The three

They never fail to astound me. My three girls. Stair steps of unabashed liveliness.

They can be cruel to each other. They can be loving to each other. In minutes. But always creative. Always constructing something out of whatever is around. Together.

I can imagine the grown up sisters they will be. The unity. The support. The conversations. The calls. The texts. The boys who will be, who already are discussed.

I am blessed to be around such people. My hands are so lightly parenting them for fear of messing up what God has made already so rich.

I own a forest

I own a forest
my name is on every branch
I am pointing to the heavens
and beckoning for more

why again and again do I choose
what is not right,
what is not good?

my ruined leaves
scratch the floor

will I listen this time?

The sad song of Alfred J.

"Everyday is for creating something. Something not necessarily for a purpose. Or to please someone else. But because it is better to do than to not do."

I have heard those words. I have written and read those words. Yes. But do I live them?

I am almost 40 years old. Half a life lived in Prufrock spoons. All measured and calculated.

This child, my Laura she is the opposite. No measurement. No calculation. Only doing. Forging ahead to the beat of her own drum.

Did the Lord know my child would be my teacher too?

traveling with friends

We drove from Magnolia, Texas to Bartlesville, Oklahoma. With friends. The Muchas. Artists. Journeyers.

Our children swapping cars. Eating together. Sharing hotels rooms. Excited about everything. Writing in their travel journals. Discussing the architecture of everything we saw along the way.

Our kids were magnificent in their interest in being together and claiming the world as their own.

Our kids are comfortable in their own skins. 

Our kids are the people I always wished I been like or at least known.

In my tightly rolled thoughts is happiness filled with regret

dark and light

I want to want to find the good in the moment everyday

but I am hard on myself

I see the dark

I want it gone but the habit is very real

there are days when I can't stand the sound of my own voice