For ever and for ever when I move

In anticipation of Christmas
My darling child
Has become an insomniac
Staying up all hours to sticker
His books
And waking in the night;

Singing carols,
Arranging gifts around the tree,
Laughing like Santa, with a ho-ho-ho

Dreaming of footsteps on the roof

Dancing
In anticipation
Of the joy, the surprise

His first remembering
And this time shared
His memories of Christmas.

I wonder occasionally
If I will survive

Hearing his little voice in the night
As it breaks the silence
Like an electric shock to my system:

Mama, mama —

Just as I am drifting into the abyss
The sweet darkness of sleep
And there
A little voice
Calling me.

But I try to remember
The magic
Of the Christmas lights around the tree
The sacred stillness
After hours and avoiding sleep
Bridging the worlds between,
A child in the world of his parents’ making

The beauty of the world
Unfolding
And magic all around.

These days my evenings are spent with my little ones, hunting for the illusive doorway that guards their passage between wake and sleep. Time twists and turns, hours vanishing in our search. Elusive, evasive, how their little bodies scream and scramble from bed to bed, in and out and over and under, onto the floor and into the air they dance their song of resistance. Howls echo off the walls, screams and laughter crash and resonate through the air. Experimentations in sound, bouncing vibrations and curious faces. Giggles abound, mirroring between the two of them, and daring songs in tiny voices that warm my listening heart with wonder. Energy, boundless bouncing energy, bouncing, banging on the wall, banging, bouncing off the walls: Where does all this energy come from? And who summoned it so, at bedtime?

Where is the sweetness of the night that lures our softened eyes to sleep, gentle, love, that calls to us? Darkness has already drawn the light out of the room, and yet it’s in and out of bed and into bed once more. I call to their minds to soothe their small bodies as we recollect memories of our days and slowly welcome the night that surrounds us: moonlight and creatures of the night, we call to you to soothe us. We sing to you. We open to the night, and leave the glare of the light of day behind. Details begin to shift and blur, the energy dissipates as we drift into another frame of mind. Gentle now, for these little hearts that love so freely, how they hate to leave this world of the waking and drift away into sleep. Mother’s voice is singing now. Softly, softly, with kisses that shore’d us onto the bank of sleep, drifting into the mists that shroud the mind, heads drift gently onto the pillows one final time, little fingers that curl around small creature comforts and then gently, gently, eyes that close, how softly do they drift away.

It happens at the same moment, ere they go. I can tangibly feel the moment that sleep settles into the room. It is there with us. One moment we are calling and calling and it never seems to come, and then suddenly it is here, settled amidst us, and they are asleep and the day is over. A few whimpers of a dream, perhaps, else all is quiet. The warm, soft rise and fall of our breaths within our bodies. The gentle glow of the night light in the corner. The serenity of peaceful sleeping bodies and the warm hum that resonates between us. Other-worldly, within this world. There is beauty here. Something sacred, something still. Slumber that holds space for dreams, in the warm comfort of blankets. Good night, sleep tight, my darling ones, the moon is on the rise.

After a summer of blazing sun and scorched gardens, the rains slowly begin to settle in again over the land. Stormy clouds lay heavy and threatening in the skies, making our bodies languid. These days in these early years we are laying of the foundation of these selves we want to be. The pieces fall together like Tetris: odd chunks here and there, awkward and misused and unsure before suddenly the magical connection is made and everything fits. It slowly becomes easier. Understanding is made. Relationships are difficult, and staying in them is harder still. Boundaries aren’t just set in stone: The edges are painstakingly discovered through fault and error, lost in the mist until through some painful overstep they are definitively laid. Never again, we say, only to feel the ground beneath our feet change once again as the people we are, the people we once were, and the people we said we would be slowly shifts and changes. We catch our footing. We lose it again. We make compromise, and settle back into love. For self, and lover. Mother, and child. One to the other. Always in relationship.

After the second baby I could understand the parameters of my mind, the shrouding of the mists that descended upon my consciousness. Some clarity allowed me to follow each thread until there, just there: a cold stone wall lay silent, blocking any further thought. Here is the end of the road. Here my mind meets stone, cold to the touch and unmovable, solid beneath the mists. Something must give. A retreat must be made, back to the warmth of physical touch, back to the hearth of home. Back to the familiar and the loving, back to the self. What is unnecessary is no longer accessible. Perhaps by means of survival, a new physical code: a way of remembering how to live. Within.

