Ten.Thirty-Four
1. What is the name for this color? Not electric. Not hot. Dayglow? Whatever it is, it is gloriously unnatural and I cannot take my eyes off of it.
2. The windows are opaque with condensation. More gladiolas have bloomed. I gather the half-empty water glasses from the night before and clink towards the sink.
3. The softness of this light.
4. Cappuccino, no coffee.
5. Sweet orange oil at the base of my neck and on my wrists.
6. The way the wind bends these trees. I don't know what kind of trees they are but the way they sway in storms captivates me.
7. I admit to her that in some ways I am unwilling to open. I like the closeness of this circle as it now sits.
8. One kid out of three, and a husband delayed by bad weather, means Portillo's for dinner and a movie in my bed.
9. Lavender sky. This is a color of night I have yet to see.
10. The essential is invisible. And so then, how do we see with the heart? I must go read The Little Prince.
Ten.Thirty-Three
1. Up early to get last minute birthday things: m & m's and bacon and mozzarella.
2. I wanted to be better at this by now.
3. The air is so thick this morning but still I stand outside and watch the way the mist glows orange from the rising sun.
4. No deer.
5. I need to be studying. Instead I meditate for 10 minutes and then go downstairs to make guacamole and fresh chips.
6. The three of us huddle around the hot pans squeezing lime juice onto the chips before we toss them into our mouths. This. I want to always remember the moments we huddled around the counter eating bites of things.
7. We mark the wall with his name and the date. This somehow makes it all real. Makes this home feel like it belongs to us now.
8. Chocolate cake so deep in color it's almost black. Perfectly moist. The slight bitterness from the cocoa countered by the sweetness of the ice cream. Sweet/Bitter. Food is a metaphor for Life.
9. What is it that I will write?
10. Cicadas.
Ten.Thirty-Two
1. She's out by the tree grazing. Looks up at me when I slip through the glass door.
2. I sit on the stoop and watch her tiptoe through the tall grass.
3. Coffee is extra hot.
4. The sounds of mowers and trimmers and saws this morning.
5. Expanding into new ways of being require the creation of new boundaries. Right now they are pencil-thin.
6. The things I always forget: cilantro and extra tomatoes.
7. The way they are all in my bed, folded over one another, blankets on top of them. One is asleep.
8. How the heart stops when you drive around the bend and see the city skyline. Always. As if I'm seeing it for the first time, over and over again.
9. Rose water marshmallows.
10. Yes, I do belong here.
Ten.Thirty-One
1. The light this morning.
2. I tell him that I miss my 5 o'clock rise time. That I need that longer stretch of morning. That is where the magic is, I think.
3. Blueberry pancakes. I make so many things for them that I don't eat. Like blueberry pancakes and french toast and frozen french fries.
4. The home on the corner is having a patio put in. The bobcat is scraping the asphalt as it attempts to pick up more rock and transport it to the backyard. I get the feeling he doesn't know what he's doing.
5. Trouble focusing.
6. I realize that before I can communicate to them what I need, I need to ge clear on it myself. What do I desire for this space? This home? I do know I don't need nerf gun battles while I try to vaccuum.
7. This is maybe an example of the epic domestic.
8. I walk the yard and pull the weeds even though he tells me it's no use. But there is something therapuetic about walking through this carpet of green, reaching over with my bare fingers to feel for where the stem meets the earth. And the feeling of tugging band twisting until it releases itself to you.
9. Toward the far edge of the yard I can smell the wildness.
10. Electric pink and blue and purple in the sky.
Ten.Thirty
1. It's a Sunday morning and so the gentle ping of the golfers teeing off is steady.
2. I see the deer, mom and baby, way off in the distance—just the tops of their heads through the tall prairie grass.
3. Think about where you're holding back.
4. Focus and Consistency. How am I already 30 days into this? It feels like I just started last week. These 10. My morning pages. Breathing. Meditation. The sum of these things and everything else that's fallen away.
