dandelion puff

she laughs, i smear paint on clean canvas and the sun holds us in its secret.

inside, men with babies. outside, mamas with art, and we make the world smooth with our brushes and colors and smear-strokes of thick

and we fall for the brush.

its romance and calm.



we fall for it like my baby falls for his favorite towel, growling and lion-pouncing, rubbing face fuzzy, and the leaves umbrella above, green
silhouettes like fairies dancing

and i paint girl blowing dandelion-puff, seeding out, like worries white on air



she, mama to three, talks of belly dancing and bible and baking bread and eating balanced and our brushes pray deep,

wisdom please, maker of green-leaf.

and i tell him, when friend leaves in red van, i tell husband, this is heaven: this place on grass with canvas and brush and sun.

and he looks wounded, for a second, for he's not in that place, but i kiss the air, send it flying to his lips and assure him, you are my heaven too.

and we eat steak and drink wine and baby chews grass and i breathe in kingdom-come.

shadow chasing sand

baby toes sand-squish, birds cry splash of sea and sigh-sky, boy green-grows and away...



touch is knowing, grains sifting minutes, shifting sky-fleece and too soon he'll make poetry, footprints in sand, shadow-chaser



he sees wrinkle-brow mama, sits still as i try to freeze this

but

soon wiggles free worry, leaps, lens breaks as limbs explode
granules sift
toes shift

flash of bird-white light and

...

i'm shadow chasing sand.

left holding baby clothes
staring at

man where boy once smiled.

...

so now, i still. breathe diapered drooling close.

son, you are my gratitude list.

i like lamps

the moon slides slow tango across sky, streaking silver dust...

inside we gather, communion of family in living room, and we breathe, in, out, together...

it's a lesson we're learning from Rob Bell. thursday is our second sunday, here in our red and yellow room. trent eats salsa and nachos, salt on hands, while i sip tea and lean on leather couch and pretend i'm one of the Mars Hill thousands...

we abide here together, learning from Bell's take on psalm 23, this podcast about stilling of soul water... and my tea sloshes as i try to slow down. try to stop this whirring of angst.

baby chews on toy, husband licks salt-fingers and i lie there, turbulent, trying just to breathe.

and then, it happens. the sacred of this moment descends and i sit up.

"i like our lives," i tell husband whose eyes are now closed. sound of baby chomping.

"you like our lamps?" he says, opening eyes.

i laugh. "yes, our lamps..." i trail, seeing our lamps as if for the first, these objects from second-hand shops... "and our lives."

and everything else fades. moon streaks sky. and the holy happiness of rest descends.

laundry line liturgy

laundry flutters, butterfly wings, and i peg slow, feeling summer on neck not wanting lawn-silence to end. fingers fumble with wooden pegs and i know it: the sadness of not knowing how to mama in these middle moments. these moments of whine, like a cat with tail caught.

husband is here now, watching me peg, hearing tear squeeze from duct. he always hears. i wipe fierce; he hands me another butterfly wing, baby's blue onesie, and it hangs tiny on the line and i miss him. my womb-heart, asleep in fading noon.

"why is he so unhappy?" i ask. trent is picking up shreds of wood from last night's campfire, a marshmallow, stranded like a white buoy on grass-sea, a pile of paper, gnawed from baby mouth, crinkle of newsprint making happy for a moment.

"he's dissatisfied, wanting to be able to move, and he can't." trent disappears, reappears, hands empty; the sun makes him look like an angel. "it's a good thing. it means he's growing."



without whines, our baby would stay baby. i'm nearing the end of laundry-wings now and i think of my own voice-sad; midnight words flung to heaven like moths to screen door: dreams of open fields, of animals, of gardens leaping green, of big window living and wood-stove warm, and of writing books. spines curling outward, pen dripping ink across my life.

"so i must be growing too," i whisper, and husband smiles. "because you're dissatisfied?" he says. i nod. "i try so hard to be content... beg God, give me peace... i count my blessings..." and for a moment, like newsprint, it works. "but these days, it's all dreams."

"perhaps you're needing to move," he says, and i nod and we stand together in halo-light, the butterfly wings seeming to take flight.





"in their misery, they will earnestly seek me..." (Hosea 5:15)

white milk manna

he pulled me out of my sleep to feed...

before bed, perching on side reading mother-books trying to figure if i should be concerned: dry diaper after beach, diarrhea... when to feed? when to call doctor? husband saying not to worry, stroking back, sleep-fingers... me, praying, father-God wake me should aiden need to eat mid-night, for he no longer wakes--sleeps the night through.

and i felt the holy lifting me out of deep dream, his hands pulling me up, his whisper, "time to feed your son," and my body rose, fed child white milk manna... at exactly 3 a.m.

i could see his ribs, body stretched long in arms, and as i nursed i wept for fear he's too thin, yet he's tall, stretching weed in diaper and so, hard for him to keep up, and so i nursed... and he smiled up, cream-lips...

tapping leg as he drank...

and i remembered, me as a little girl, sucking in cheeks, begging God to be skinny, delighting in ribs, feeling fingers on bones and i shuddered, to think of mama crying into pillow for her tiny girl so intent on looking little.

the body, an object then. today, a vessel--dripping white into baby's mouth-pink, foot tapping--and i wanted to fall for the grace in letting me bleed life after four years of worshiping the weigh scale...

praying God help me lead my baby into life of thanksgiving. into relationship with food that revives and breathes health. into knowledge of this: flesh-skin vessel made for divine purpose.

the kind that wakes me to feed.

learning love--part 2

i remember korea as he stands dripping afternoon across linoleum asking if i've smelled the rain yet. i'm dressed in flour, bananas baking pan, and i haven't taken time to smell the rain but he sheds it deep, and i want it bad, and so i follow, apron trailing like a woebegone thought, bare feet padding white, out into sky-dripping air and he points into the once-rain-air says, smell. and so, i do, remembering korea with its red and yellow umbrellas and he and i zipping sidewalks on scooter wrapped tight around each other, single flesh on fast-grey ground and now, here, in this canadian spring, we wrap tight again. digesting drops. and then, remembering a decade ago on edmonton soil standing soggy kissing lips thinking this is it. he is it. rain proposal. and now, love rolling inside on playmat while outside, we watch the world flood.

he brings me sabbath, my farm-boy love. forces me to run 'cross lawn, kneel down prayer-like and watch life unfurl from earth-underbelly, garden laughing up green. he weeds clean strawberry plants, praising fruit-flowers then squeezing red juice into milk and ice and blending thick for summer-night sweet. he sits still with me in kumbaya moment, making crack-of-fire. he drives veggie-car, tents wide with me, sings long songs made-up and celebrates the road. and he bows head on pillow, ushers me onto God-ground with simple boy-prayers, shoes shed at foot of burning bush.

artist-marries-math man, and somehow finds solitude, oneness in this unlikely union. some days i snap, romance a broken twig in my hand, expecting him to turn, run, but he stands, bruised boy, waiting for repentant heart and then i always feel his arms, always. even after the worst.

this love is creator-God's, and we learn it deep.



11. beach-day, finding geocaches and introducing baby to sand on toes
12. campfire with sister and new love
13. glass of wine
14. new issue of Geez
15. discovering other dread-haired mamas
16. long weekend
17. laundry on line
18. mother-hug at church
19. baby breathing 'mama'
20. long letters

learning love--part 1

she serves them soup on fine china, men and women from crack-houses, trailer parks and asphalt... she serves soup and a hug and they come twice a week to feel her wrinkled face pressed against their hardened ones. to feel love.

God wants the best for them, she tells me, this founder of Soup and More, in an interview. He loves them so much; wants them to have better. He wants them to have it all.

this risen-Savior-man wants more: to bleed daily manna. to pull down Zacchaeus from sycamore. he wants wine and feasting and prodigal-running.

and so, the fine china. for they deserve it.

the best. he wants us to have the best. trying to fit shapeless concept into box-brain... but it blows me apart; i'm left gasping on ground begging Grace, i repent: i repent of not learning love.

so long, thinking martyr. thinking--to live simple, in poverty, in dire straits, so others might have more--that this was good, and it is, but there is more... what about letting God bless?



and what if baby-boy were to refuse my gifts for being 'good'? wouldn't i rather he turn tear-eyed, hug me fierce and enjoy?

i deserve the best. not because of me. but because of him.

this, learning love.

i am ready.

