Arcs in the Sky

(photo by photobucket.com)

"The soul would have no rainbows had the eyes no tears."~ author unknown

If the eyes have cried the ribbons of colored light should follow. Should? Perhaps.

I've been thinking about that a lot. About what happens when you've wrung yourself inside out and still you're standing under an empty expressionless sky. 

Perhaps it depends where the soul looks. 

Lately I've started thinking that unexpected kindness from a woman I barely know, the kiss of my four year old and 9000 words up on a brand new book might all be the colors I've been ignoring. 

Arcs in the sky are nice. Everyone sees them. 

But perhaps the rainbows of the soul are a more personal, intimate matter?

What about you? What have been your rainbows?

PS- when my rainbow finds its way to the thousands of miles above you'll all be the first know. :)

Same Kind of Different

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

I look like you do.

Life pulls us both in, sits us down and whispers something we haven't heard before. It's called a new day. And I open my eyes the same way you do.

When you cry, I understand, because I cry too. And when you yawn, I nod my head, because I ache for sleep. When you stand at the edge of your shore line and throw a pebble, I will see the ripples, because I am only on the other side. When you stare in the mirror and wonder, when you look backwards over your shoulder and then stumble, when it rains and your boots are sodden, I am in those moments, because we are not so very different.

Maybe that's all I need to remember... that we aren't so very different. Maybe that's all any of us need to remember.

I have bipolar2. Think about it this way, I look like you do.

Life pulls us both in, sits us down and whispers something we haven't heard before. It's called a new day. And I open my eyes the same way you do.

~

What about you? Trauma, tragedy, race, religion, mental health, age, sexual orientation, social status... does it separate us all as much as some might like to think?

(PS- A massive thank you to those who visited my blog when I was away tending to the realities of mothering alone while husband travels. I have not forgotten you and I will be visiting blogs again today. Thank you for the show of support and for those who drop by to tell me how much my words have meant to them. I am humbled.)

Ode to Holes

Wonderful, aren't they?
Holes.
They are the beginning of something. The thing I stand above, scratching my head, often wondering what is at the bottom.
They make me dream.
They also make me nightmare.
That's the nature of holes.
They aren't all sweet little slots where you place a coin, turn the handle and wait for what you want to fall down another hole and into your waiting hands. Not all holes are vending machines. And thank God for that.
I might never have seen the beauty of life if not for holes. If not for the chance to fall into one, to desperately shine my torch light along the roof of a hole that joined forces with many holes to become a tunnel, I would never have seen the possibilities. Because that's what a hole is. You can wonder what's at the end, if you'll get to the end or if indeed there is an end, but the hole remains what it is.
The perfect  invitation.

Holes invite you to look. To search. To go places, or lead other's to places. They invite you to step down, step side ways, step around or stop. To poke your finger through or peer into the possibilities.

They invite you to notice.
The hole in your pocket. The hole in the fence. The hole in your writing. The hole in your dreams. The hole in your life, your marriage, your friendships.
Dare I say it?
The hole in your heart.

They invite questions.
Did something use to be where this hole was? Has this always been a hole or is something missing? Should I do something about the missing something?

They invite a challenge. Can I sew up the hole? bridge the hole? Climb out of the hole? Fill the hole in? Talk my way out of the hole? Or do I grab my quivering little heart full of holes and just jump right into life and all its uncertainties?

Holes make me more attentive. They make me walk around, take a different way home, take the time to talk to those I love, be more real, expose my own holes and care about the holes other people show me. They make me imperfect. They make my life imperfect. They mean I live in an imperfect world. And that my dear friends is the wonder of holes.

they say, this is not the end, it might not even be the beginning. It's just a hole. What will I do about it?
Holes invite change. Even the ones that collapse under foot and suck you in, even the ones that bleed, yes even them, they speak of possibilities.

Of course you could ignore the holes. You could. But I wouldn't. Holes have a way of still being there even with your eyes squeezed shut. I warn you though (it's only fair), holes lead to new worlds. Ask Alice who found madness, but also her Wonderland. She knew. And I know too. Holes are magical things. Ugly things. Beautiful things.

Despise not the humble hole. Without the hole, without the space, without the void, there  is no pathway to somewhere else.