5. I still need to work on boundaries. We'll have a talk at dinner.
6. Sometimes I think we should have tried to get that house on 1.5 acres.
7. But we are here now. And this newness is odd for everyone. The rules are not the same.
8. Salmon and buerre rouge and risotto. Spinach.
9. This documentary. It's spoken almost entirely in French. It's a funny thing to read a movie. I like it. It challenges the brain. Plus I am beginning to learn French. Everything sounds better in French.
10. Qu'est-ce que le vin? Qu'est ce que la vie?
Ten.Twenty-Nine
1. It is dark and he's kissing my forehead.
2. I am waking late again.
3. The yellow bars of light that slip through the slats of the blinds.
4. Dew on the feet again.
5. She meditates with me on the front porch while eating a scone from a ziploc bag. I tell her that she can't breathe very deeply while eating a scone. She tells me that she can. She tells me that she can do almost anything.
6. I do miss the broken brick. So much.
7. Picking the largest and greenest leaves of sage. The basil is yellowing. There's another tomato growing—that makes 8. The peppers are multiplying. Again I say, please let this be a metaphor for life.
8. Chianti Classico.
9. The light. The light.
10. The world loves to be fooled.
Ten.Twenty-Eight
1. This is happening in reverse. It's getting closer and closer to the start of the school year but I'm rising later and later.
2. Dew on the tops of my feet.
3. I sit half in the sun and half in the shade. I love the feel of this mug but the coffee cools down far too quickly in it.
4. I'm getting back in the habit of watching my own thoughts.
5. The longing to return to California. For long stretches of vineyards and mountains and valleys. For Spanish tile and the scent of orange and bergamot and rosemary and cedar.
6. In the dream-that-will-be-reality we'll grow lemons and figs, avocados and cherries, maybe plant an olive tree.
7. But already, every morning I wake up and say, "wow, thank you."
8. Gewurztraminer, Viognier, Chenin Blanc.
9. The way people speak the words you need to hear. How the right words have a way of carrying you through to the next level. When others hold for you the grandest version of yourself. Because sometimes we can't see it. Trust that it's truth and rest in that.
10. And what are we here to do?
Ten.Twenty-Seven
1. I woke up late again. An hour later than I usually do.
2. He's eaten both bags of the candied walnuts. And I know I shouldn't be mad, but I am. And I tell him so while he's drinking his coffee and I'm pouring mine.
3. The deer is back and she is still unnamed. I am wondering if I should name her at all since she doesn't belong to me.
4. I take my cup upstairs, make the bed, grab a light blanket to throw over myself. The littlest one and I watch another half of Jurassic Park. I will miss this when school resumes.
5. I forget how important it is to rest. Quiet corners and adequate rest. Yes, more of this please.
6. I want to paint this wall black.
7. That feeling you get when you go back over the words you tried to call into your life: freedom, community, gather, vision, sweet, and delicious.
8. "Wine is dead." He says this and I instantly understand what he means.
9. But why is this person still here, still saying things to me?
10. In the shower I repeat (with my best Italian accent): "F-L-A-P. Franciacorta. Lambrusco. Asti. Prosecco."
Ten.Twenty-Six
1. Basil for the water. Lemon. Warm.
2. The deer is back. She's closer than she's ever been before and while I long to go out and extend a hand, I also know that this is not where she belongs. I apologize for being in her space. This would have been her home had it not been for humans.
3. Which makes me think of the wide open places that have yet to be touched by our hands. And the way you feel when you stumble upon them: small and infinite.
4. The water is not so bad.
5. I hear myself say over and over to the ones who knew me before, "I am having a harder time with this than I thought I would." It is honest but I wish it wasn't still so true.
6. Feta, dill, tomato, green onions, red onions, parsley, oregano, simple vinaigrette.
7. We sit on the sofa that I rarely sit on. I realize that I must sit on it more and gaze out the window toward the wind-swept trees and the tall grass bent over on the berm. This is a quiet corner. I need more quiet corners.
