A woman’s dilemma

The rhythm of days is gradually emerging, and god is it frenetic. Tonight I sit, staring at my computer, writing a crappy blog post instead of writing a crappier paper. Do I really have things to share? Like what it is like to be a professional yet also slowly efface myself for my family. To allow my husband to gently suffocate my career. I’m not so sure I want to write about that. At least not explicitly. Especially since I’m not so sure that I mind pouring out my life as a nurturing draught for those whom I love the most in this world. It is fulfilling in a way no theorem ever has been for me.


June 18, 2012

Almost the same

Despair seeps in through the cracks between them,
Like dust through the eaves of an Oklahoma farmhouse.

A candle for my father.

June 19, 2012

I love you dad.
But I don’t feel compelled to clutch memories to my neck
or inhale them with my eyes shut tight.
You are in me.
Your blood.
Your teaching.
Your foibles.
Your constant striving.

You were with me as I rode past rolling hills under a blue morning sky.

You were with me when I felt my cheeks warm and my eyes darken at an unexpected schedule change.

I would love to be able to call you,
or sit with you.
To hear your voice
To feel your arms hug me tight.

But I don’t need it.
I lack for nothing.
What you gave me is more than sufficient.

Even your last nurturing gift of folding my children’s clothes before sending us home was poured into an overflowing cup.

I’m not busy

I have decided that I will no longer be busy. 

I am not quitting my job, not pulling my children out of activities, not resorting to packaged food. 

I have a very full life, but busy is a state of mind.  One that is no longer helpful to me.

I do not need to worry about what has just passed or fret about what is next. 

Each moment holds more than enough to fill me.


I think that I was once organized. I have files, and books on shelves, and toys in bins. 

But now I also have school pictures from the last three years interleaved with various other keepsakes in a shelf on my desk, and most of my papers are in a stack that will eventually find its way into my neat files. 

The books I actually read are scattered around my desk and bed.  I think that I have room on my shelves for nearly all of them, especially if I use that extra space between the top of the books and the next shelf up. 

And I don’t want to talk about the toys. They are not my toys after all.


Go Hard or Go Home

I eat up the headlines like candy. What will kill me now? My cell phone? Evidently not. At least not by giving me brain cancer. I guess a car accident is still pretty likely, though.

We are cowards: so anxious to avoid death, but also reluctant to embrace life. It is inevitable that we will fail and that we will die. But if we try, we may also succeed.


She is a whirlwind,
sometimes shrill and always moving.
Beautiful to watch,
impossible to grasp.

My charge is to love,
to teach,
to train.

I hold in my arms this gift of God
and discover that the one to be trained
is me.