Saturday

It doesn't happen very often, but occasionally some days turn out to be absolutely perfect. Usually Aaron works on Saturdays, so Saturdays never feel saturday enough for me. This one was different.

In the morning, there was coffee and cartoons and shared laughter. And then we were off to the library together and back home with comics and novels and board books. Music and reading and resting, all together. And when the whole house was as mellow as milk, I found time to write.

It began as a story with cakes and children and quickly manifested into a strange tale of horror. With English manners and American violence. I found solace in all of its bitter sweetness as devoted writing time is hard to find in this house.

Here is an except of Fairy Cakes, a short story that I hope to linger with in the next few days:

When I was eight years old, I went to a party where I had no friends. All the children there were grim and green, full of ice and too much sugar. Their parents were friends of my parents. My mother mingled with long, slender women holding golden-spritz champagne in white-satin gloves and my father smoked BBMF cigars with a chain of distinguished men; the acronym stood for Big Bad Mother Fucker, and if you saw them, that is what you would call them. I was sent off to play with my friends.  

The green children sat at tables lined with red and white checkered cloth. The tables were filled with cream colored porcelain dishes. Tall glasses held mint lemonade and sweet peach teas. Sponge platters turned right-side up with the sponge batter, layered in a sticky white glaze, turned upside down. Strawberries swam in small tarts and black, blue berries sat fat on top. The children licked their fingertips and used their collars to wipe their mouths. The tips of their noses crawled upwards when I walked past them.

It doesn't always turn out this sweet, but when it does, it must be Saturday. And this one is worth spilling into a capsule. Happy Saturday!!

Luna

Luna

I remember a night, awake

in the middle of a string of pearly dreams:

A deer stood at the foot of my bed

Her eyes were liquid white

and her mouth, spoiled with red

She pulled at the layers of thin white sheets

“Follow me through the moonlight,”

her speckled form

weaving in and out of sight

I slipped out of my gown,

my skin was cellophane

Through the astral night,

we ran lucid like rain

Beneath a sky where stars are strung in lace,

hours held together by a set of invisible rings,

Bare underneath a cotton-cream moon,

she fed me a feast:

white cedar, tea rose, English yew

I ate hollyhock petals and picked the buds of roses

I watched her devour,

basil with licorice tips

We capered across the meadow;

covered ourselves in mint,

and at the bed of a shallow stream,

we slipped right in

The water was full of jewels;

we swam in its belly

and drank from its mouth

The cry of a woken wolf

hovered across the wind

she slid her fingers across my skin

In a cool pool of water,

the wind and the air and the wave

pulled in tight

The sky pressed against our playful thoughts

each moment began to lose its formative structure:

splitting into dancing particles,

twirling in and out of reach,

spinning out of shape

And when the strings broke loose,

the first glimpse of dawn swallowed the night,

sealed it away in a capsule, held together

by the ripe scent of twilight

I woke in the morning,

when snow-in-the-summers

sparkles with dew,

In my room, the air began to melt

my skin, covered in leaves of thistle and mint

my hair, damp and blue

The silver silhouette of the moon

peered its weary head into my window

I stretched my liquid limps,

covered in a thick film of

sea and star and sand,

and carefully pulled

a string of soft, white petals

out of my mouth

Happy Birthday Sunbeam!

After eleven years with this sweet spirit, I know clearly that he will never stop shining. There is a sort of dazzling light in his heart that illuminates beyond all odds.

He shared with me one day the idea that the sun would die and that life would die and how that thought made him feel so sad. I told him to write about it:

"Our sun will become an expanding sun, burn its hydrogen, and then turn into a helium flash, which will shrink and expand and shed its outer layers. It will become a ring nebula and then it will turn into a small white dwarf and cool down to become a cold, dense black dwarf that will no longer radiate energy and then no one will ever know that it was alive and that it produced life." -Sahaj

He is the single soul in my life who makes me most hopeful; he believes in the feasibility of impossible things. 

I'm truly blessed to celebrate another birthday with this beautiful beam!!

Sickle and Hammer Soldier

Siddhartha:

Born in an age of transformation and wonder,

under the blue-light;

the bearer of water,

he knows the eightfold path

and the four noble truths

And after twelve years, he is a true star. He has become a witty comedian, an exquisite writer, and a dramatic artist. 

A few months ago, he gave me one of his drawings: 

The Sickle and Hammer Soldier

I see a young man: worn, wounded, battered; his chest torn open, heart splattered, blue-red blood. With the memory of brighter days, green meadows; lazy summers; spring waters, he carries on. Under the red sun, he holds his inner light in perseverance. And, it is that soul who wanders beyond ease and comfort, who will eventually find the purest form of salvation. 

Happy 12th birthday

to our little

old-soul,

Siddhartha

Judah Turns Eight

This beautiful young man is our middle child. 

When you have two bright and creative older brothers ahead of you and two younger siblings who gather up all the attention they need from everyone around you, you might become a little weary, always placed in the middle of things. Yet, Judah seems to know how to fit into the ranks with his older brothers when it comes to manners and chores and the important things, like remembering when your homework is due. In the same breath, he is able to pull himself under covers with his younger brother and sister, turn on a flashlight, and read stories to them into the night. I've watch their little heads bounce around the covers, and I've listened to the laughter and felt the contentment in my heart, knowing that the little two admire him so much.

Judah, he sees as far as the stars and hears the sound of rain fall. His bright brown eyes and dream-like laughter, his colorful mind, his comfort with each day, makes him a jewel among the tribe. 

I hope that every day is a celebration for him, but today is a day for gifts and love and merry play, for Judah turns eight, and I couldn't imagine my days without his cheerful ways. 

Happy birthday

Mahatma Judah!

Handmade Things

When there is a new baby in the house, handmade things are an ongoing project for me. Now that the littlest, and the last of the brew, is three years old, I have a bit of empty space to fill with handmade love for friends. Here is collection of crafts that I've made in the past few months. 

 For Alli, a pretty young lady, who celebrated her tenth year of life recently. 

 A fall lantern for my fabulous author friend, Kim Culbertson; love the way it illuminates her space.

 Light for our own nature table during the Hallow season.

 And, a fairy flag for Iris, one of our dearest little friends. 

A few words, with a little scent of magic.

Now that Winter Solstice is peering around the corner, I will spend a few days busily crafting stars. Our winter owl hopes to have a silver and white, star-studded alter this year, which means that I must get started on sprinkling glitter and snow around here. 

★

Things That I Love

The things that I love always include some sort of shimmer:

the peak of each season

the sound of a hollow planet, as snow begins to fall

crisp, sharp, horrid, delicate words

a swarm of bees

spring rain, bare feet, a lengthy kiss

capering under a star-studded sky

lavender, hops, bitter tea

a swirling fire in the middle of the woods

and the moon, 
I love most

For some reason today, I felt it was necessary to make a list.