A poem by Billy Collins. I like it a lot.

Night Letter to the Reader

I get up from the tangled bed and go outside,
a bird leaving its nest,
a snail taking a holiday from its shell,

but only to stand on the lawn,
an ordinary insomniac
amid the growth systems of garden and woods.

If I were younger, I might be thinking
about some music I heard at a party,
about an unusual car,

or the press of Saturday night,
but as it is, I am simply conscious,
an animal in pajamas,

sensing only the pale humidity
of the night and the slight zephyrs
that stir the tops of the trees.

The dog has followed me out
and stands a little ahead,
her nose lifted as if she were inhaling

the tall white flowers,
visible tonight in the darkened garden,
and there was something else I wanted to tell you,

something about the warm orange light
in the windows of the house,
but now I am wondering if you are even listening

and why I bother to tell you these things
that will never make a difference,
flecks of ash, tiny chips of ice.

But this is all I want to do –
tell you that up in the woods
a few night birds were calling,

the grass was cold and wet on my bare feet,
and that at one point, the moon,
looking like the top of Shakespeare’s

famous forehead,
appeared, quite unexpectedly,
illuminating a band of moving clouds.

I journal therefore I am.

Now I've had a baby and my life will never be the same again. This is usually absolutely wonderful, but some days it's totally scary. In general, motherhood has been a delightful surprise. I guess I just expected it to be so much harder than it's been. I'm sure it will get harder too, but even the night feedings havn't been so bad. In fact last night he only woke up ONCE between 10 pm and 7 am. Grey actually wakes up every night on the dot at 3 a.m. no matter if he fell asleep at 9 o'clock or midnight. Interesting. I've got no explanation. (However just to keep reality in check here, there have been nights when he's not even slept for 2 hours straight, waking up every hour and a half hungry and needing affection.)

The thing I've been realizing the most is how absolutely crucial it is to take time for myself. Everyone says that (especially in pregnancy and parent magazines and blogs) but it's true already. For me that means I need to take the time to journal and write more often. Before Grey was born it was rare for me to go a day without journaling and now it's rare if I journal two days in a row. But this is something simple I need to make time for. For me, the type of writing I do in my journal is a mixture of rambling, ranting, praying, and processing that really keeps me sane and focused. Even though I'm in school to get a creative writing MFA, my unfiltered, uncensored journaling is something totally different. When I spend even one focused, undistracted half hour writing in my journal it totally changes my whole perspective. Perhaps change is the wrong word. It keeps my perspective where it always should be, could be, can be. Writing centers me. Frees me. Frees me to be who I am and somehow helps me let go of all the junk that keeps me from living joyously. The more I write, the more laidback and relaxed I am about everything in my life. This relaxation actually releases me to pursue my ambitions and goals without fear. After a good time of journaling I feel focused, motivated and at peace.

So the obvious question is why don't I make time for this? How hard can it be to find a peaceful 1/2 hour? Anyone who has a child understands that even drinking your cup of tea or coffee before it gets cold can be a challenge. But, of course the other reason is that I havn't truly acknowledged how important it is. I have plenty of time to pray and think while breastfeeding 20 times a day, but somehow that isn't the same. I need a pen in my hand. Call it a crutch if you want, but who cares when it's effective. I need to make time for this every day. It'll be good for my husband, good for my child and good for me. I'm a better, happier person when I've been able to let my thoughts gush on paper.

You may be wondering how I even have time to write this blog post. Well, that's because my wonderful husband realized I was overwhelmed and needed some time alone so he took Grey on a walk and I hopped in the bath tub for a little soak. I was going to do some dishes, fold the laundry and work on a paper for class when I got out, but as I was sitting there, I started to reflect on the last time I was able to leave the house to go journal at a coffee shop and how I came back home so invigorated, as if I'd actually had a whole night's sleep. So, I decided to sit down and process that and thought I might as well start updating this blog again. I hope everyone has their thing that helps them center their mind and release their worries. For me, it's sitting down with my journal to pour out my heart, my thoughts. It's less directed at God as it is acknowledging that He's there as a partner in the process. Anyways. It's good. So now I'm going to go write in my journal, release the stuff that isn't for the public's view. Have a nice day. Go journal.

