Greetings, friends from the softest and stillest December I've known.
It is cold and overcast and I am coming off day four's detox of an intense coffee addiction
which always leads to this place of deep peace and vulnerability: I'd forgotten.
I've been running on caffeine instead of my own energy for months and months but I am learning the gifts of 'earlier to bed' and the wisdom of listening to my body's requests. It asks for so little, really.
Right now it asks to write, please. To reach out a little into the world of words, to connect.
Right now the boy is sleeping and hopefully dreaming of tractors. He clearly mumbled "Don Deen Gactor" in his sleep last night when I came to bed. Nothing runs like a Deere, even in dreamland.
In a few hours the house will be a frenzy of activity and laughter and tickling and unexpected tears
and healthy toddler-boundary-testing-skill-building.
I don't think I've ever felt more insular in my life, more like I'm in a comfy warm and lamp-lit room with no one else but my little family and the voices of my best friends on the line, the phone a link to the outside world.
It's the winter. And the toddler.
I touch that outside world daily with trips to parks and shopping at the farmer's market and post office runs and playdates and yet it does not touch me. Strangely this does not feel at all bad. It's a season in my life and as the weeks fly into months it's passing. Fast. I will wish it back so I am working within that knowledge and savoring even what's hard. This savoring is the art of living life.
The art of living life is between me and God and I am an earnest pupil, a dedicated sponge.
The difference between this time last year and right now is Orion's language and movement.
I am transfixed by the new knowledge that each day brings, by the beautiful path of learning I've never seen up close before. It's always been someone else's kid, some time spent and then a goodbye.
Now it's a constant.
A beautiful north star that guides me.
Four word sentences become five, games that were simple become complex
and challenge my brain to remember the chain he's linked between steps.
He's fucking amazing.
Right now his favorite person on earth is his daddy, he lights up like a candle
if he comes home early, he snuggles into the outline of his sleeping form when he is lifted into our bed at dawn.
"More Daddy?!!?? Mmmmkay.??? Mmmkay."
If I even so much as try to do anything for him on the weekend when Anthony is home he falls apart: it's guy time. Take a hike, mama!!
I take a hike to the studio down the hall
or to the coffee shop to sketch.
I have a regular place. They know my order, which will change this week to tea or decaf.
The barista calls me 'Darlin'', I think that's the reason it became my regular place.
There's nothing quite like being called Darlin' when you are six months postpartum, out of your mind with tired and milk-stained. Rumpled. Foreign to yourself. "Oh, he sees a Darlin' in all this mess? SOLD!!"
It's a mom and pop place, which matters.
And they make the best damn coffee.
I never really sketched before I had him, I just took my ideas straight to the bench and muscled through the creation.
Now I ponder, I draw and I fine tune before I've even cut out the metal or the hide. I wish I would have started doing this earlier but the other way worked well for me then. I'll never stop sketching. Once you go draw, you never go ...... hm. I've got nothing.
I have a bevy of really lovely luxe and small pieces on the benches right now.
Leather has been slow going because my right hand is having some carpal issues and instead of pushing hard and fast I am taking time and letting my body dictate when I have to stop: it's normally just about a half-hour of tooling before I must. I used to tool for four hour blocks. Silly girl.
Just surfacing here for this moment
before I go under, back to the world of us.
Back to the world of whispering metals
and steady hide.
I've grown winter gills, it would seem. Cannot wait to see what becomes of them
when spring buds push violently outward into the sun.