Saturday morning: early, bright and blue
Olive’s turn at soccer with family at sidelines in cheers, smiles
only three years in the waiting
yup, she was incredibly thrilled for her time to arrive
An islander treat is to board first on the ferry, park on deck front and center
a true vehicle sailing, rope gate just beyond our windshield
a mainland drive over Fir Island, where Olive was born
to where Betty and Lucy were born on Whidbey Island
I walked across Deception Bridge
where tide-powered driftwood swirled like damp linens
so, so many feet below
I quickly remembered my fear of hovering above sea level as toes peeked out from the guard rail
Oh. My. Goodness. Hello; it’s been a while. I’m not only back from a recent trip to the east coast, but back into the rhythm of usual island days. I took a break & a long one at that. I barely replied to emails & kept my laptop zipped up for weeks. It was everything I needed, with hands in ink & paper, face outside and turned towards the sunlight. There’s been great laughter & tears, unexpected events like Luke’s knee surgery & the welcoming of sunshine season back to the pacific northwest.
photo credit::sara parsons photography
Attending a birth is an honor, a privilege and a downright amazing experience. Writing a narrative alongside an artist and wonderful friend like Sara is an honor, a privilege and a downright amazing experience.
It’s an honor, today, to be featured on Freshly Picked.
And, today, a bit of unedited writing joining Just Write:
Reality in a Shopping Cart
Hi, I’m Olive. I’m half-big girl and half-baby. I don’t use markers, Olive squawked from the grocery cart, hardly meaning to startle the lady just trying to reach the crackers we’d stopped beside. It’s just something she often does, saying exactly what’s on her mind to anyone near.
Six years ago I carried you for way longer than I had anticipated. Inside, you swirled for what felt like a lifetime on full bed rest and then, as your wit and determination would later show, when the timing was your way, you made your way. You were born on another island, on a prairie, in a kitchen, in a pool, within our Victorian home. Minutes before midnight, with music loud around and our pets looking on, you floated to the top both perfectly and slowly. All this you know; we tell you of this first journey over and over. I know, I never tire of your story of our worlds coming together.
I’ve started to tell my daughters that I’m beautiful. I look in the mirror and with them by my side I say, I look good. Saying so is part of believing so. And when I slip on a bikini to take them to family swim night, I say, I like the print, the shape of the strap and I like how it feels. I still can’t say that I love how I look in a swimsuit, but I’m getting there. Three girls later and the map of lines left on my body speaks to me more than just how I grew to offer them a home inside. I’m far from loving these marks of a changed self. But they trace to my heart and all of what I know is true about worth and confidence.
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