All gift.

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2015 sort of snuck up on me when I was busy doing other things.

I had intended to write a moving and inspirational blog post about the hopefulness of a new year, about the passing of time and the growing feet of my three boys, about my daughter’s applications to college, about the gray hairs I find poking through at my temples and sometimes in my eyebrows so I guess I’ll get right on that.

Those wiry gray hairs are a weird comfort to me and I think it’s because I so often forget my age. I have to do the math, “let’s see…born in 1967 and now it’s what, 2015…”

It’s not a bad thing to forget my age, especially when I realize I’m a whole lot older than I had remembered, which sounds backward, I know. I forget that I’m on the backside of my 40’s sliding headfirst toward 50. I forget that and I get very impatient with my body, with my brain, with my energy level. It’s those gray hairs poking through that remind me of my age and I use those gray hairs as a sort of “keep calm” instruction when I get impatient.

I’m never going to have the body or the brain or the energy level I had when I was 17 or 25 or even 33. I am here now, living here now, having this body, this brain, this energy level and that’s okay. Really, it is.

So as I sit and reflect on the quiet, night-time passing of 2014, when I was busy doing other things I watch the slowly falling snow from the comfort of my favorite writing chair.  I hear the clicking of fingers on the keyboard issuing from my husband’s home office as he works on placing text in his graphic novel. I listen to my boys and their ever-growing feet as they run around downstairs, milking this last vestige of winter break. I think about my sweet girl sitting quietly in her room pondering great and powerful things that lie ahead for her in 2015. And I take comfort in the passing of time, the unfolding of the now and the not yet, the gray hairs poking through to mark the time, reminding me that this is all gift, all gift.

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rosemary and time…

 

Last year in the Spring I spent a great deal of time digging up the back yard of our house in Nashville. I’d decided that I would finally give gardening a try. Knowing little, knowing nothing and having only Google and the kindness of green thumb friends I dug up my yard; around the porch, near the fence, in the bare spots and the balding patches. I convinced the lawn guy to cut down a diseased shrub one day and spent the rest of the weekend pulling up the stump. It was therapy, deeply intensive therapy.

When the empty spot was finally tilled and filled with dirt I sat down on the porch to survey my work. I wanted a rosemary bush there. I found two rather large bushes sitting outside our local grocery store in the heat of the Spring day. They were strong and woody, ready for room to expand, ready for a place to lift their branches and reach to the skies.

They did very well over the course of the summer in that house. They did lift their branches to the skies. They did expand. In the mornings I would wander outside with my coffee and offer them water, rub their leaves so that I could remember throughout the day the simple fact that I’d done this. Rosemary means remembrance.

We moved away from that house in early September, up to the windy city of Chicago, into a loft style apartment on the second floor. No yard. No garden. No dirt.

This past week I finally remedied that, buying a topiary of rosemary for my deck. I had not realized how much I missed that early morning greeting, the moment of quiet on the porch, the wind whispering through the leaves, clothing itself with the perfume of rosemary, of remembrance.

continuity

I missed my regular Poetry Tuesday post. The world was just way too interesting this week apparently. Still, I wanted to post this for you today. It’s a poem from the way back machine I keep under my bed. This poem might be as old as my son, Chet. Maybe it’s hitting puberty too now because it keeps announcing itself to me in the strangest times. It’s a brief bit of something.  Hope you dig it. Happy Thursday!

Continuity

there
another moment

passed

with effort
unannounced

a moment
spent well

noble currency

a moment
with wings
with life

each breath
a pause
in motion

a beating heart

a universe
of its own

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