28 February, 2021

...just yesterday...

Just yesterday I picked you up...all wiggly, wriggly you of giggle-fits and toddler-temper.  I gathered up the whole of you into my arms in one swoop -a perfect, easy fit- brushed sweaty curls off frowny forehead, and whispered "I love you to pieces."...

...and you, momentarily snuggled up and docile, scrunched up both fists and lips and muttered "Mami, I don't want to be in pieces!" and launched yourself out of my hug.

Those simple words stuck to you for weeks...nipping at you just before bed, and poking at you in the middle of our morning prep.  In the rear-view mirror, I'd catch glances of you grimacing and hear your whispered "I don't want to be in pieces".  You worried those careless, carefree words of mine right into a nightmare of missing fingers and lumpy, jumbled limbs.  And I, stifling a giggle at your childish comprehension, spent those weeks reassuring you that I would ever keep you intact and, in fact, loved you whole...wholly.

(That summer I had a puzzle made from a photograph of you.  Pieces, indeed!  What fun we had putting you together over and again!  And then, of course, we had to make more puzzles...one of me, and one for each friend.  Well into fall, you drew puzzle lines across all your artwork, and used your safety-scissors on every piece of paper you could get your hands on!) 

I write this now, caught up in that memory, with an itch...an ache...in my arms for that whirling dervish of little-boy-you ~ for hugs that burned with your feverish energy ~ for the tug of your hands knotting up in my hair ~ for the snuffles of contentment in my ear as you nestled as close as you could, trying to push right through my skin and into my heart.  How I miss those moments you'd tame...wild child to drowsy cherub...with just a little back scratch.  How I miss the way you shook yourself awake as we rocked back and forth in midday sun~lullabying down into naptime.  And I, arms full of you, thinking all the while...

