Babama and Baby NuNu

Recently, I did a meditation that asked me to remember the oldest person (Babama, my great grandmother) and the youngest person (Baby NuNu) I had loved. If they could have a conversation with each other, what would they learn? How would I introduce them? I was in tears then because they would never meet each other as Babama died before my babies were born.

But I was reminded that some things live on. Nu lost her screen privileges this week, and when I was telling Big A about why she had lost them, he reminded me of Babama's principle. Basically, if you enable people to cheat (by leaving valuables around, or being lax about people copying off you, etc.) you are responsible for the crime--not the unfortunates who are compelled by their circumstances to steal, copy, lie etc.

When I trace the timeline of this piece of advice through the generations and geographies it has traveled, it's basically a study of how love connects us.

Now for that difficult conversation with the 10-year-old.

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The Uncurling

I had thought they were
telling a story about you

but then I catch my name

and know that now

this is a story about me.

It's just another story anyway. 

It seems there are only seven,

or eleven, or several hundred

with thin differences in place,

in time, detail, and mystery.

I grieved all the dead kittens

lying on the highway until 

you told me they were raccoons--

animals with no human family. Oh. 

So we recognize the incognizable--

is that even possible? I mean.

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two out of three

TFW you look at the three sympathy cards you got two weeks ago, and cannot remember whom the third one was supposed to be for. One was for M's mother, another for C's doggo, and the third?

 

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Progress is Sexy

The defining measurement for this bicycle shed
came from the length of our tandem bike.
I can't wait for all our joint adventures.

As the writing deadlines loomed,
I did dream about this lot a lot
(After I cleaned teverything

In the time-honored
tradition of writers
everywhere.)

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Big Dog the Builder

One day, this will be a bicycle shed.

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Meditation

the right breath for the right moment

the banal miracle of waking time

sun from woodpile

dew from the dark

kneading words from confusion

the shape of paint from bluster

flower from loam--

lighting life's candle

glances thickening like honey,

nearing the ledge of knowing

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Song

My heroes are broken, broke
their shadows mix with mine.
Remember us as we first were--

at home before the shadows
the coincidence of accidents
--spread on wide wings of day

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