gratitude

I just had a moment. In the midst of the chaos and upheaval that is two small children in an old house mid-renovation I had a moment; when the coffee was still warm, and the song was right, and the sleeping babe was warm and right on my chest, and the girl was mesmerized watching the red paint swirl into the blue and it was sweet and good. And I am grateful. And I want to remember. 

parched

The exhaustion comes in waves. Baby didn't sleep well. I didn't sleep well. That's nothing new. I never have been a good sleeper, but this is something else. Bone tired. I've climbed mountains. I've mixed concrete by hand. I've stayed up all night writing. Or laughing. Or crying. But this is something else. This wave knocked me down for a minute. Just a minute. A breath. Then I'll be up to push through to the next one. 

PS: I found out the next day it was Lyme's.

welcome

The change in the air is the first thing I notice. The humidity drops and it is cool in the shade now. Then the sky shifts it's blue and the sun barely clears the top of the oak tree as it rises. For about fifteen minutes each afternoon the autumn sun on it's new path, walks right through my front door. So welcome. 

signs

Since we've moved here we have seen birds and bugs and fireflies, a garden snake in the asparagus, a luna moth in the middle of the field, a groundhog in our cherry tree, a pair of foxes, and today a pair of hawks. It feels like a welcome. 

pulling up

In order to leave a place with any kind of peace my heart must slowly pull away long before the leave taking happens. I look around the rooms as a stranger. No longer intimate with every inch I hold myself off and aloof. And then a moment happens and the space reaches out and holds me in a tight hold and it chokes me and I am connected with every fibre. The rooms are strange and sterile and yet, for now, we still live here. 

transplanting

Having a sudden pang. Of sadness, regret, the ache that comes with growing up and growing out. We have made a home here. And now we leave it all behind and start again. All over. 

breath like butterflies

There are lists and piles and boxes to pack and sort and stack and move. And then there is this. Eyelash flutters and the softest of breaths on my breastbone. And time stops and there is nothing else in the world.