Body and Buds

I've never been so aware of my body. Not that I ignored or neglected it before. We've always been on speaking terms. But, now it's got more leverage. Like tonight, "No, I'm sorry, you can't go to sleep yet. I'm not done digesting that delicious strawberry- blueberry- blackberry- grape smoothie you ate."

Suddenly, I'm aware that my body is already being asked to multi-task in the extreme and I should be more sensitive. A baby is being made inside me, and I don't have any direct hand in the process. Certainly, I have a responsibility to create the right environment - exercise, lots fo water, nutrient rich foods and rest - but I'm not actually involved with the process of dividing cells and forming spinal cord.

Today I was looking at an Anatomy textbook (that my sister actually edited). I love how they call some of the part "buds" as if they blossom to become lung flowers, liver flowers, and eventually arm flowers and ear flowers.

Quite Certain, Actually.

So, I went to the bookstore today. First I went to the baby/parenting section and when I had an overload of belly pictures, I made my way to the top floor: Reference: Household. My intent was to ingest some organizational inspiration and then return home to implement. I picked up three splendid specimens and searched for a chair to get myself into domestic receiving mode(not shame at my lack of organization, just openness, receiving).

BUT, then I saw on the shelf: The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman. The inside front flap poked a little hole in the dark cloth that had been shrouding my heart lately and flipping through the pages I knew I must buy this book, go home and paint and forget about organizing. Thank you Maira.

Famous Toilet Seat

Once, when I was young, with no thoughts of preschool or pediatrician decisions on my mind, I was in Rome, standing outside an art museum, convincing my friend we should go in, that it would be worth 9 euros (even though tha was about $15 US dollars with the embarrassingly weak exchange rate at the time) even though it might mean we would have to share a baguette for dinner, that this experience would nourish our souls...

And I said, "It's not like there's going to be a signed toilet seat inside." And she, astute with her art history knowledge knew I was referring to Duchamp, and because I made her laugh, she conceded.

However, I was wrong. Lo and behold, this was the one museum in the entire world blessed to house the most well known toilet seat in the world.

All that to say:

1) I wonder if I'll ever be able to go to Rome again.

2) Although mildly insane, I think Duchamp was an innovator.

3) Was his mother alive when he put that toilet seat in an art show?

Bel Canto

I just finished reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. Loved it. Completely. It was the first book I have read in a while that was completely satisfying. For example, Memory Keepers Daughter (by Kim Edwards) was exquisitely written, perfectly ordered, unflawed in structure, with shockingly beautiful use of metaphor and symbol, however… it was so intensely sad that I sometimes couldn’t pick it up and continue reading for fear that I would totally deflate, crumble from the misery of the characters. I do not necessarily mean this as a criticism. The book was effective, believable and beautiful. I only bring it up to explain why Bel Canto was refreshing. It was as if a group of people had all taken off their cynicism glasses and everything became precious and beautiful. The group of people may have been a combination of hostages and terrorists, but who is more in need of some relief from numbness?

On my list of books to read soon are Kim Edward's The Secrets of a Fire King, Water for Elephants, and Blindness by Jose Saramago.

Rivers and Tides

Last night we watched “Rivers and Tides,” an amazing documentary about an artist who uses only natural objects and mostly everything he creates doesn’t last – much of it is made intentionally near tide lines or out of unstable materials like ice.

I was moved, deeply. It’s shocking to see someone so committed to their art, even as it is so fragile. There must be many pieces he creates that no one sees but him. Thankfully, he’s also a swell photographer and can at least make a record of each creation. This man, Andy Goldworthy, knows that he was made to make these sculptures and he is not deterred by their instability or by a lack of a defined big-picture goal. He simply must create them.

I long for this. I long for the certainty that there is value in my art, my creative expressions. Perhaps I need to know the value within me, not the applause and approval.

Here are more photos of some of his sculptures.


Here's a clip from the documentary: