Self respect
Is
Walking away when boundaries are broken
Speaking of yourself the same way you would a friend
Believing that you’re good
And whole
Not flaunting your flaws or short comings
But acknowledging them
Standing in your capabilities
And moving towards something brilliant.
Blue is a feeling
And you are a song.
Expanse of the sky.
Depth of the sea.
Newness of morning.
Blue is fascination.
Simple and sure.
A song, a dance, a truth.
The blueness of you.
Blue is a feeling
And you are a song.
Expanse of the sky.
Depth of the sea.
Newness of morning.
Blue is fascination.
Simple and sure.
A song, a dance, a truth.
The blueness of you.
The power of a routine
The lengthiness of an uninterrupted hour
The thrill of waking up before the sunrise
Staying engaged
Believing you can
And sleeping like a rock.
Your wonder and creativity make you invincible.
Your questions and kindness are the keys.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about safeguarding your heart in a cushioned box,
but compromising your growth would be the ultimate failure.
Witnessing your joy, heartache, persistence, and love
is the greatest gift of our lives.
A gateway and a mirror, your burnt umber eyes are wide and clear.
Stay curious with others.
Continue showing up after hard days.
And keep swimming in the rain.
You asked to sit on the porch with me for the evening thunderstorm.
It was sweet confirmation of summer weather well spent.
The storm passed, and you topped the gesture by suggesting a walk in the rain.
A spectacular bookend to summer break.
My joyometer will be full for months.
Monday.
Bags over my shoulder, slacks and sleeves on
Coffee, keys, and phone in hand.
I leave through the back door and swiftly walk into the thick Georgia August air
Then pivot to be sure my little-no-so-little is following close behind,
Like a duckling.
As I turn back toward the house I am face to face with a bright presence
of peace and pause.
A distant but familiar grin haloing just above the peak of our home.
The waxing crescent moons hangs like a hammock when it sets and earthshine reveals the moon’s full form.
Meanwhile the duckling sits patiently in the truck.
One of my favorite things to do is walk around our neighborhood. Witnessing the weather, the sky, and the way the landscape changes throughout the year brings me huge amounts of joy. Greeting our neighbors and noticing how their kids’ vocabulary and height has doubled in a week is the cherry on top.
When Huck was born, one of the first things I did after getting home from the hospital was go for a walk. It was late June and I was walking the straight road into our neighborhood. On this road there is a small brick house with a well kept yard that has country grass, blueberry bushes, and fig trees. It was dusk in June and one of the blueberry bushes was studded with berries, which forced me to pause, notice, and take some deep refreshing breaths.
We would see the man who lived in the small brick house on occasion. Whenever we saw him, he was either sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway, mowing the grass, or pulling weeds. His clothes were well worn, his posture one of a long life, and his hair all white.
During Huck's first few years of life, I got to spend a good deal of time with him at home, and we went on lots of walks. I still do, actually, and a neighbor recently referred to me as "the walker," which makes me think of a zombie, but we won't go there today.
Fast forward to a steamy August day two years after Huck was born. Huck and I were walking down the main road of our neighborhood. The man who lived in the small brick house was on a riding lawn mower in a straw hat with the sun pressing down on him. He looked up and then waved us down. We walked with him to the fig trees. They were heavy with fruit. The bushes hadn't produced in 3-4 years, but this year was prolific. I responded "YES" when asked if we wanted some. The shirt I was wearing was big enough to use as a basket and we walked home with a load of fresh figs - Grown in the yard of a kind neighbor, and fresh off the tree in August.
Figs were something I only heard grandparents discuss and I had only tasted processed and packaged Fig Newtons at that point. I couldn't wait to bite into one. Huck and I experienced our first summer figs together. They were perfectly ripe, purple and amber, sun warmed, seedy and sweet. I enjoyed mine more than he did his.
Even now, when I walk by this yard, I can't help but recall the memory. Sharing fruit with a neighbor. Simple, sweet, and branded into the story of our lives.
The man has since passed and his house and land are for sale. I hope the next owners will treat them as wholesomely as he did, and that we all continue to have good reason to pause and notice the world around us.
My great grandfather lived on a rectangular plot of land across from the railroad tracks in downtown Norcross. His great grandchildren (my generation) called him Papa. His house had a front porch and a bench swing. I imagine my mother and father visited the house together, before I was born.
Walking through the doorway of his home was like walking through a veil of reverence. He greeted us with smiles, wisdom, and mustard seeds. There was a handmade, toy sized chapel by the front door. I would let my small fingers fill the sanctuary as I gazed with wonderment, with the lull of adult conversations in the background.
We were visiting for the Fourth of July. All of us... his daughters, grandchildren, and flock of great grandchildren. I am sure I was wearing ruffled socks and maybe even an outfit that matched my mother's. Probably some star spangled bows in my hair.
Inside I’m sure there was a beige, orange, and green table cloth covering the small dining room table. On the table must have sat a large bowl of ambrosia, a jug of grape juice, and a dish of potato salad.