I alone passed through that portal, in isolation at the edge of the world, screaming into the shoulder of my lover as the drawbridge, rickety iron, metal and stone, fire and mists, flesh and bone, was opened. When I looked for god I found only silence, bathed in light. One quiet moment to rest gently, panting, until the moment is over and the time has come, the body beckons and it is time to push. Push with all your being, with a groan that emanates from your deepest soul. Twist, and fall. Hear those miraculous newborn screams replace these mothered moans; we are here, we are here, we are here. Another baby placed in my arms. Another tiny soul.

And from this point, the blockages begin to free up. Energy begins to flow anew. The body is slow, there are still shadows and echos that reverberate and confuse and hold us back, but progress is being made. There is a warm vibration within that longs to strengthen its resonance, that slowly and surely is finding ground. Compromise, and love, and humour to save the day. One step forward. No longer stepping back, find a way to hold steady. The time has come to grow, let your roots spread deeper as you find your way back home, back to yourself.

The days grow shorter and it won’t be long before we’ll depend on the flicker of fire to carry us through the night. Bare feet in the grass and the summer is passing. The shimmering glint of sunshine sparkles on the waves and the sound of summer expands longingly over the beach before, with a splash, one more dive, one more laugh, one more shake of the head as the salt splashes off your body and you emerge from the water, body cool in the heat of the day and once again, one more time, hurry up please, please, it’s time to go.

Standing on the slip together
With you in my arms
Watching the waves thunder as they
Draw in from the sea, heavy rolling
To crash with exultation against shore
Before dissipating into bubbles,
Dancing on the surface of the deep.

The seagulls fly over the waves
Small heads craning side to side,
Wings planing gently against the wind,
Their cries echo distant to greet us.

Across the water the shadows
Of the land shrouded in mist.

I feel a tenderness
Melting softly like butter
Across freshly baked bread.
Not that shit margarine
Not a loaf from the shop
But something I kneaded myself
With a dash of pride
From my own two hands.

The mist turns to rain &
We walk home again.

I rarely use this blog to address specific topics or issues. In fact, this is hereto unheard of. However, as so many crucial events are currently unfolding within in our society, I’d like to join the conversation and contribute my voice.

A few days ago, the Supreme Court made a ruling that all states in the union must now recognize same-sex marriages. Effectively, the ruling is forcing states to eliminate discrimination against same-sex marriages. This is a social issue. It is a lifting of the restrictions placed against individuals that exist within and contribute to our society. While they are a specific demographic subset in the population, they still have needs. It is critically important to understand the case from the eyes of the individuals whom it directly impacts. As a society, we should be always pushed towards improving the conditions of humanity around us. Moving from the individual perspective to one which upholds the concerns of a collective society requires empathy. Continue reading

Things happen quickly. The combinations spin in accordance with our own personal desires. Send out an impulse, an option will rise. Echolocation of the brain to the physical manifestation of opportunity, to set in motion the happening. The specificity of the happening correlates to the clarity of the desire, of the impulse set in motion.

The strangest part of riding a train is the idea that your body is attached to that distant whistle, as it echoes ahead of the train and signals passage through the sparsely scattered towns that lay along the tracks. The whistle screeches and the carriages follow after it, rattling along, attached but separate, a fixed and continuous distance from the sound. Instead of sitting safely in one of those houses, sipping a cup of tea, observing for a moment as the train flashes past; you are flying past the houses, attached to the whistle, making your way. There are other faces on the train with you. They mind their own business, they talk amongst themselves. The pace of the train is slow, it takes time to get there. They fall asleep, hugging their  briefcases, sprawled out in their seats. You sit at the window and your body is lulled by the motion of the train, the minuscule sideways rocking smoothly contained within the controlled forward velocity. Your mind wanders at the scenery flashing by, it eases its cognitive grip, it looses into something like a dream.

The whistle screams somewhere ahead, your body follows smoothly behind.

Opportunities arise in accordance with the depth and clarity of our desires.

The rhythm of the train is hypnotic, the blur of surroundings mesmeric. The desire is to stay on to the end of the line, the desire is to get off and spend some time. Back and forth, the train is always moving, the town is always staying. The whistle echoes through both. On and off, back and forth, time and time again.

