January 14, 2021

the days that make up our life.

my mama came over saturday afternoon. in her hands was a recycled golden lindt chocolate box with homemade blueberry muffins inside, the ones with the sugary tops. we talked for hours while passing opaline between our arms and the big kids were at the park with daddy. on sunday we headed to the old town of sonoma where all three children slept on the way. "it's like we are on a date," he said and took my hand. he pointed out all the pathways of where he used to tread on his file mile runs. "that's the house i used to dream about," and "that's where i would always see these two beautiful great danes."

the children ran free and the sky was gray like used charcoal. we stopped at dutch bros and the kids got muffin tops (chocolate chip, her, lemon poppy, him) and we got soy lattes.  gus was still hungry when we arrived so he and steve walked into a local pizza place and came out with a bag of long breadsticks and marinara sauce. when fiorella ran up to the park, she saw a little girl with yellow hair and bright pink pants on and without any thought she said "do you want to be my friend?" they must've played for over an hour before asking each other their names. i shyly told the little girl's parents, "how beautiful would it be if we could all just make friends like they did."

steve encouraged me to go look at some of the shops while the kids played and so i did. i wrapped opaline in the ergo and anxiously popped my head into little shops ~ things i just don't quite do these days. i smelled soaps with names like oleander, jasmine and lily of the valley and held tiny jellycat bunnies in my hands.  i came back to them out with a brown bag of bubblegum, pearl crayons, smelling erasers, a baso-wood flying airplane, an old fashioned bar of hershey's, swirly lollipops, and a pink box of faux matches called romance. i hid the airplane behind my back for gus and he nearly screamed while atop the slide. his love of airplanes lately is so deep. sadly, it broke minutes later and when went back to get another, the shop was closed. you could have cut a gemstone with the sadness that came from that moment.

last night, we had a dance party to this song while they brushed their teeth. and after we said our good night's and i tucked them back into bed, fi said, "mama we forgot our kisses. we never forget our kisses."

January 9, 2021

sol planning

i am not exactly sure why i remember this so well or if it's of any importance at all, but during college, one of my most (yet to be known) beloved memories was my flimsy little school agenda. the kind they give out by the handfuls, tossed in the plastic bag alongside the paperwork, the pamphlets, the receipts. there was nothing beautiful or special about them, really, which made what i would use them for almost embarrassing. in black ink always, i would map out my homework assignments, meetings, places to be. i would write down anything i could think of,  think of birthday gifts for mom,  look up quotes by emerson, find a madeline pan like proust, get a car wash, etc. some other things i would write: twenty-first birthday,  first date with mr. moon, tenth date with mr. moon, major declared, graduation. 

i had cake-plate designs and vintage dresses doodled into the long, waify margins. i wrote down quotes from professors, new words i thought were beautiful and didn't want to forget.     

agape, damask, susurrus, unbosom. 

soon enough, the agendas were replaced by jobs and devices and notes typed instead of written. somewhere along the way, that part of me, the written part,  became jetsam from the unanchored ship inside of me, both lost somewhere between then and now.

it's been perhaps eight or so years since i've written down the days of my life in the form of numbers. it's been perhaps even longer than that since i've flipped through anything at all to see what is to come.  and so, when i came across sol planners, it felt like coming home. or like picking up a part of me that i didn't quite realize had fallen.

each book is so beautifully made. it is more than a planner, but a tool. to check in with your heart, your goals, your soul. it is a place to focus on what's spinning inside your head with nowhere to go. it's a place of reflection, of so, so so much beauty.

i find myself reaching for it all day long. writing little notes, memories, my children's homeschooling schedules, beautiful lines they've said, i've read or felt. 

hand on my chest, i say to you, dear reader: if you are in need of a place to put all that's inside you gently outside ~ if you are in need of lessening your anxieties, to stir your imaginings, to remind you of what can bloom within you, oh what a gift this could be for yourself. 

imagine in a year's time, holding this year so brightly in your hands. what a thought. what magic.