8. Dinner is late. I am slow. My body wants to rest. I had forgotten how tiresome it is to tread water.
9. This world. My heart aches.
10. Thunder in the dark.
Ten.Twenty-Five
1. Just cool enough for a sweater again.
2. He says I should give the young deer a name.
3. The words running through my head these days surprise me. Pleasantly. I could get used to this.
4. I have no intentions of leaving home today. Home. I told her yesterday that I needed to get rid of this mindset that this house of ours is temporary. Maybe then I can really root down into it. I want to root down.
5. I'm going to paint that wall black.
6. Like when you are growing and your skin feels too tight. Like your lungs are going to burst through your ribs.
7. The house is so quiet.
8. 4 straight days of meditation. My words for this week: Focus and Consistency.
9. Crumbled sausage, red onion, kale, parmesan, and pasta. Divine. Surprisingly good. So good we licked our plates clean.
10. They way the sun splits the trees when it sets.
Ten.Twenty-Four
1. I love a chilly morning.
2. Do dishes. Make granola. Brew coffee. Rinse the speckled bowl.
3. This chapter. This book and how it is shifting me. Making me exercise old muscles.
4. The way the light is the reflecting off the lake. Tiny ripples. So many geese. She's picking up all the feathers.
5. Friendships that manage to sustain themselves on a few short hours once or twice a year. For almost 10 years we've been doing this. All of us getting older and our conversations getting longer.
6. When he asks me to lay down with him, I always say yes.
7. The oregano is starting to flower. I've let it go for too long. The blackberries are still inside, finding a way to grow and ripen in this little sunny sweet spot. Everything is thriving. Everything is taking up space.
8. Gewurztraminer.
9. 15 days.
10. Rooting down and in.
Ten.Twenty-Three
1. Picked some basil. Birds hanging out by the stoop.
2. Bacon and english muffins and fruit. I'm eating the last blueberry hand pie with basil sugar that I made the day before. That and coffee.
3. Meal planning. Trying to find the joy in this again. Three new cookbooks from the library and the latest issue of Food & Wine magazine should give me enough inspiration. On Sundays we try new things. On Sundays there is time for work and rest and experimentation. I like to do new things slowly.
4. Lake dreams. I think of the time I spent a long weekend at Table Rock Lake with my friend and her family, waking up early with her mom to drink Folgers and watch the water while everything was still and quiet. Jason Mraz playing through my headphones all day as I sketched the women laying out by dock.
5. Find the joy in all of this again.
6. What I wanted to say: "What a beautiful way to honor your brother."
7. It's hot but I sit outside anyway. I do my best learning here. I am always finding little quiet corners in and outside of the home. Little quiet corners save me. Everyone needs a little quiet corner.
8. Bowl full of plums.
9. Grilled Okra.
10. Slow Sunday.
Ten.Twenty-Two
1. I step out onto the back stoop to check the movement of the air. This is how I know what the heat will be like today.
2. This newly acquired practice - of checking the air - reminds me of that morning in the vineyard with Adam. It was a chilly 42 degrees and the dew was soaking through my converse and wetting my feet. And he said that the way clouds and the sky looked that morning told him that the sunset that night would be beautiful. I am learning how to read the sky.
3. There are only the three of us in the warehouse today moving furniture around, taking pictures, making small talk. I take a stroll through the shop to see if I can capture anything interesting and my eyes rest on a stack of polygons cut out of wood. He sees me touching them and tells me what they're to be used for. He tells me that his brother died on Monday and that those shapes are for the lid to the urn he is making.
4. Him in his black cut-off tee and red bandanna around his head, coffee in his hand, Johnny Cash playing from his phone, telling me that his brother is dead now. That this is for the urn he is making for him. I am telling him that I am sorry and that this is going to be beautiful. Him with his sad eyes and soft smile and coffee in his hand.
5. What I wanted to say, but couldn't think to say in that moment was, "What a beautiful way to honor your brother."
6. We are in a constant relationship with grief. Constantly experiencing the loss of an idea, a dream, a person, a relationship, a sense of self or place. And so I know that because this is true about life, then there must ways in which we can learn to move with grief. How am I in my relationship with Grief? How am I moving with Grief?
