• brightening the dark

    My husband forgot to wake me this morning. He rises before I do, so he’s my alarm clock, knocking on the ceiling of the room under ours at my requested time. But last night I told him he didn’t need to wake me—I wasn’t planning to go running—and I was eager for a leisurely wake-up. But then, right before I fell asleep, I remembered that I had scheduled a writing morning for myself and had to get the kids over to Mom and Dad’s first thing. So I roused myself enough to tell my husband to wake me at seven. He mumbled a response, but I don’t think he really heard me. When I opened my eyes it was 7:23.

    Even with only a half hour to get out the door, the morning felt relaxed. The rain thundering on the roof made everything darker and cozier than normal. I scurried from my room, dreading having to drag sleeping kids from their beds, only to discover my daughter reading in her bed by the light of her crazily-hung Christmas twinkly lights, and then, downstairs, my son reading by the light of the Christmas tree. I still had push them to get a move on, but at least they were awake.

    Now it’s early afternoon and the sky is still heavy with rain clouds, the air filled with thick, soupy fog. The dirty breakfast and lunch dishes are piled at the sink (and soon I’ll exchange my computer for my earbuds and a podcast—or maybe Christmas music!and step into the kitchen to make an even bigger mess), but sweet-smelling candles are burning. Kitchen mess doesn’t feel so chaotic when there are lit candles to brighten the dark and soothe the nerves.

    This same time, years previous: mini dramas, supper reading, the quotidian (12.16.13), fa-la-la-la-la, the quotidian (12.17.12), peppernuts, my baby, and cranberry white chocolate cookies.     

  • the warming

    It is the middle of December. I just stepped out of the house to snap a picture of the forsythia. It’s blooming.

    The weather is balmy and gorgeous, but I feel anxious. It feels ominous, this upset-the-fruit basket weather. Our wood stove sits, stone cold and dark. Our winter coats hang uselessly on their hooks. Flies swarm the kitchen.

    Even with a brisk breeze, the air feels stifling, claustrophobic. I keep having the thought—a daytime nightmare, really—that I am trapped inside a house that’s locked tight and the temperature is rising, except in this case it’s the whole world that’s heating up. We’re trapped in our atmosphere with nowhere to go.

    Perhaps I’m being melodramatic. That’s always a possibility. On the other hand, there’s climate change and El Niño, so something is going on, right? Whatever it is, it makes me feel slightly panicked. Which is too bad because then I can’t enjoy this lovely springtime December weather.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (12.15.14), crazier than usual, gingerbread men, and a smashed finger.

  • the quotidian (12.14.15)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace



    Getting smart: combining a potluck with yet another experiment.

    Shoofly pie: because it’s what I wanted.
    My older son’s idea: pepperoni rolls for his voice instructor.
    How a young mind works:
    I’ve spent years trotting from kitchen counter to computer while following a recipe; 
    when it was my older son’s turn to cook, he simply enlarged the font.

    A doorway visit with the dogs.

    Special permission: Legos on my bedroom floor.

    Total absorption: he never even noticed the plate of cookies.

    Christmas show at the horse farm.
    Some people bring their dog with them when they travel; my daughter’s friend brings her horse. 

    This same time, years previous: constant vigilance!, sunrise, sunset, bits of goodness, light painting, my elephant, soft cinnamon sugar butter bars, cracked wheat pancakes, fig and anise pinwheels, and ginger cream scones.