Tables of two are set in rows down the narrow restaurant, the white tablecloths elegant against the black and white checkered floor. Candlelight catches in the swell of the wine glasses and dances in shadows against the red and orange bricks. On the door, three hearts cut out of red construction paper are taped to the glass; the Valentine’s Weekend Menu is set on display in the entry.

A week’s worth of preparation leaves the budding evening somber, still, prepared: the night is full with reservations, carefully marked and booked in slots throughout the night.

In the kitchen the chef is busy, bustling with last-minute preparations. The fridge overflows with specials for the evening: walleye in papillote fill two shelves, piles of shrimp nests wait to be fried, wedges of blue cheese are stacked behind cakes of goat cheese. Steaks have been cut into portions, the chicken fricassee simmers beside the beef bourguignon, the rice is cooked and potatoes mashed.

Wine bottles have been stocked, a box of sparkling Spanish Cava newly ordered and packed into the fridge. Twelve baguettes are stacked beside the metal bread baskets, linens folded in wait. The servers are formally and respectfully dressed, tending to last minute tasks, waiting for the night to unfold.

The first few couples come in, with the tangible pretense of a Valentine’s date: well-dressed, happy, but with the subdued formality that familiar couples don as they tread the less familiar grounds of  romantic outings. Bottles of wine are uncorked at the tables, the first few appetizers are served.

The door opens and shuts, couples shed their coats and take their seats, laughter and the warm chatter of conversation rises and swells through the restaurant as the evening rushes into fruition.

Serving in a restaurant is about rhythm, memory, mindfulness, charm. Needs must be anticipated and met with grace, the clockwork in the brain ticks according to the needs that arise. Humor, respect, precision. Manage the influx and follow the flow, guide the evening through three rounds of meals to the lazy acquiescence of the final few desserts, hand-tamped espressos, the remaining tables that sit contented in the sultry blur of those last waking moments of a dream.

Satisfactedly lazy, soporifically full, in the sweet cozy daze of romance, and no excuse left to stay: they court themselves to the end of their dance, wrapped back up in their coats, and with final goodbyes and graces and they are out the door and back in the brisk cool air of the street, an evening at its end.

In an instant: the door is locked, lights flipped, curtains dropped. The dining room becomes a flurry of rags and brooms, polishing, cleaning, doing what we can in loud exclamations until we collect at the bar to the pop of the champagne and George Michael’s cries of freedom.

Cold redefines itself as January in Minnesota. Five degrees in the sun feels warm; negative five in the dark is bitter. The surface of metal bites back. Lifting a bike with bare hands in the deep cold of January is the equivalent opposite of touching the hood of a car in the sunny, soporific heat of August. Metal burns at both extremes. Our skin has yet to evolve to withstand the intensity of either. Put on your mittens, this is not a joke.

Cutting corners doesn’t cut it. Two weeks ago I thought I would rough it, running late for work, couldn’t find my dork hat, wrapped my scarf around my face and took off. Bitter cold on the bike. The cold first stings and then numbs. Ten minutes later I was indoors. Twenty minutes later, the redness didn’t fade. Just like that. Frostbite on the forehead. Never, ever again. Lesson learned, elements. I will forever respect you. Hat hair is a million times more respectable than frostbite on the face. Be five minutes late. Take it slow. Find the appropriate gear. Nerd it out.

But Minnesotans, ultimately, are nice. They know it’s miserable out there. They know their heated cars are humanity’s greatest gift to humanity. They’ve even got automatic start buttons, to start the car from the comfort of the office, and they’re more than willing to show it off. To share that joy. They’ll lend you a ride, and you won’t even have to sit on a cold seat. The thought of you on a bike makes them miserable. It’s snowy out there, for gosh’ sake! They’ve got butt warmers. There’s heat blasting from the dashboard, blasting over your toes. From the inside of a heated car, the bitter cold is temporarily staved off. A carefully engineered body-enveloping shield. Climb on in!

So I’ve survived nearly half of January. And this weekend, a heat wave, two degrees above freezing! But with the bitter cold there is at least the sun, and the sun is a glorious reminder that somewhere beyond this cold, life still exists. We’re still rotating around the sun, we’re still spinning in orbit, we’re still part of some cycle that will bring us through to tolerable temperatures, Hawaiian shirts, barbecues out on the lawn. Fresh fruit, orange juice. Spittin’ watermelon seeds.