"I love you to pieces."

~~~

Oh, how I miss him...

...and every other you you've been.

I miss them all...

...all your pieces.

They've scattered through the timeline now.  All interwoven...blending into one another as they swirl about.  Blurry round the edges until a spark...a scent or sound or sight...brings one into stark relief and I daydream my way back.  Pieces of you tumbling back through 18 years and spiraling off into the future.  The collected moments of who you've always been...who you're becoming...and every moment in between:

~dried up sprigs of wildflowers offered from grubby hands

~a treasure box of beads and shells from eagle-eyed wanderings

~faded sticky notes and paper scraps with wobbly lettering

~the faintest mark on the mirror from where you'd daily write "I love you, Mami" in the bathtime steam

~a veritable fortune of masterpieces rendered in colored shaving foam, and a tangle of the finest noodle necklaces

~totes upon totes of school papers and reports...of travel brochures and ticket stubs...of birthday cards and lunchnotes and "I love you because..." scribblings

~photographs and videos and voice memos and printed out copies of google hangouts message streams

All your pieces.

I've saved them all...kept the whole of your life intact in the collecting and storing,  as you shed off remnants and left behind the bits and baubles of boyhood...and grew up.

I have loved you from pieces into this whole.

I have loved you into adulthood.

I have loved you to 18...




11 January, 2021

...the razzle dazzle...

 Last night bled into this morning as the little one, "weekended" right out of his daily schedule, whimpered his way through sleeplessness.  He dozed, fitfully, by my side, waking frequently for the comfort of nursing and the distraction of tangling up in my hair.  I, for my part, played at contortionist, twisting in pretzels round him as he snuggled first this way, then that.   Somewhere around 2a.m., we finally abandoned ship (or...bed) and made the best of it.  Armed with a hot reheat of the good stuff, and a stack of books, we hit the reset button and cozied up in the recliner.  Soon enough, the cat boarded lapside as well, and we made it through the dark hours.  Round about 4:30a.m., both beasties finally fell asleep in my arms and I dropped them off cribside and crawled back into bed...

...just in time for the alarm go to off.
Raowr!
Or, more accurately...whimper!

Another scalding round of leftover coffee and I was ready to grumble my way through our morning routine. (And did a bang up job, I might add! Encore, anyone?)  Finally, with breakfast served and cleared, appetites sated and arguments silenced, I took "my five"...while big bro entertained little bro.

A quick check in on interwebs for the daily news and noise.
A system-scan of email...delete button activated.
A systematic syncing of calendars...both virtual and tangible.
Then...pause...arms crossed, head down...reboot in progress...

...and as I stretched back up, I caught sight of the glow spreading across the floor from our picture window, and swiveled to take in the burning skies on the horizon.  Sunrise, in the winter months here, is an absolute blaze of glory.  Full drama.  Vivid hues paint the skyline in tongues of fire or hyper-colored rainbow-sherbet layers.  The woods at the front of our property are cast in stark contrast...black boughs against heady intensity of all that sudden color. 

They simmer slowly at the start...just a few sparks of orange cresting in the distance.  Then suddenly, they ignite...dazzling the eye. The midwinter cold is momentarily burned away and the whole world seems to radiate golden heat.  But a few moments of life, joyous and radiant and affirming...and then the flames fade into pastels...muddling into the grey of yet another cold winter's morning.


Oh, but those moments...those precious seconds that tick-tock-tick as the phoenix rises...
Those moments as the barren branches suddenly catch fire and burst into flower once more...
Sunrise, 11. January. 2021


Those moments when I drink in the sunrise...charging up like one solar-powered...and feel (perhaps naively, perhaps obstinately) that I can make it through yet another day on mere fumes.
~Leanna



06 January, 2021

...take the shine off...

 Having purchased and then put up our Christmas tree so late this year, I've been reluctant to take it down.  The warm glimmer of its twinkling lights and shimmering baubles has been the perfect panacea for all the grey and grim right outside the window.  It somehow calls to mind all the wood-burning fireplaces and après-ski...err...après-shoveling hot cocoas of  years long past.  Just that golden glimmer on green branches makes the room feel cozier...toastier...  And on days as cold and dreary as those that inevitably follow the holidays, who wouldn't want that comfort?

I've stayed on top of watering her, our resident dryad, but even so she's nearing her end and shedding off needles she's too tired to bear.  Despite the daily top off, the dry air of baseboard heating has left her parched and her branches have gone crisp.

This morning I carefully stripped her of much of her heavy finery, removing all but the straw stars and snowflakes and twinkle lights.  Back into their boxes went the  colored orbs and little creatures.  All the glitter and glass tucked away for another year...another tree.

I'm hoping for another week with her, pared down to just those light-as-air ornaments of straw and paper.  I'm not ready for the night-window to be empty of that glistening reflection. 

Above her, atop the window-frames, the garland remains...pinecones and snowflakes strewn throughout.  Crystal snowball votives decorate the windowsills, and silver reindeer explore the white expanse of my china cabinet.

Christmas is packed away, but Winter remains.

Too soon, our tree will come down.  I'll carry her back out into the cold, empty of ornaments and hollow of life.  Out into the woods she'll go, where a colony of squirrels may find her needles suitable for nesting, or birds may rest a moment on her brittle branches while hunting for berries and seed.

 The room will be set to rights again.  The furniture rearranged.  The detritus of daily life once more taking priority over decoration. 

Out she'll go and leave us with only snapshots and memories...of a sweet baby boy reaching into her warm glow to touch just one shining light...and playing beneath her jewel-laden branches...and reveling in the innocent magic of his very first Christmas.

~curious~

Out she'll go and gone will be the hopeful, heart-warming, happy shine of the holiday season.

~Leanna

05 January, 2021

...miles to go before...

In the midst of all the change brought about by the dual arrivals of a new baby and Covid-19, our daily walks have been the one remaining constant.  Just a mile of to-and-fro on our little curve of the road every day, no matter the weather, has kept us from going stir crazy.  In fact, back in March when we first entered lockdown, that mile was our only escape.  We'd walk it briskly. I, winded easily after pregnancy and childbirth, but determined to get back into "fighting shape", huffed and puffed as we headed back up the driveway.  In those early weeks, our little stretch of formerly deserted roadway became a high traffic area to neighbouring pedestrians.  We'd play a shell game of sorts...crossing the road first one way, then another, as we all tried to maintain 6+ feet of distance while holding our breaths.

As time went on, some of the newbies fell by the wayside, their sudden interest in all things healthy waning as the lockdown dragged on and Netflix rolled out new bingeworthy suggestions.  We found ourselves waving at the now-familiar faces on the other side of the road, carefully averting our faces and breaths as we tentatively shouted out "Good morning" or inquired about the lap-count.  They, in turn, would pause mid-stride and ask how the wee one was sleeping.

We learned more about our neighbors in those few seconds of discourse then we'd done in years of living side by side.  Social-distancing, it seemed, was but the impetus needed to connect us all. 

There was the former postal employee, barely slowing in her dogged steps as she paced out her miles, but still quick with a smile and wave.  Several overnight-joggers, complete with the best of Amazon Prime's athletic attire and the shin splints and side stitches to match.  They'd pause longer, grateful for the excuse to rest and stretch, trading a grimace for a plaster smile and hoping that the next lap would make triathletes of them all. Dog walkers and high-school athletes alike barely acknowledged their road-mates, both focused on things of importance such as run-times or waste-bags.

Time marched on, and so did we, as March ran out.  The walking continued. Having made it past that 6 week mark of postnatal healing, I invested in an Ergo carrier and ditched the stroller.  With the baby nestled in snugly, we'd trade the walls for wide open space twice a day and "walk him to sleep" as spring breezes rolled in.

That stretch of road became our whole world, it seemed.  Familiarity brought subtle changes to our attention, as new buds peeked out and little saplings reached for the sun. For the whole of summer, we made a case study of our new friend Gus, the random asparagus shoot of 2020 that curiously grew to over 6 feet tall in the middle of an infrequently tended yard.  Day after day we'd marvel over his seemingly exponential growth.  Photographic evidence was needed, of course, so I made my 6'5"son sub in as measuring stick!  In the passing of time, a few more aspara-guys (or perhaps aspara-girls) sprung out around our a-spiring hero, but they soon shriveled up in defeat.  A summer storm knocked poor Gus on his side, where he continued to spread until fall's first cold snap.  R.I.P.

Gus in his short-lived infancy

Whilst we observed with unbridled enthusiasm the life-span of various flora, the fauna of the wood-side watched with equal parts detached curiousity and nervous surveillance.  Bunnies that formerly vanished, in a poof of fluffy tail at first footfall. gradually settled into uneasy routine...feigning nonchalance as they assembled clover breakfasts, but unable to control their high-strung ears.  The resident squirrel army took note of the increased trespass and responded in kind, sending out "foot soldiers" on dizzying maneuvers clearly meant to trip us up.  But it was the deer who, in hopes of a future friendship feast no doubt, accepted us into the herd.  Within but a week of our daily walks, they'd found themselves a comfy patch of grass to nest in, watching us sweat out the stress while they munched away like docile cows.  Having happily availed ourselves of the free preview period, we gladly paid the admission fee for continued patronage by leaving our table scraps of fruit and vegetable peels at the entrance to the woods.  This not only insured our walkways remained clear of pellets, but also garnered us an audience...the trot of  hooves following us as we headed back to home...to kitchen...to soon-to-be-standard bag of apples bought just for our new friends.  One particularly forward minx broke protocol and declared a sort of reverse 'mi casa es su casa', testing daily the limits of the wilds as she inched ever closer to us...finally braving the concrete jungle of sidewalk to come right up to our front door where she would wait, quite impatiently, for whomever noticed her to summon "the lady of the house" for her daily apple. Deidre, as we discovered was her human name, became something of my shadow.  By mid-summer, I had her eating out of my hand...or perhaps, the other way round...she had me hand-feeding her.  Noble patron or servant, no matter the truth of my position, it became the highlight of my days and, soon enough, my family's favorite show.  I proudly introduced my boys to her and they'd sit on the top stoop, watching as I sang out my greeting and offered up a tidbit.  She, in turn, brought her family or fr-amily to the table, populating our back woods with frisky fauns, timid but hungry does, and overbearing stags.  Day after day, we'd exchange pleasantries and share a snack, and soon enough the rest of the herd was following suit. I'm sure the apple farmers appreciated the sudden spike in sales.

In the high heat of summer, the pavement shimmered. The hot blaze brought out new visitors. We shared our path with sun-seeking-snakes and had to play at "minefield" to avoid them.  Other visitors dropped off until it was a rarity to see another soul out walking.  Gus was beside himself...literally.  And the woods dwellers stayed well clear of the boiling tar, spending their days in the shade.  

We walked on, breathing hampered by thick air, sweat pouring down.

The little one went from saunter-slumbers to watchful-wanders.  From his perch high above, he'd gaze out at our corner of the world, eyes beginning to focus on contrast...then movement...then colors.  Birdsong filled the silence and he'd stare up into the trees, determined to locate the camouflaged soloist.  A single squirrel on a kamikaze run was enough to prompt fits of baby-giggles.  A leaf buoyed up on the wind?  Pure wonder and delight. 

That simple mile, folded in on itself, was the witness to his growth.

Blistering temps gave way to sultry breezes, and the damp of fall soon followed.  The snakes slithered back into the roadside brush, and the squirrels scampered out.  Our dear, deer friends stayed closed at hand...or hoof.  Nestled in the woods adjacent, they'd listen for our footfalls and  make their way up the driveway in time for breakfast. A lone fox sleeked by every rare once in a while, no doubt interested in the aromas of the meal we laid out for Deidre and company.

We kept walking.

Rain and sleet and snow followed.  Our footsteps adjusted to the weather, less carefree now for fear of slipping.  Sandals traded in for sneakers, then boots.  I walked in the middle of the road, avoiding the slicks of ice and skids of snow.  My companion, all 17 years of age and still full of  irrepressible childish abandon, strayed from side to side in his snowboots, sensory-seeking for icy chunks to crunch and stomp.  His little brother watched, adoringly...giggling and flailing at his idol's antics.

Gus had long since vanished underneath the first snowfall.  The leaves, once so glorious in their fall finery, littered our way now like so much dull brown refuse.  Barren tree branches creaked and cracked in the high winds.  We shivered out cloud-breaths...fingers, ears and noses gone red and numb.  The baby protested feebly from his carrier...finding it hard to turn his head from deep within his winter coat and hat.  I'd hold his hands in my own to keep them warm, swallowing them up whole inside my gloves, while he beat out a staccato on my thighs with his bootied feet.

We walked along...sometimes in the concentrated silence of survival mode, not daring to open our mouths lest the frozen air get in...more often in constant chatter as we worked our way through politics and pop-culture, book reviews and meal plans.  The baby listened intently to our banter, offering up his own input in "ooohs" and "aaaahs" when appropriate.

The air grew thin and the world turned grey.  What remained of snow, peppered with debris and gravel, melted into muddy puddles or froze into murky ice overnight.  We'd wait every day, a little bit longer than the last, for the sun to peek out before stepping out into that bleakness.  We left behind footprints, muddy outlines of our excursions, that crisscrossed with those of the deer.  Sometimes one or the other of us tripping, catching  our feet on the rocks dug up by snowplows, would grasp for the sleeve of the other.  We'd gasp in heady relief at crisis averted and trek ever onward.  Too often, we'd cut our walk short because of the cold and tumble back into the house rosy cheeked and relieved.  On those days, my little one would resist his nap, his wanderer's heart made restless by the abbreviated trip.

We walked through the days and the months, and as January arrived...the years.  We walked right through to the New Year, and left 2020 behind.

Tomorrow will be a few degrees warmer than it was today.  Perhaps we'll head out earlier.  With any luck, it will be just mild enough to go the distance. 

~Leanna

 






01 January, 2021

...just going through the motions...

 ...blink...blink...

The cursor and I, unbeknownst to you, have been engaged in epic battle for at least 10 minutes now...neither willing to give an inch!

I sat down in the warmth and cozy comfort of a house gone quiet...teenager typing away at his own blog, baby crib-deep in dreamland.  I laid the groundwork carefully: piping hot tea at the ready, schnibbles and bits of notepaper with barely legible notations stacked up high, phone on silent.

All the good intentions of a writer who never takes the time to write.

I thought I'd dive right in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But then I froze.  Even dipping a toe in, so to speak, seemed an enormous effort.  All the words tumbling about inside my head, jousting for first place in line, suddenly gone silent.

I've trouble with words these days.

They only half-form.

Distorted, convoluted creatures that scramble over one another and raise up such a cacophony of discordant sound that I can't think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep-deprivation has won out.

I'm a shell, drained and colorless...hollowed out by exhaustion and endless responsibility.

An automaton.  Internal mechanism going through the motions unceasingly, while the pieces wear out and wear away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Worse, yet...I know it.

I'm aware of the decline.

I'm stuck deep inside myself, unable to raise the alarm.  I liken it to what we imagine of those comatose: internal recognition with no external reaction.

I can't break through the fog.

I need rest.