hey babes

we lie in pajamas on wrinkled bed top, the day going to seed, and he prays because i can't. i stare at the vase of flowers my sister gave me--"because your life has been so hard lately" she said soft--and my soul is breathless. and i wonder, will we ever hear good news?

the couple backed out on their offer on our house... dad--seeking hard help for mum--has found none, burning out... the future like a fridge magnet, pinning loose-leaf to door, slipping, slipping down then smashing on the ground and me, scrambling to pick up the present--the loose-leaf present...

i turn to trent in the moon-glow, say, "i just want some good news, you know?"

his prayer has ended and he's lying in that green shirt i've tried to throw out and his fuzzy plaid pajama pants and he leans close, toothpaste breath and says, "hey babes, good news--"

"what?" i whisper, staring at daisy-petals.

"i love you," he says.

and that should be enough but i keep listening, hoping, and he cups the moment in his worn man hands...

"hey babes, good news--we have a beautiful boy-child."

"hey babes, good news--we have no debt."

"hey babes, good news--we own a house."

"hey babes, good news--we have a bed..."

and so on until my soul breathes wide and i'm kissing his nose and thanking God for this man who prays when i can't... for this john the baptist husband who brings good news in the desert.

and this is marriage, no? to be the stronger, when loved one is weaker. and so, a beautiful tug and pull... a dance in the wilderness, two lovers leaning hard into each other in black air, leaning on all that is good and faithful, and seeking the light... the morning light... in each other's eyes.

dandelion dust

i blow seeds at baby-round cheeks; blue eyes scrunch, tiny hand reaches for touch soft dandelion puff and the sky winks blue and gold on this sunday afternoon. sausage sizzles on fire, we sit in the middle of grass-green where the dandelions powder white. my hands are brown from potato-soil, husband's calloused from long-day work but now we sit, family-style, around the table that is earth, and we feast on this meat on this ground from which we've come. and we feel most at home here, so close to the dirt, as clouds drift like snow-haired einsteins across the sky...

and for a moment: the future is now, and worry flees on breath of dandelion dust. i touch the yellow lip marks of pollen smudging baby skin and he waves his arms and legs and topples sideways and stares up into the blue sea where white-haired men swim and we are here, now.



"even if we don't get our dream home, my dream job; as long as i have you..." husband whispers into my neck and we lean. baby nibbles dandelion stalk; our soiled hands entangle, prayer-like.

and my heart bows.

happy for this.



1. sister's gift of vase-daisies, yellow and white

2. potatoes planting deep

3. baby rolling in grass

4. hope of husband's dream job

5. hope of family's dream home

6. hope of being content with little

7. reality of dream friends

8. banana and butter on homemade bread

9. late-night prayers

10. early morning hugs

banging on pots

i find myself distracted by her pink suit, telling us how to use prayer to reach our full potential... it's my first time at this bible study, and i look around, see i'm the only one in dreads and piercings, the only one wearing a snowboarding shirt, and i stare down into tea, see the way the leaves swirl brown and i feel like sinking down into brown, wondering: have we missed it? the salvation point?

isn't it all about become lesser, not greater?

about hanging out in gutters, not cushioned living rooms?

thinking now of husband and son back at home banging on pots on kitchen floor.


thinking of this: a child is happy with a spoon and a pot.

wanting this: a spoon and a pot. wanting to worship with little.

thinking now of our move out west, to farm where aiden will run on toddler legs with calves, will drink mustache-white milk and eat oma's homemade bread... thinking of our dream house on 140 acres of gnarly trees and marsh, wondering--is it too much? too big? and is this the Christ-call? is this becoming less?

how to be poor, yet give in abundance? are we all called to spirit-poverty?

how to enjoy, with little? without burning out?

i think of my father whose back is bent, chest hollowed, from martyr-giving... from self-denial, pastor saving all except himself, and how i hurt, weeping wet pillow, wanting him to know love, to know what it feels like to sit on the kitchen floor and play with pots and pans...and i think, this is what God wants for us.



to bang hard on worship pots.

to make music loud then reach up like top-ply child and beg 'daddy, pick me up, so i can touch the sky...
and now, let me give you drool-kiss-wet because i love you, for letting me touch the sky.'



less of me, more of him...