The Picture of my Life

Today was not the puzzle piece I was looking for. The colors were wrong. It didn't fit with yesterday. And it didn't seem to fit with the picture I have in my head of the future. Maybe I got the wrong piece? Maybe I am making the wrong puzzle? Or maybe, just maybe it is the right piece, but I don't yet see enough of the picture...

For the last two weeks our family has poured over 1000 puzzle pieces in various stages of fitting together and with various success. When one of us gets frustrated the other comes along and picks up another piece. Sometimes we do it together. Isaiah, my seven-year-old is proving himself a very competent puzzler. My husband, Matt, very determined. My three-year-old, very random. And me? Well, let's just say that I spend a lot of time glaring at stubborn pieces that will not fit where I want them too.

Isaiah was watching me the other afternoon and said, "Mom, that doesn't go there."
"Well, " I said, still trying to smoosh two pieces into some sort of happy union, "Well, they should!"
Isaiah laughed at me and went on his merry way. Later that night Matt found heaps more pieces that fitted together. By the time I went back to the puzzle it was easy to see where my piece belonged. I clicked it into place and thought nothing more about it.

Until today. My day that didn't fit. My day that seemed random and completely out of step with the picture I am desperately trying to create. And then I got it. It's not the puzzle piece. It's me. When handed a day that doesn't fit I  am all determine to stomp through until it submits to my will. Inevitably I end up in some sort of knotted mess saying things like, "Why, Lord, why? When, Lord when?" You know the kind of day. I'm not the only one who gets these, right?

But today I thought, what if 'why' and 'when' and all the other questions I throw up to the heavens are not even the right questions? What if I I simply need to wait another day, or month, or year, or three, to understand how this very day fits into the grand picture of my life? Maybe sometimes what I need is a few more puzzle pieces that click together before this piece makes sense to me, before I can see how this day is apart of my living and how everything is as it should be. Maybe then I can ask the right questions and find the answers that fit. Maybe. Maybe not.

But his I know. Everyday, even a stubborn day, even a puzzle piece that I was not looking for, is apart of something. It is apart of the picture of my life.

Maybe it is only when the picture is complete that we see how beautiful this messy thing we call life is.


What about you? Do you puzzle?
 If you write, do you puzzle your way through a book, or does it have to fit from the start?

Puzzle on people, puzzle on

Crazy? Welcome.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, 

the ones who are mad to live, 

mad to talk, 

mad to be saved, 

desirous of everything at the same time, 

the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, 

but burn, burn, burn, 

like fabulous yellow roman candles 

exploding like spiders across the stars." 

                                              ~ Jack Kerouac

Yeah, Jack. Me too. Me too. 

The crazy ones inspire me. They push me forward. They keep me breathing.

The crazy ones run with me at 5am. Thank you Tracey.

The crazy ones read my manuscript for the fiftieth time and still see hope. Thank you Wendy.

The crazy ones aren't afraid to go three rounds with me in the boxing ring. Thank you Sam.

The crazy ones run around my house giggling and playing chasey. Thank you Isaiah and Cyrus.

The crazy one calls himself my husband. Thank you Matt.

One day a crazy one will agent my book. A crazy one will publish me. And lots of crazy ones will read me. Oh, to see that crazy day!

Here's to crazy ones. You know who you are.

What about you? What crazy ones do you surround yourself with?

Off Track

I spend a lot of time off track. 

I can see the track with its cobblestones and open spaces, winding through seaside villages I want to visit and arriving at destinations I am keen to see.  Some days I join the traffic. I too am one of the Traveling People, doing things and going places. And then there are other days. Mondays. Thursdays. Wet days. Windy days. Forgetful and forgettable days. Or just days when I am not moving.

On those days I slump into a cafe, squeeze myself into a plastic red booth and order a stack of pancakes I don't really need. Or I am the homeless man riffling through your trash, a tin can at my feet and a sign about my neck which reads, 'Feed the hungry.' Some days I am the wrinkled woman with faded photos in my pocket who walks into a library near you and tucks herself up in the back behind last week's newspaper.

Some days I am not a writer. I am not a mother. And I am not a wife. I am barely me. 