~~~~~~~

And so I fill the page with this, instead.  Good intentions gone by the wayside, and only these words to show for my time.

Forcing myself to write something...anything...in hopes that the very typing will set things to rights.

An exercise in futility and frustration, but exercise nonetheless.

One I've to repeat until the muscle memory kicks back in and the words are mine to tame once again.

'til then...

~Leanna


Happy New Year!

 Emily Dickinson, she of equal parts quirk and quote, wrote

"Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door."


We've spent so much of this past year hunkering down in our burrows~battening down our hatches~isolating. We've found ourselves homesick whilst homebound...separate while technologically linked. Yearning, each of us, for that sense of self so dependent on connection with others.

And now 2020 runs out, finally.

We carry into the New Year such grievance and grief over all we've lost and missed and mourned, and we ready ourselves for the unknown of tomorrow , jaded and prepared to tamp down our hope in fear it might tempt Fate.

But raise your spirits, friends. As this curious year ticks out its very last moments, I can't help but think we must all be willing to open every door and welcome in the dawning of this coming year. For every year, even this one passing into darkness now, has miracle and magic in it.

We wish you moments as joyous as Henri's birth~as inspiring as Johannes' PPE donations~as beautiful as the sounds of bells rung in unity for our front line.

Wishing you and yours a Happy New Year!
Prosit Neujahr!