve discovered I have to stay up late
for any chance of sliding
into that thin envelope of light and tenderness,
the one where you laugh at my jokes,
I fix you a sandwich,
and we’re not strangers anymore.

Song of a Reformer


Song of a Reformer

I can't stop trying to be good.
It's my illness, though some days
it's in remission.

By the river, I take my shoes and socks off,
find a flat rock and patch of sun,
let the glacial water baptize me.

See how the river cuts its own path,
how the valley surrenders,
how the eddies and currents, unruly,
are as good and as beautiful
as anything I've ever seen.

Morning Wake Up


Morning Wake Up

He's a hard sleeper just like his dad.
When I say his name, touch his arm,
he sleeptalks and says he's getting up.
I sit on the bed's edge for another minute,
straighten his twisted covers,
look at him with the kind of love
he'd squirm under if awake,
the kind of longing I had
that first morning,
the room spinning around me,
every cell in my trembling body
saying, Thank You. Thank You.

So Long, Emily

There's Hurricane Harvey and the West Wing travesty and a non-native salmon spill in Puget Sound. And famine in Africa.

But tonight, there's Emily flying to California for the year, and then who knows what after that. She's my person, as anyone who's read this blog even once probably knows. We are good at staying connected and it will take a hell of a lot more than this move to change that.

But still. Sad and it's all a little surreal. Nothing to do but write a poem. I love you, sister.

So Long

You'll get on the plane
and text me when you land.
I'll see you before Christmas
and fill your virtual and actual mailboxes.

But you won't be leaving notes
on my desk,
walking my dog,
sleeping in my house
like you are tonight,
your breath, body, footfall,
your "I am here"
always making me
into the wildest, loveliest
dream of myself.

Little Poems for Dark Days #13

Little Poems for Dark Days #13

End of the day, nothing written yet.
If I have anything to say,
it's thank you.
Thank you for my life,
thank you for this anger,
geyser of revolt rising up in me,
that part of me that won't sit down,
cloud of witnesses
who won't be silenced,
worker in the field,
first responder in his boat,
writer with her pen,
refugee in his tent,
loud Chorus of Love
on the bleakest, most sodden of plains,
singing though there's every reason
not to.

Little Poems for Dark Days #11

Little Poems for Dark Days #11

I'm tired of the bitter river!/Tired of the bars!
(Langston Hughes)

Whether it's because we built an ark
with blood money
or happened to be born
on top of a hill,
those of us on dry land
have always been smug,
directing others not to be angry
or to work harder
or to have more faith.
What's that you say?
This bitter river comes for us?

Little Poems for Dark Days #10

Little Poems for Dark Days #10

Today my free tote bag came in the mail.
The fridge is full of washed fruit and little yogurts.
I manage to clear my desk,
send a note to my aunt,
have an idea for a poem
or the urge to learn something--
tennis or Spanish or pickle-making.
Sparks in the dark, all of it,
sticks and tinder, hope against hope,
making fire in the cold.

Little Poems for Dark Days #4

Little Poems for Dark Days #4

My neighbor Laura makes oatmeal
for anyone that ends up in her front yard.
With solar glasses and pinhole projectors,
this little band of dogs and humans is ready
to see the moon eclipse the sun
then to see the sun come shining back again,
ready to remember that our planet is still suspended,
that we are still, mercifully, alive in the universe.