Bird Bath

The blue bird got a rare solo bath this evening.  I think she's part fish.  She loves to splash and dunk her own head.  She slithers along the bottom like a snake and "whim"s on her stomach like a frog.  But she's still a little bird to me.  A happy little bluebird.  Hopping along and singing the most joyous little song.  She was born with a gift for enjoying everything around her.  I watch her, everyday.  Investigating the world like an unexpected gift, wrapped in aquamarine paper with a wide, orange ribbon.  It came without a card but she knows exactly who it's from.  She circles the box, hops all over it, chirps, tugs at the ribbon, pecks at the wrapping, tears into it with total abandon.  She finds the treasure inside and laughs.  Sings about it.  Throws it in the air just to catch it on the way down.  She was in the tub, jabbering at her little fishies.  Giddy about her dinosaur sponges.  She stopped to pat my face with her wet little paws.  And directly dove into the water just to peek at me over the rim, with the same old silly secret in her eyes.  And that transparent smile that makes me laugh.  She's delicious.  My little bird, twittering from branch to branch, then lighting on my finger for the briefest of moments, and directly flitting away.  

Magnolia Blossom

I love those first warm days of spring.  We went for a walk on a sunny Sunday afternoon and let the sunshine warm us clear through the bone.  The girls brought their strollers.  And babies.  The blue-bird stopped every six inches, demanding sweetly "Wha' DAT?!"  The Daddy and I took it in shifts, staying with the tiny inquisitor, keeping up with Motor-legs the monkey.  It was my turn to hold the soft, tiny hand.  My turn to meet the honest blue eyes and explain about individual blades of grass and diamonds of chain link.  My turn to slow the pace, indulge in the awesome everyday details.  I savored Louie's hearty sweetness; like a warm oatmeal chocolate chip cookie in my mouth.  She held " Babita" so as to give her plastic head a better view of a dandelion.  I looked ahead.  I saw my other sweethearts had reached our target.  Curly had parked "Cinderella Baby" in her stroller in the shade of an iconic magnolia tree.  She was up on his shoulders, sniffing a blossom.  Their silhouette was gray and back-lit under an umbrella dripping pink and ivory.  I took a picture in my mind.  And here it is.     

Going Home

We are moving.  Somewhere.  Sometime in June.  We're almost done with dental school.  With this city.  And with this apartment.  This has me thoughtful.  And my emotions swirly.  Some days, I cannot wait.  Like when the cat upstairs sounds like a rhino on a rampage.  Like when the neighbor's garlic chicken invades my kitchen so strongly I can't smell what I'm cooking.  Like Mondays, when it's me against the laundry.  The girls and I drag a big granny cart basically vacuum packed with 60ish pounds of laundry, quarters, dryer balls, and detergent down the hall, ride the elevator, and down another hall.  I trap us in the laundry room and play everything I can think of until it's time to switch to the dryer and then figure out what to do while our clothes get mostly dry.  Nap? Lunch? Errands?  It seems like the laundry's always finished just when I most need to not go downstairs....Other days it makes my heart sick.  This is the home where we grew into the family.  And I love it.  This is where my babies came home from the hospital.  This is where I found sweet friendships.  This is where I learned to cry again.  This is where I learned to fly.  This is where we all began to grow up.  Together.  As a unit.  Sometimes, I'm perfectly calm about it.  Moving on is simply a matter of finding a new place to fall in love.  Sometimes I think I'm crazy.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm lucky; like I'm kind of homeless in the best way possible.  Where ever I we go, home will be there.  It's like this: 

I was sitting in a cafe in Utah a few weeks ago.  The decor was moose.  Bear.  Horses.  Mountain, ranch motif.  Beautiful wood booths.  Rawhide chairs.  Clear finishes.  Snow piled outside.  Twinkle lights waiting to shine on the roof.  A wild place mellowed.  George Strait was singing in the background.  I was eating a Hawaiian burger.  I was home.

Driving home from Park City forever ago.  Alone in my green Saturn.  Collective Soul.  Windburned.  Tired.  Satisfied.  Sun on white peaks.  The backside of the mountain that greeted me, framed by my window, every morning.  White.  Yellow.  Warm.  Happy.  I was home.

I went running off the National Mall in D.C.   I came upon an old, forgotten WWII memorial.  Stone pillars gently swallowed by moss and ivy.  Inscriptions in the rock.  It was quiet.  Reverent.  Like a ruin.  Like a prayer.  Just me and the soul of that moment.  I was grateful.  I was home.

At a mountain resort in Costa Rica.  I had pancakes, plantains, and warm black beans for breakfast.  I sat on the edge the mountain and sketched.  Deep red.  Lacy green canopy.  Blue sky.  Black mountain.  I heard monkeys in the trees behind me.  Butterflies.  Birds.  Lizards.  Everything different; smaller, bigger, brighter, more delicate.  I was in another world.  I was home. 

Endless afternoons on Oahu.  North Shore.  Waimea.  Sharks Cove.  We paddled to goat island.  Coral under my feet.  Seven shades of blue.  Many shades of green.  Foam.  Waves crashing, exploding into walls of white.  Breathing.  Deeply.  With my eyes closed.  Mist generously raining down on me.  Softly though, like pixy dust.  Like kisses blown from far away.  I was home.

I was snuggled on our cozy red love sac.  Christmas lights glowing.  Girls sleeping in the next room.  Snow falling softly outside.  My honey was on his way.  The world felt like velvet.  Content wrapped around me, held me close.  I was home.

The fog curling outside.  The rungs of the balcony dripping.  Blueberry coffeecake baking.  Warm.  Sweet.  Heavy.  Curly in her nightgown.  Sweet Blue too.  She was nearly bald then.  And very new.  I was home.

In the city.  A playground.  An old stone church.  A necklace of greenspaces dropping yellow leaves across the paths between the concrete aisles. Eating a PB and J on whole-wheat.  Talking movies, literature, travel with a friend.  Picking my children out of the tiny crowd.  I was home.


In the North End.  Eating the perfect meal.  Roasted beets, potatoes, grilled salmon, white wine sauce.  Perfection.  Sweetheart across from me, amused by the way I'm shamelessly eavesdropping on our table neighbors.  People watching out the window.  White boxes tied with string.  Kids. Tourists. Just people.  Walking down cobblestone.  Exploring again.  I was home.

Spring air.  Fresh.  I smell pink magnolia blossoms on graceful branches, sunny daffodils.  I smell green.  Wet wood cushions every scent.  Soft breeze.  Open windows.  I am home.

Kisses In My Pocket

Curly always catches the kisses I blow to her.  Always.  Reaches out and grabs them out of the air and rubs them into her cheek or her nose or on top of her head or into her belly.  Lately, she stuffs them in her pocket and calls over her shoulder, "I've got some kisses in my pocket anytime, in case I need them!"  Curls bouncing, skirt swaying, elbows pumping, off to save the day.  And that's pretty much my favorite picture of her lately.  Love her.