7. The flashcards all over the floor. Standing in the middle of the stack.
8. Late afternoon cappuccinos.
9. What I didn't say: "What a beautiful way to honor your brother."
10. The deer are back.
Ten.Twenty-One
1. Dark skies make it hard to wake.
2. Black dress.
3. 10 years. How quickly the time passes. I can believe it but I can't.
4. Sets of espresso and cappuccino cups. Indigo ceramics. In this life, I'm determined to find ways to make the ordinary more magical. This is what I live for.
5. I also live for sunrises, sunsets, moody skies, linen, cotton, fresh flowers, dried eucalyptus, their smiles, a firm hand on the small of my back, hot coffee, good wine, the goat cheese croquettes from Barn Diva.
6. Silence.
7. Abundance. Community. Creativity. Curiosity. Inspiration. Grace. Gratitude.
8. Hibiscus flower. It's been imported from Australia and soaked in its own nectar and some sugar. It is delicate and delicious and sweet.
9. Bison hanger steak with pork cheek angnolotti, charred ramp butter, caramelized carrot puree, fresh peas, pickled garlic scape, and tangy veal jus. 2010 Chateau La Garde Pessac-Leognan.
10. Don P.X. Gran Reserva. 1986. My first sherry. I am in love.
Ten.Twenty
1. Morning that is dark and brooding. The sound of trains off in the distance. Coffee for one.
2. The golf course sounds an alarm when lightening is present. I've heard it go off twice already.
3. This is the kind of weather that pulls you back in. I light the candles on the tray, nestle into the corner and watch the rain come down.
4. He has forgotten. Calls me right as I've left the house, children half-asleep eating breakfast with the babysitter. I get a sweet drink through the drive-through and then sit in the rain. This may be the only time I get to be alone.
5. There is a tenderness in parts of my body that waxes and wanes with the cycle of the moon. Despite its consistency, the arrival of this tenderness still surprises me. I don't know that I want to get used to it.
6. Now that the skies are calm, I take the plants back outside, picking off leaves of peppermint to chew on. This is so satisfying. Last night the big kid says to me, "This is your first real success." I chuckled. It was the way he said it without the scent of judgement in his voice.
7. To be able to say out loud all that I've been processing. The new truths that are begging to be underlined in the skin. I'm really trying.
8. Keep it pointed to where you want it to go. [Or something like that.] - Danielle LaPorte
9. I'm ready for the rains to come back again.
10. There's something to be said for learning how to be alone. I remember when I craved closeness, afraid to be with only my self without the distraction of another body, any body. It's a tricky kind of hunger that I'm learning to feed by trying to understand the ways in which I can be all the things I ever I thought I needed. Maybe I already am all the things I ever thought I needed.
Ten.Nineteen
1. The way the sun makes the prairie grass on the berm glow.
2. The peppers are beginning to drop. Every morning I am peering beneath the leaves, searching for new growth.
3. It's amazing how much you choose not to do when there is so much that needs to be done.
4. The edges of the gladiolas are browning and withering away.
5. Everyone should have a person in their life with whom they can communicate using only bitmojis. Because some days only words won't do.
6. The coordinating of time. How we are constantly trying to fold it and stretch it and bend to it.
7. Cherries. Sanguine. Fingers stained and dripping.
8. Their laughter.
9. The smell of roasted tomatoes and garlic. The scent of the rosemary. Smoked salt. Yeast.
10. The way the storms drove in. Hard, fast, and heavy. The way we flung open the door to rescue toppled plants, the sage too heavy for me to move. The white streak from cloud to road.
Ten.Eighteen
1. Fog hovering above the road in front and the wetlands out back. The tomatoes are increasing in size, as is my wonderment.
2. Butter, brown sugar, vanilla, water, salt, cinnamon, oats.
3. “I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing.” - David Whyte
4. You know you've reached a milestone when you let your new neighbor walk across the crumbs on your floor. You have your husband make her a cappuccino while you sip on lukewarm drip coffee and water laced with apple cider vinegar and raw honey.