porridge

we feed at the table, baby boy and i, dribbling porridge down our pointy-drool chins. he giggles, grabs rubber bib and shoves it into his mouth, gnawing down, and i take a sip of coffee, open the Bible and begin to read 1 John out loud while he stares, blue eyes watching mommy's lips. i know he cannot understand words like 'fellowship' and 'sin' but he's been saying something that sounds like 'hi' lately, and i wonder, how soon is too soon? to teach them these God-words?



my sister says it's never too soon. i was worried, not knowing how to reach my son with abba-love... how to make him understand the wonder, the everyday encompassing faith-made-bloody-on-cross, the humility of hippie Jesus who healed and turned over tables and made wine... oh, i stressed. then she told me, sister-so-wise, just to sit and do devotions each morning as i always did. "he will see that; he will see you bow on bended knee and will bow, too, for he wants to be like you." and peace. such peace. i didn't have to force it. i didn't have to sing hymns all day long. i didn't have to play veggie tales or 'wee sing' songs or talk in proverbs. i just had to worship.

that said, we read to him from a poetry-verse Bible of noah and abraham and the miracle-Jesus... and, as with his blue bib, he gnaws hard on scripture... oh, that one day, he would taste and see, the Lord is good. this, my prayer.

mother morning

mum leans over church chair, touches girl on shoulder, offers to pin her corsage. it's mother's day, and woman are wearing flowers, red, yellow, purple... we're singing, mum is trying to pin flower to teen girl's shirt, and dad motions me over, asks me to help mum do this mothering for someone else's daughter. mum steps back, smiles, apple-cheeks rising, falling, then she helps me back to my seat and asks me why i look so sad, and i shake my head, no, i'm just thinking, and she puts her hand on my back and leaves it there as the hymns make holy.

holy like this morning when father took son while i, mama, slept; as father helped son make card for me on colored afghan on table, morning rising, sunny-side up; as eggs cooked on stove, chopped onion and tomato then father stole card from son's mouth and entered mama's room, celebrating me with coffee dark (is that how you like it? his brows wrinkled tight) and baby drooling-card and egg and tomato breakfast.

and i swallowed tears and eggs and clung to my men on mother-morning knowing women everywhere in beds, warm, were being met with homemade thanks... and i whispered, God, be with those who have no one, those mothers left in bed, cold, and be their father, their son, their morning-light-gift.

now i sit beside my mum, hand her tulips from my garden, and she thanks me in her soft-voice-way and i forget about her tumor and her seven years of sick-bed and i remember her making granola and rising bread in yeast-warm kitchen and teaching school at breakfast table and mending clothes in hard-wood chair and i hold her hand as music makes wise these worn-fingered hearts.

thanking Father for:
-husband who tickles me then holds tight
-evening prayers beneath warm blankets
-little boy giggles
-baby drool kisses
-garden rolled upwards, ready for seeding
-house sold
-book near-complete
-assignments that keep me learning
-friends that keep me falling on faith
-week of family visits
-long runs on wooded lanes
-spring daisy flowers

missing our children

we stand there on cool linoleum, sun fading across mother-lined faces, listening to the sounds of our children babbling in playpens and remembering-days when we were single, sister-in-law and i... days when "we lived for ourselves" she recalls, pixie face bright. i nod, draining aiden's plastic blue tub then tucking it away with yellow duckie. days when we sat in three-hour college classes and made eyes at boys and attended dances and sat in quiet cafes, studying. days when we wore white cotton dresses for 12 hours, without stain or dribble or milky sneeze. days when we didn't have children.

now we sit with mugs of coffee, trying to stay awake, our shirts hijacked by children's fingerprints. we can hear them sucking on thumbs, self-soothing; we can see the way the moon is competing with the sun in spring sky. and from somewhere deep inside us, the women of ancient times rise up and begin their long, low drum dance, and we join them. "i miss them even when i'm with them," my sister says, twirling finger around mug. she's speaking of her children. and i nod. for i know what she means.

these days fly fast.

fleeting... and we bow there in the living room floor, impromptu bible study, impromptu God-study, for we miss him too, even as he's with us... my heart grumbles for more: more spirit, more heaven, more kingdom, now. children missing father. knowing he misses us too.

and then, from somewhere down the hall in a playpen pipes a voice: "mama, umni ahna googy booger."