(ps: this is in no way a sponsored post. just so in love. sarah generously offered 10% off your sol planner purchase with using bonjourmoon at checkout )

January 7, 2021

a child is born/ a new year

i am sitting in the dark of our room, 6:35am, seventh of january. the curtain is drawn it could be raining but i wouldn't know. i look over to see my husband lit by the glow of his phone ~ checking his stocks, thumb smoothing over his bottom lip. he's taken up day trading in this great pause of our life, and he's actually become very good. he peels himself from our warm, gold filagree flannel sheets and stands up, making the signal for coffee towards me (two fingers pressed together, tilting wrist). i nod yes and smile, giddy.

our third child sleeps pressed against me through this early morning affair. she is so warm and peach-soft, the smell of midnight stars. Opaline Violette, born to us on the autumn solstice, a warm day in september. she is quiet like a fairy librarian and could watch the world from my arms for hours upon hours. she sleeps at her certain hours and there is sound when she smiles. she coos and squeals and i swear to god her joy has become my air. she is petite, unlike her birth weight, and long like an accordian, a ballerina, a blue iris. her ears tip out like her brother's, which actually come from their great grampy jim. 

her skin is like olive moonmilk.

 and when her big sister holds her i think: 

mother of daughters, mother of sisters, mother of women.


oh, the weight that carries. to mother anything at all, the weight it carries and will always carry, i have tried harder than ever before to not let the door of my insecurities swing open, but the winds inside me are strong and they have been let out to roam. i have remained quiet in my attempts to usher them back but it is not working. and it is harder than i thought.

but, things are helping, every day. the small joys, the saving-graces.

the paperwhites peeling open, my mourning doves named jack and rose, the long mornings spinning around the planet of our bed, the boiled eggs and endless jars of granola, all the watercoloring by candlelight, the new black elliptical next to the sea of his records, the wet walks, the endless characters cauliflower can take on in our meals, the journaling, the activated apple watch after years of confusion, the witch hazel and rose spray and face serums, the new found love for Outlander, the whimsy gin, the tiny harrogate daffodils held by seven year old hands, the blue le creuset, the soft white nightgown that flutters at the neck.

the dried orange garland is still up, the children should be reading, and the floorboards need tending to. a neighbor with swanwhite hair left a manilla envelope on our doorstep, "for the magical moon's." a booklet of poetry she had written, bound in handmade paper. 

whenever we see two things together, stones, trees, two buds on the same vine, we say "friends" like bob ross teaches us to.

the news updates get switched off. too much darkness for one hour.

a can of magnolia black paint in a black-and-white striped can sits on our table. 

time for something new.

July 9, 2020

week twenty-nine

week twenty-nine with you, sweet love. this week your bassinet arrived, as did your first set of clothing and the first pink cosmo (it's as tall as the home you are growing in).  and these are just some jittery and fidgety photos of your mother taken in like a minute. i was just filled with so much love for you in this moment beside your bassinet, beside the cosmos, beside your almost-ness. i haven't taken many photos of us whatsoever, so these are for you.

i play this song a lot. i wonder if you will have dark curls. or blue eyes like your brother. or hazely-brown eyes like your sister.  a small freckle on your wrists. dimples above your peach-bum. a soft cry. a deep gaze. will you know me by my voice or by my heartbeat?

the body you share with me feels ancient and seasoned. i apologize to you when my tears fall (you must be able to feel them if you can hear me) and a curse word falls from my mouth when i am unable to stand. i don't remember feeling buried in this type of physical pain but perhaps it is the body that allows our minds to forget the sacrifices that come with the sacred gift of carrying life. some days i can walk in an orchard of plum trees. some days i simply cannot. they are never split into good days or bad days: they are our days. the pain is a reminder that you are growing and alive and that i am carrying two hearts in one vessel. it is a gift. it is my honor.

nana is coming over on her lunch break to look at your new items. i will be making egg salad on sourdough bread with pickles and vinegar chips on the side. she loves you so much. your brother and sister love her beyond any words that i can mortally speak. when you meet her, you'll know this love, too.

daddy and i stood in the kitchen a moment ago. he held me and said "it is the most beautiful thing to be standing next to my girls. the distance from where i can hold you keeps growing because she's growing, that will never cease to amaze me."

'cause you are loved
you are loved more than you know
i hereby pledge all of my days
to prove it so
though your heart is far too young to realize
the unimaginable light you hold inside