5. Blue velvet cloud.
6. She asked us to give her the gift of beauty. On my list: the beauty of longing.
7. Hydrangeas, petals pink and wilting.
8. I have an affinity for things that are big and delicate. Like hydrangeas and peonies and dahlias. Like men and dreams and good wine. Like Life.
9. Car full of kids waiting for ice cream.
10. Readiness.
Ten.Seventeen
1. I missed the sunrise again today but still managed to catch a glimpse of orange on the blades of green grass. I didn't put this on my wishlist for a new home, but the sunrises we've had here - they are some of my favorites.
2. The tomatoes are getting so big. I think I will make a caprese. Michael says I should try to make my own mozzarella.
3. I am wishing for just one more hour without the children so that I can finish my morning pages and gather my thoughts. These quiet hours belong to me. They are mine. They are sacred. I just need need one more hour to be my self.
4. He made the coffee.
5. Live EMPTY.
6. Two steaks. I will sear them and slice them and serve them with a roasted corn and tomato salad and some potatoes.
7. These are the kinds of neighbors you wish you had. The kind that lend you tools and give you their extra mulch. The kind where your daughters float between the two houses without shoes, eating each other's food, racing bicycles around the neighborhood. So when you feel like maybe you made a mistake, think of your neighbors and the way the ways in which they surprise and delight you.
8. So many bricks.
9. I watched a spider eat an ant.
10. The sun is shifting. I should be studying a map of Northern Italy but instead I am drinking chardonnay from California and being talked into running a 5k in October. I missed capturing the sun before it fell behind the trees. The sky is now just dusty blues and pale yellows tucked away among the green.
Ten.Sixteen
1. The sun always beats through the upstairs window but this time I was in bed late enough, and the door was open wide enough, for me to see the light float into the room.
2. Make the bed. White on white on white. Red wine stains on his side.
3. Six teeny firm and green buds on the pepper plant. Grow little babies, grow.
4. The texture of the paper in this journal. The way the ink sits on the pages. How every line I write feels like prophecy. I am laying out my bones.
5. Because I know that I am destined for what's better than good.
6. The pit in my stomach because I know where we are going.
7. The coolness of this day in mid-July. A gift. I am breathing. The sun is here and then gone again.
8. Cold water.
9. The same question over and over. My answer each time is the same but I wish it wasn't. Even if I forced out different and new words, I think the corners of my mouth would still be lined with the truth.
10. How large the hydrangeas have gotten in just one season. So big and green and white. We rented an old farmhouse once, in Kansas City, from a family who had moved on to something more grand. But occasionally I'd see the wife sitting in front of the house in her silver Volvo smoking a cigarette, staring intently, before rolling away. I think I understand it now - the way the heart is always pulling you back. You return again and again until the healing is over.
Ten.Fifteen
1. I am not the first one awake.
2. The way the sun splits the trees, red and orange. And the fog rising above the wetlands.
3. Two old fashioned sour cream donuts with coffee.
4. On the front stoop I stretch out my legs and lean my head back into the sun. I can still feel the tightness in my ribs as I breathe into this moment.
5. It's been so long since I had a Brunello di Montalcino. Montalcino. Mon-tal-chino. I like the way it sounds in my mouth. In another life I'd have been French or Italian and spoken in romantic whispers.
6. Dream. Blue velvet cloud.
7. The sound of Euro pop from the garage. How it makes me laugh until I cry. How it reminds me of the Russian who, when installing the subway tile, blasted Euro pop and N'Sync from a tiny black stereo.
8. Barefoot on the stoop. The warmth of concrete beneath my feet and on the backs of my thighs. This makes me feel most alive.
9. This time with them. The months apart are sometimes too long and I am craving the return of our circle. It is with them I become my best self.
10. On the long ride home I think of the old neighborhood with its Irish neighbors, the tall oaks, the holes in the sidewalk. I think of how I missed the peonies in bloom on Van Buren and the sound of the church bells. I cry.