The Sensory of March

Tonight I’ve come here to write in between wiping the constant runny nose of a seriously bummed out and/or sick two-year-old.  Each time my littlest hops over to the bookshelf, I grab another Tag Along or Thin Mint and I’m just ever so thankful I have a Girl Scout in the house. Parting of the Sensory is on loop and I got a message from a reader who said it must be nice to be able to balance it all, and live in such a place where life is perfect.  I can read between email’s lines to know even without a sarcasm font they’re sharpening the blade in my inbox, messaging me with a farewell promise to halt site’s traffic. 

I wanted to write this post in honesty where a reader could feel between the lines these exact sentiments:

My plate is full, ten pm comes too soon and arrows of yesterday’s to-do sail onto next week with a finger crossed, a promise to check it all off.  I don’t hop around the Internet to read complaints, whines and outrage.  I like to settle my eyes into the fuzzy slipper of another’s prose and pictures of a life inspiring and creative, with a dash of humor and a extra helping of honesty. I assume this kinship with my readers.

I will stop calling the half-marathon a half because it implies not-so-much, as in, well, I’ll only eat half of this quart of ice cream.  That said, I’m training for the FULL thirteen mile race at the end of March and each day it kills me.  Seriously.  I end each day rolling on unvacuumed carpets in stretches and poses, start each day in darkness with sweat, an ice pack and a hot mocha (yes, in that order).  I believe this is something anyone can do, most certain some better than others.  I’m still the girl at heart that likes to sleep until ten am and really enjoys flip flops and slow walks on a beach with discussions about really, really bad reality television and nighttime teenage soap operas.  This is definitely something anyone can do, it just takes the right sort of inspiration and the right partners, one for life and one (or two or three) for the road. 
With hours to spend before Monday’s ferry back to the island I left my family at the enormous playground by-the-sea and went for a run.  It was freezing, and I’d just sat in the car for hours, even crossed the border from Canada.  One mile in, I almost turned around.  My legs were beat-with-a-capital-B from skiing Whistler, B.C.  As I knelt and caught my breath on a blossoming cherry tree I looked left and realized I was outside birth room two, a room where twenty-eight months prior I pushed Olive June into the world on the same strong knees.  I ran three more miles to the edge of the sea, thankful for salt water and birth stories, thankful for the husband who met me at the truck with an ice pack for sore shins, brushed off my my body hurts tears with an ahhh, you got it
I can’t really write about my service on my local school board in the way I want to, so I just don’t.  There’s confidential stuff and legislative policy no none really want to hear about.  I carry around so much new knowledge sometimes it’s hard for me to just talk about a page in a book or a photograph I saw in a gallery’s window without stepping atop a district-based thought.  I knew it takes a lot of time, but I underestimated the amount of time I would spend processing and researching and formulating.  I love it, yes I do.  It’s important work to be the voice of many with a view that nurtures and supports.  In some ways I picture rolling out the rug of public school for my three girls, conditioning the wool of experience in just the right way so that if something spills, it’ll come right up and it’ll be those safe steps to senior year that’ll make happy, intellectual scholars. 
My blog, this blog, oh we need a date.  There are posts in the wings, photos to edit but sometimes I just read Five Silly Monkeys for the twentieth time instead of turning on the power button.  Or I pass out at an early bedtime or fold clothes or clean toilets.  I’m finding myself in a balancing act, constantly changing the order of things to keep the weight at both ends.  I’ll figure it out.
My camera sits on an antique upholstered chair in a pretty vintage bag while my iPhone never leaves my side.  Listening to NPR the other night, I learned about nomophobia, the fear of losing your iPhone.  Sadly, I think I have it.  I’m an Instagram addict, and I can’t stop looking at my Pinterest app.  The girls and I take silly videos all the time, and the notes features has become my composition notebook, my pen with black ink.
And then there’s yesterday.  Oh, yesterday.  We should all be so lucky as to receive horrible news before volunteering in a preschool.  I tucked a bad text into my back pocket of fancy jeans, took a tiny hand that led me to a shared cubby.  We sat criss-cross around a hexagonal cushion, read books about cookies and babies and giggled beyond make believe.  Reading with three- and four-year-olds calms the heart.
Oh, yesterday.  It seems as though each and every person I know has a junkie somewhere in the family.  Junkies are good for poetry, that opening chapter of a novel, the middle scene in a ten minute play.  Junkies are good for the last mile to race’s end, for Friday night’s plans and Thursday morning’s disposition.  Junkies are good for poetry, and for that I am thankful.  It’s been a long time since I wrote a long poem that leaves me itching to stand behind a microphone.  It’s still a work in progress.  I’m heading back to my old writer’s group in a few days, so maybe I’ll post it after that.  
Happy March, and thanks for coming here.


  • It's so easy to look at another's life and deem it perfectly balanced. So rarely do we actually witness the meltdowns and unraveling and the moments of disconnect that weave in between our sweet photographic moments.

    But I've always loved how you can keep an authentic mothering voice while remaining uplifting. You share some of the tears and aches, but remind yourself (and us in the process) of the strength that lies within.

    That's why you'll triumphantly cross that finish line at the end of the month and why I'll always keep reading. Thanks for the inspiration, Jenn.


  • marlis says:

    Shoot. Just wrote you a page-long comment and lost it when submitting. Out of time right now, but will tell you my thoughts later. Thank you for this post, my friend. xoxo

  • Coming here is such a treat. I always leave full. xo

  • I had to come back and read this again.
    I was too speechless to leave a comment before, but I tweeted it etc.

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