In Woods

The sweet smell of Manzanita woke me up this morning. They grow in thick clusters among white fir and yellow pine. The trailing smell of incense cedar 

and the possibility of life inside this tree, kept my imagination alive today. Perhaps if we were to sketch a doorknob here, we might be able to enter, at least to peek inside:

 I imagine a damp floor with rows of glittering mushrooms. And bare-foot children looking after them, drunk on laughter. The walls are syrupy, painted with sap; red spiders, the size of salt grains, suck inside the sticky ooze. It is hot and wildly humid inside, but the children are all happy. And when they believe that no one is standing on the other side of the door, they open it and spill outside; their small, bare bodies parading in hellish humor. They work quickly at gathering up as many fallen Manzanita berries as they can find. The pump, red seeds are just the size of their own heads. When they settle back inside of their tree-home with their treasure, they squish the seeds and collect the sugar from inside. I imagine the rest of their day spent stirring the seeds and skins with prickles of pine needles, starting a small fire, and watching their cider simmer. And all is warm and sweet and happy inside.

What do you imagine might live inside of trees?

Mystery

I've known her all along

watching over me

white-tail feather-wing

she is the center of this place:

deep inside of me

a living shadow

an infinite bloom

a mystery

perched, motionless

sitting in a dream

I feel her glare slip over me

drowning in her breath

a lucid aspiration

she wraps her wings around me

I carve out her eyes

glorious red globes

I swallow them whole

embed her inside of me

I've known her all along

hovering over me

in motionless sleep

she is a mystery

I wrote a poem after listening to a song about an owl-girl that felt a little incomplete to me. So, this is in the spirit of song writing.

Thirteen Years

Siddhartha,

our oldest, is thirteen today. He his an exceptional child. Brilliant, beyond his years. His spirit is solid. He is a student and a teacher. His capability for self-control is uncanny.

What I have noticed most recently about him is that he doesn't talk to me so much anymore. And, when I talk to him, so often, he simply nods. As a mother, there is a stinging sensation, naturally, but certainly this phase will pass. He is, by nature, unfurling. Spinning wildly out of his core. Into that climatic air of development. 

A true experimentation of his inner-spirit. 

The other night when I told my husband that I didn't know what to write about Sidd he said, 

write about what he truly is: 

Stillness

That young man who is affected and unaffected, all the same. A true Gautama. Anchored. Untouched by this fickle illusion. Aaron reminded me of how comfortable Siddhartha has always been. Transparent. Ariel. 

Free in his time here. 

An old soul. 

With expectations from so many of us, he is braced by his own restraint. 

Aaron has always talked about the importance of abstinence. 

The renunciation of desire. 

I understand Siddhartha to be the embodiment of that.

A witty kid, a fun brother, a sage in this world where many worlds fit.
We are blessed to share this life with him.
Happy birthday, Siddhartha!

Happy Birthday Judah!

It's been fun, all the way through, with this one.

He was born sharp-witted and ready for the world.

When he was a baby, swaddled in a sling, people would stop to talk to him all the time. I remember, in particular, an old man at the market who payed no attention to me, only the baby. He said to Judah(in reference to the universe), "You've been here before, right? Even though you can't tell me, I know you know. I can see it in your eyes."

And, Judah smiled. The brilliant way that he still does. 

He is baby number three, which means he sits right in the middle of the wolf pack. And this, I believe, is what makes him a bit edgy at times. A little lazy at times. A bit dramatic and boisterous at times. 

Nonetheless, we are all inspired by his mischievous, riotous ways.

In the last few months, 

we have all been astonished by his unrestrained artistic talents. 

He is an artist. Without burden, he is loose and free-spirited with his art. 

His soft sketches, a Love and Peace van, for all of us to fit in to; the puppy, that he desires to have one day; little fat cat, because his sister loves cats so much.

His unfettered hand at monsters.
They are all sorts of demonic and mean and wild, and
he has total control over them. 

Random dudes.
Zombie Joker and other guys that sort of resemble him, in my opinion.

And my favorite, Zombie Avengers, 

the first comic book that he ever wrote. 

Stapled and published by 'Darckhors' comics. 

Love

Recently, the most cherished part of my relationship with Judah has been our friendship. Nine is old enough to share thoughts deeply, but young enough to still sit close and read quietly together. He is quickly maturing into an understanding and kind young man who I am truly proud of.

Happy birthday to my little friend, Mahatma Judah, who I love so dearly.

Regarding His Name: Govinda

His name was Shani until the moon told me otherwise. One of the celestial gods, in Hindu myth, Shani bears the task of granting the fruits of one's actions; he is responsible for punishing or rewarding one in accordance with their karmic action. The son of the sun, he is feared and loved, all the same. As the story goes, after the birth of Lord Shani, as he opened his eyes for the first time, his father (the sun) went into an eclipse. He is known as the most powerful well-wisher and the most feared punisher.

But, the moon had another name for our last little boy.

His name is Govinda, an avatar of Vishnu, the incarnation of Krishna, and the protector of the most sacred creature: the cow. In the tales of the Bhagavata Purana, Govinda revives the cowherds who are killed by drinking from a pool infected by a poisonous snake, simply by favoring them with his ambrosia-filled glance. In reference to prayer, it is said that "If one just worships Govinda, one can easily cross this great ocean of birth and death."(from Adi Sankara's Bhaja Govindam)

So, when the moon was full for three long nights, I labored without realizing that I was laboring. And the baby waited until the fullest moon-night. When he opened his eyes for the first time, I knew that he was Govinda, the magic brought on by the moon. To me, Govinda means nothing more than the pure embodiment of love.

All that he is.

Happy birthday, sweet Govinda Hare!

Happy Birthday Lotus Girl

All the reasons to love Haile:

because she has been known to throw the most Hatter party

because she is so much boy

except for her kiss, which always takes me back to youthful days, 

where everything tasted like lemon-drop lollies

because she is a girl, and that means she is strong

because she resembles all the colors of Fall

because her eyes were plucked from an owl

because she is Nalini, who sits on a Lotus,

and the goddess Gayatri gave her to me

Happy birthday, Nalini Haile, the universe couldn't have picked a more beautiful flower.

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!!