Moments

The first time I visited this town, I waited for a taxi beside a bench covered in moss. That’s when I knew that this was my next place. I’m thinking of that moment now as I walk my dog and breathe in this wet, clean air. Ribsy and I will lie down in the mossy grass when we get home, surrounded by softness and mist.

I just visited this funky old bookstore in town. You know that musty book smell, the one that makes you push your nose into the yellowed pages and breathe in deep? The whole store has that. It also has ceiling-high shelves tucked in so tight that strangers passing in aisles will most certainly touch. There’s a stand of raunchy and goofy and strange postcards propped up in a corner, and an owner who likes to point out his favorites (usually involving a cat who has some big feelings on politics). What’s left of the walls, in the spaces between the shelves, is papered with amateur paintings (“That one’s by a kid down the street!” the owner says. “And that clown has real human hair. See? Someone cut it and glued it on.”) There’s a messiness to the store that reflects humanity somehow. Beautiful and gross at the same time. When I was buying my books, the owner pulled out a basket full of bumper stickers, and pointed to the one on top. “That’s my favorite,” he said. So of course I had to buy it.

Regrets: I’m opening my pack of regrets today. I’m pulling everything out and touching all the pieces. They’re scratchy and I don’t like them at all. I need to find a way to let these things go.

I’m full of banana ice cream and rice,
and this is my view.
Not bad.

I’m watching a train, thinking about a kid from work. He loves trains. He’s heading to middle school in the fall, but still won’t part with his Thomas train no matter how much his mom tries to turn his attention to other things. Middle school things, like soccer or computers. She has nothing against trains, of course— she’s just desperate for him to have an easy life and fit in. She wants the world to love him as much as she does and doesn’t want him to have to work so hard at everything. But he’s not buying the whole average-interests thing. Sometimes, as his mom and I watch him flap his arms and beam at even the mention of trains, we talk about whether giving up different in order to experience ease is actually worth it in the end. Should ease really be the goal for any of us? Does it lead to a better life? Maybe we should aim for passion and wholeheartedness at the expense of ease. That’s what this boy does, and he seems to be on the right track to me.

I took grandma’s chair home after she died. It still has stains on the bottom where her walker rested, small and black and hard to see if you aren’t trying. This is where I drink my coffee in the morning. It rocks when I need it to and leans back just right. Some of the pattern has worn away on the arms, rubbed down by years of grandma’s touch. I can almost feel her papery skin under mine when I rest against this worn fabric today.

Look how beautiful this food is right now— plump and crisp and bright all on its own. Usually I eat stuff like this without giving it enough attention. I’m going to savor it today instead.

I’m thinking of grandpa Chuck as I drink from his mug. Grandpa was a big man who loved ketchup with everything, including ice cream. He also loved beer— the cheap kind that he carried around in koozies advertising old diners and Bud Light. When we weren’t looking, grandpa would sneak up and give us kids “toe holds” (a.k.a. grab our big toes)— not pleasant, I can assure you, but the escape was fun. He spent hours tapping out little patterned Xs on the computer to make images of horses, which he’d print on his old dot matrix and send in the mail with names scribbled beside them (usually Bucky or Buster or something like that). When he broke his hip, he climbed onto the bumper of his friend’s old pickup truck and rode off to the hospital, gritting his teeth and holding on tight. Grandpa played pool with the best of them and pulled harmonicas out of his pockets to throw down a little bluegrass now and then. His teeth were yellow, his belly was round and his laugh was loud. I wonder what he thought about when he was alone?

It’s family game night. This one is perfect: four player, short rounds, just challenging enough. The pieces feel good, too— smooth and heavy, like the pieces in Bananagrams and Azul. I spend most of the game holding a piece or two in my hand, quietly rubbing the metal as I wait my turn, feeling the weight of it. If you look under the table during family game night, you’ll catch all of us doing the same thing.

I’m all caught up in thoughts about belonging. I used to think that my constant craving for it was unique— a problem to solve or squelch. Strange, I know, because clearly we all want to feel like we belong somewhere. If true belonging is being accepted for who you are, being seen and appreciated without qualifiers or pretense, then we need to start by shedding our “shoulds” (I *should* be more outgoing/ more interested in history/ a better gardener/ less talkative/ etc etc etc etc). Because aren’t these the thoughts that lead us to pretense in the first place? At least that’s what Brene Brown seems to say, and she clearly knows her stuff.

Anxiety + COVID news do not mix well. Particularly when one has an unvaccinated child about to start middle school and hence eat lunch (clearly unmasked) in a Petri dish. Deep breaths. No more clicking down the news spiral tonight; instead, I’m wrapping up in a blanket and watching High School Musical with my girl because theres nothing quite like musical-movie-night with her, particularly when we both know all the words. Can I keep her safe like this forever???’

The news was weighing me down again today, articles piling on top of me in heavy mounds. I didn’t mention how I was feeling to anyone— my family didn’t need to hold this worry too. Then I walked upstairs to find this waiting for me and was suddenly as light as air. My daughter’s magic like that.

It rained last night— the soft tapping on my window woke me up. It wouldn’t usually wake me, something so quiet, but I must have been listening for it somehow. My ears have been tuned to the sound of rain. It’s one of my favorite sounds because it reminds me of my Pacific NW childhood, rhododendrons and soggy grass and all. And the smell! Evergreens send thank-yous in the air, on their wooden, spicy scent, and the damp dirt chimes in, deep and earthy. I walked the dog first thing in the morning so that we could be a part of it. We went to the rose garden, breathed in deep, and were cleansed.

Standing under this gorgeous towering tree, watching the leaves brush against each other with the wind, listening to their sweet rustling song. Ahhh

I can’t sleep. It’s one of those nights where worries keep nudging me awake, and then I remember The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry: “When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound, in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be…” He nails it with that poem. I’m looking out the window at the misty glow and trying to turn my thoughts to the nesting squirrels and standing trees and everything else that’s well in the world outside of these blankets.

Look at that rain- streams of it pouring down the sidewalks and into the earth- so beautiful. And what’s better than that? My son joining me on a very soggy walk through the middle of it. We take fast, wide steps on days like this, so our faces flush and our hearts pump and we come home soaked and satisfied.