I am here, now, in this space so crisp and clear. I’ve dreamed of it for about three months. Yes, I’ve dreamed of this space, the visual of clearing off a cluttered desk with the quick westward swipe of an arm. I’m in love, here.
Change doesn’t come easy to me. I’m at best in habit. I’m peeking about this new space with what feels like hands in pockets. I’m taking it in. I am so thankful for the work done here by good friends. I am so grateful and thankful for talented friends who helped create this space for me to create. Thank you.
I have pieces to pick up, details to fill in. And because I am first a Mama, I type these words beside a feverish Olive, ear infection and croup. Her blonde hair drenched with the onion and garlic cheese cloth wrap I’ve made for her ear. I hope the oils tonight will bring relief of the pain she describes as, a lollipop stick stuck in my ear, bouncing hard up and down. I wanted to type the other nights, but Lucy came down with some horrible stomach bug that kept her from anywhere but the borrowed bed of the dear friend we were visiting. Her illness kept her from enjoying pie and turkey and cheese fondue. She was sad to miss out on a holiday centered in her favorite activity of snacking and tasting. So I rubbed her back and whispered her favorite songs in a blackened room. I tucked away that feeling of wanting her better, of her needing me. And now, my throat swells but if it were at all possible, I’d take every ounce of the fever in the tiny one beside me.
I’m always mindful when things come full circle.
It’s been five years since: Luke hasn’t had to work on Thanksgiving, we taped the last box in our old Victorian home, said good bye as backyard prairie held my first love, my first dog.
At first light on this Thanksgiving morning, I woke on the island we called home five years ago. I was in the good home of the first good friend I made when we’d moved there ten years before now. As the wind began to pick up, we drove south and turned on the street that holds the home where I gave birth to our second daughter in an unfinished kitchen. We parked at Ebey’s Historic Prairie, zipped and shivered and pressed play, respectively. It was cold, with wind so strong it was hard to exhale, though a bit of that could have been memory’s way of pausing me. Two distinct moments came to me upon the gravel trail, each of a belly with a babe of mine inside. I’ve come so far, I thought.
The salt air, the look ahead to The Olympic Penninsyla was so familiarly perfect.
The wind swept sand on the cliff trail was challenging and altogether perfect. At cliff’s top I ducked beneath crooked evergreens and a sturdy, rusty madrone. I tried to catch my breath when I could first see the low tide salt pools.
Hands on knees, beats drowning out the wind, the waves. I ran a bit more, towards the sand and the seeming taller evergreens.
On the loop back, I paused when I first saw the black earth, remembering how it looked from out our old bedroom window.
It’s the soil of a potato-farming friend, the earth around an old home first featured in Snow Falling on Cedars. When I first read the novel, first saw the film I wondered what a place it must be. I thought evergreens look best in fog, and that when prairie meets sea it’s the joining of love in landscape. This I still believe.
Please be patient with this space as I sink in, familiarize my fingers on this crisp, clean desk. There might be a few pencils jammed in the sharpeners, if you will. I’m so glad you’re here, walking beside as I jump from Blogger to Word Press.
Joining The Habit of Being today.
Be sure to come back tomorrow for my Grand ReOpening Giveaway.