Dec 102015

A quick note on this post: I like this one. I want to make it beautiful, so if you have any suggestions, please comment on it.

A quick note on the blog: I think this blog has served its purpose for me, which was to get me writing again. Thank you forever, Rachel. That being the case, I think this will be my last blog post. If you would like to be included in an email list for any future writes, please comment on this post. If I know you personally (I believe I know pretty much all of my readers personally), I probably already have your email address or can readily access it. If not, send an email to with “Blog” in the subject line. Thank you so much for reading!

He was lost. My beautiful, dimpled, roly-poly boy was lost in the desert, somewhere out there among the washes, scrub oak, juniper, rocks.

I climbed hills, peered into culverts, and screamed until my throat was hoarse and hurting. My little boy was gone and, with him, my heart, bowels, lungs. I felt that all of me was emptiness, all but my brain. That spiteful organ was pounding me with images of that downy yellow head smashed on a rock, or of two puncture wounds on that pudgy arm and a rattlesnake coiled nearby, smiling cruelly.

We searched for over an hour. With my heart gone missing, my brain was able to drive my legs to keep them moving. In the end, he was, of course, in the one place we didn’t think to look; much farther then we thought he could be and perfectly safe.

With his return, my heart hurtled back into me, knocking me down to my knees and filling my formerly dry eyes with bounteous tears. I said aloud and in earnest, “Thank you, Lord.”

“Mom, you should come visit our houses that we made,” said my older son, later that same day. So, with an eye on being a good mom, I walked over to his play house under what they call here a “cedar tree,” really a gnarled specimen that seems mostly made of bark and blue-green veins that hangs just over my head. The ground beneath the arms of this particular goblin of a tree had been swept so that it was nice, clean dirt. There was a fireplace with kindling neatly stacked in it and there were two small beds made of sticks, also a couch that I’m afraid looked rather poky. Looking around me, I could hear the whisper of a small girl inside of me who remembered building a house very similar to this one, albeit under a bushier, greener awning.

However, as I entered fairyland in this grown-up mom body, I seemed to have forgotten the proper etiquette of the place. Do I sit? Do I ask for tea? What topics does one discuss in fairyland? So I stood there, unsure, twiddling my thumbs and making inane comments about how “nice” it was and how “cute” the little beds were. I wanted so much to be a part of it and to picture how it all should go, but, much as I called to that little girl inside of me, she continued to wander in the far off hills and would not answer.

I wrote a novel last month. It’s still not completely finished and it is mostly word vomit at the moment, but I wrote a novel! The accomplishment of it is something to celebrate but, more than that, I celebrate this December the return of an elfish, dear old friend. Her name is Imagination.

One day, a few years ago, she asked me to play in a meadow under the shining sky, but I headed to the laundry room instead. Later on, she came and beckoned me to follow her while she explored a hidden woodland, but the broom closet countered with its own petition for my time. I went on like that, ignoring her and turning away when she called, so she wandered away from me and roamed the hills, trailing her flowing skirts behind her, for miles, until she had gone so far that she couldn’t find her way back. Her departure was worked by such small degrees that I didn’t even know she was gone until I had children who began to build fairyland houses, asking me to enter. Last month, I watched her from a long way away as she tiptoed back to watch me work out a simple story of over 50,000 words. This time, I ran to meet her and hug her up in my arms, checking all over for scrapes or bruises. I find my heart filled with gratitude for the safe return of my sweet friend, who gives me dreams and lifts my thoughts, and I vow here and now to guard against my own negligence in the future. She is one who will never find my back turned again.

Aug 132015

The blackberries in summer

Bramble, twist, climb, wind

And then—and then!

Green berries pop from blossoms,

Turning vibrant red.

One day, you look again

And two of them are black

When yesterday they were rubied.

Every morning, you pilgrim

To the blackberry bush,

Waiting for the shine to dull,

Ever so gently tugging to see if it will

Fall into your hand.