I love this blog post by Laurie Wagner. It is exactly my life right now, only Carter is leaving next week, we’re driving with him, and my life is held together not with twine, but duct tape. But, really, same-same!
This story of love and acceptance is so amazing! I didn’t even know I could imagine something so kind, but now that I do, I think it’s perfect.
About a week ago, I fell off my horse. Or, my horse got out from under me. Or, I really don’t know what it was, it all happened so fast. She’s a young horse and really quick and she was as scared as I was, after it happened.
I have a sprained wrist and a bruised tailbone and a little bit of a black eye.
The old saying tells you that once you fall off a horse, you have to get back up. Right back up. In the moments after I fell, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. All I could do was check in with each of the parts of my body, arms, are you okay? Legs? Fingers? Toes? And then I had to get the horse settled. And then Tom said, “Are you going to get back on?”
I thought about it, and then I said, “No.”
I didn’t get right back in the saddle. I made a choice, I said no. I didn’t think it was wise to get back in the saddle, right away. She was scared, I was hurt, and it just wasn’t worth it to me to risk me, or her, having another bad experience.
I think the lesson learned that day was not for the horse, but for me: sometimes, the old sayings are wrong. I get to do what I decide is best, and sometimes you need to take a while to heal.
Well those seeds I planted not so long ago, without much hope or expectation, have grown, and grown, and grown. Now, there is kale to pick and spinach and chard. Also chives (lots of chives!) and parsley, too. And peas! I almost cried when I saw all the peas, it felt like such a gift! It all feels like such a gift.
Two things to remember: even when you’re not sure, plant the seeds; and life is full of surprises.
The only problem with this story is that if it were Avery and me running the shop, we would eat all the cupcakes. The end.
Lots of people I know enjoy IZZE drinks, because they are delicious. But did you know that the drink is named after Isabel Woloson, daughter of one of the cofounders of the company? And what’s more, Isabel has Down syndrome.
(Thanks to Elizabeth for the info!)
We’re supposed to get a big rain soon, so I thought I’d try to get some seeds in the garden ahead of it. I planted squash and pumpkins and chard, things I think the rabbits won’t eat. And while I was digging in the lovely warm dirt, worrying that maybe the seeds were too old and that nothing would sprout, a thought occurred to me, one of gardening and a gardener’s hope: The only seeds you know for certain won’t grow are the ones you don’t plant.
I’ve been having this feeling again that I want to write a book about our life, since so many things have happened that I think would be helpful to other parents to know. I have so many stories! As I’m sure you all have, too.
So here’s a question: what do you want most to know about? What do you wish I’d share?
I know when I was a new mom to Avery the thing I wanted most to know was if we’d be okay. And that’s easy to answer, now–we are okay. We are even better than okay. As Tom used to tell me a lot in the beginning, “Life is hard, but good.”
And I don’t really have anything I really wish I could know, now. I know the future with Avery will be surprising, sometimes I’ll worry, sometimes I will laugh for reasons I never could have imagined, I am guaranteed to meet more fantastic people (Avery is a magnet for awesome people), so I don’t really know where this is all going. Maybe I’ll write the book to find out!
A poem is a puzzle
A poem is a pretzel
A poem is a pinwheel
A poem is a present
rain on fresh wet paint (at least it’s raining)
weeds growing faster than you can pull (but the lilacs are growing, too)
kitchen faucet drip drip dripping (dishes are done)
mud on the just-washed stairs (footprints of my boys)
dog nose prints on windows (a good dog)
the work of life
is finding beauty
in these ordinary
the amazing power of the sun
(Taken from the book, Wildflowers: Ferns and Grasses)
pale gray light
puddles of mud
I love you
the way the grass loves
The rain started late last night, or very early this morning. I could hear it hitting the metal roof of the house. It’s a peaceful sound, one we don’t hear often in the arid West. When I awoke this morning, it was cloudy and cool, and still threatening rain. We’d planned lots of outdoor work today, but plans change! One thing rainy days are really good for is washing indoor windows. And also, reading books. And also, also, taking naps. I think I’ll do all three.
I saw a flock of wild geese fly overhead, and it reminded me of two things: winter must be over, if the birds are coming back! And too, I remembered how much I love this poem by Mary Oliver:
Wild Geese by Mary OliverYou do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
I’ve been reading a blog by a wonderful woman named Lisa Leonard, do you know of her? What’s not to love about this post? She’s honest and brave and I find those qualities to be inspiring. I particularly love this part:
My heart needed to grieve. Caring for two boys with such different needs was really, hard—and that was okay. I didn’t have to pretend it wasn’t hard. I could be honest. I could say it was hard. I could ask for help. I could take breaks. None of these things affected my love for David or Matthias. None of these made me a ‘bad mom’ or a failure. They simply made me human.