I don't remember specifically, but I bet we heard a distant train horn, and one of his grandchildren (most likely my mom) promptly ran outside to place a penny on the tracks. The train would draw us outside and lumber by like an earthquake, more exciting than any fire work show.
In the eyes of a child, a stream of pure water ran the right side of his property, alongside shade, refreshing green fescue, and fire ant mounds. The great grandchildren anointed their knees with grass stains as they dodged ant hills. Some lawn chairs sat on the hill by the house.
After eating and playing, someone would remember the pennies. A willing adult collected them for us and we inspected them - How flat, distorted, and warm they were. The power of the train.
I don't really remember the fireworks, but I am sure they occurred. What is tucked in my memory is the grass, train tracks, and generations of family.
I do my best to connect our son (Papa's great-great-grandchild) with my grandmother (Papa's daughter). When we walk into Grandmother’s home and see her face, the same veil of sacredness occurs. Our son senses the precious moment; he speaks slower and moves more gently. He meanders around her house, inspecting each trinket and pondering its significance.
Today, I am sure my grandmother looks at her display of relics honoring the past and current American soldiers in her family, reflecting on a long life. Today, I am grateful for my family, memories, and life.
It scares me
How quickly
I can push things away
Or turn my back
Altogether
How soon I start on a path
And let nothing
Stand in my way,
Requiring an outside force
To knock me down
Forcing me to look up
And out
A prudent pause
A ragged reflection
A feverish coming back to what I already knew.
We must continuously integrate
Baking each complexity in
Constantly shifting
Embracing grounded authenticity
Brightly being uniquely you.
Earthy smell of shavings
Rhythmic sound of etching
Smooth resistance of fine pointed No. 2 lead
Scribbling through a brainstorm
Teasing out a thought-full knot
Drafting a plan
Jotting an idea
Chiseled wood at my fingertips
And pressed pine in my lap
Scribing. Scripting. Graphite taking form.
The miracle of learning something new
Discipline to set goals, and see them through.
Discernment in success and failure,
The thrill found only in trial and error.
The art of learning something new,
Especially when you’re showing up for more than you.
Humility to ask for help, to say yes,
Gratitude for every small step of progress.
Expanding your capacity
for love, for life,
for quiet tenacity.
The art, the miracle, of learning something new.
Grandmother spider,
I gaze at your web.
Expansive and strong,
Dynamic and sure,
Glazed with rhythm and connection.
Let me spin a web like you - patterned with loving-kindness and sacred discernment.
As present and spacious as the horizon.
Your smartphone is a presence killer.
Human connection forms in sustained moments.
I refuse to evolve to fit fragmented attention.
Rinse your feet in cool water.
Take a dip in the pool.
Make a moment to chill
And refresh.
You’ve done so much
Under the fullness of the sun
And now we are rounding into
The season of crispness.
Process and integrate.
Enjoy.
You are fully capable
And clear as you are.
A walk in the woods
Tomatoes from the neighbors
Hair out of my face
Clutter free for possibility
Bare skin for breathability
A truck bed full of potential
I love you, life on earth.
If I were a house
I think I’d be like this one.
Along side a creek
Surrounded by wild ferns and yucca
With lots of shade and a small garden.
Built on granite and red clay.
Pieced together
Brick by brick, plank by plank
To form a home.
Flowers and herbs from the yard
Cut and placed inside.
Books in every room
Windows in the ceiling
And no blinds because the trees provide a safe guard.
Dwelled in by early risers
Creators, reflectors, lovers of nature.
A home that’s accommodating and connecting
With plenty of space to move and untangle.
If I were a house
I think I’d be like this one.
Time is a luxury.
Relationships are a gift.
Both require boundaries, clarity, and a choice to uplift.
Shallow facades and misrepresentations distort life and mean nothing.
Following suits for showing off like a puppet on a string.
To quietly stand in the depth of a purpose and breadth of connection
is a truth beyond words and a sure view of the long run.
Today I hiked Sawnee Mountain for the first time in a round of seasons
And remembered that this is where I do my best thinking.
For the past decade
In the ice, rain, and thick of summer
As a newly wed,
A pregnant lady, a new mom
Navigating change and uncovering truth one step at a time.
The trail conditions were my favorite today:
Rainy and lush
Bright eyed and nourished.
I saw 3 protective does with bushy white tails
Squirrels that came so close they might as well be civilized
And a path lined with budding wild blackberries.
Basket oaks and tulip trees
Virginia creeper and poison ivy
My suburban sanctuary.
Huck is still there, at Camp Sawnee.
He has attended camp every summer since he was 4.
This time he is two class levels and 5 sneaker sizes up from where he started
Learning and enjoying nature with peers and adults in our community.
As I checked him in we walked by the little ones with their tiny sneakers and chubby cheeks
I felt a pang in my heart
Of wonder and truth
That happens in a blink.
This mountain knows me the same way I know it
Deep and wide,
Still barely scratching the surface.
Melted down, weeded out
Carved off and whittled away at
The meaningless
Then pieced together
Prudently
One bit at a time
In the light of morning
The form of you is elegant, lovely, and grand.
Seams and stitches
Spackle and grout are your strong hold
And make you absolutely splendiferous.