I get angry with me about those days. So pointless, so full of wasted hours. Then, in a last bid effort to rescue some of those hours, I decide to write anyway. Right there in what ever hovel of a state I find myself, I write. Sometimes the words are as flat as me. But often the words rise up with the wings I wish I had. They are full of everything I need to tell myself and can't.

And that is the writing I have been able to publish. Not the carefully planned out, well ordered, life-is-on-track writing. But the I-am-off-track-and-daring-to-write-anyway writing. THAT is the writing I have  success with.

Now, when I am off track, I grab my lap top. I sit in the mud by the side of the track I should be on and I write. I am not afraid to write in that place. And I am not angry with me any more. Because those words are flavored with grit. They are full of girl who sometimes sits because she can't stand and sometimes writes because she speak. They are the real words that come from that deep place inside that I used to keep hidden. 

And they are the words that return to me with an editor's letter of acceptance.

Off track is nice. You meet people there. People like you, friends. Because this blog is mostly my Off Track Writing. 

So now you know.

I spend a lot of time off track.

What about you? Off track? On track? Don't care?

One day. But not today.

I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.
The day climbs onto my bed and bounces up and down. Laughing. Saying things like, "Can you get up now? Are you awake, Mommy?" As if anyone could be asleep.

Some days are full of fight and yelling. The day pounds its feet up my hallway and cries, "Mom! He won't give me my (insert name of must-have-toy-or-world-will-end)! He ate my toast! He sat on my head!" Of course the day does not take all the facts into account. Ones brother is probably reacting to having his head sat on first.

Sometimes the days wake me with giggles and sloppy kisses on my cheek. Little hands sneak under the covers to grip my own. " I love you, Mommy," the day's voice whispers. Those days have blue eyes. The kind that house 'Cheeky' and 'Cute' in equal proportions.

Some days don't bother to come into my room at all.  Those days sound like stomping feet in the kitchen and banshee calls of, "Mom, there's no milk left!" On those days even the covers over my head don't hide me.

Sometimes the day is whiny. Fretful. Or just plain needs to go back to bed. The day gets started on the wrong foot and I find myself hugging it to my chest while it sobs incoherent things with its thumb in its mouth. The day can be so little then. So needy. But I wake to it anyway. I rise with only half myself up and the other half of me laying unaware still kissing the moonlight. Sometimes I rise with not much of me at all. Only a teaspoonful of me is available to change wet bedsheets, kiss the bleary eyes and welcome the breakfast dishes and piles of laundry.

Other days I, well, I'd like to say some days wake me with a superwoman outfit. But that day hasn't come yet. I keep waiting for it. Do you suppose it's just late?

Some days are 24 hours long. TWENTY. FOUR. HOURS. And I wonder if it might let me take a nap or go to the toilet in peace. I don't wonder for long. The day is banging at my door, kicking my walls and refusing to co operate.

But this I know.
One day, oh shiny day, those mornings will be a memory. A tiny piece of the way we were. The day will come when I won't be as needed.  I will wake in my own time to greet the sun in my own way.
One day, oh sad day, no little hands will need help to pour milk on their cereal or butter their toast.
One day, oh happy day, I will wake to a house of quiet.

But for today, and for lots of tomorrows, I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.

What about you? What kind of day wakes you today?

Give the Boys some Plates

Amusing three-year-olds is an art from. And being that Cyrus is the second three-year-old to come through the ranks in our house I am after my Masters Degree in this art form. Well, aim high, right?

We recently attempted a shopping trip in IKEA. Which coincidentally is the word Cyrus learnt to say, right after 'Mumma', 'Dadda' and 'No'. Okay, fine. It was the first word the kid said. So, we go there a bit. So what? There are worse sins people.

Anyhoo, Cyrus and I were making our way through the delicious windy paths, much like the yellow brick road taking us to All-The-Stuff-I-Didn't-Know-I-Needed. I was employing all my Mommy tricks for keeping him happy while I played with all the Big Girl Toys. (There's a lot to push, pull and generally muck with in those stores- delightful!)

I gave Cyrus the little pencil complete with IKEA order form to draw on. I gave him a quick turn on the twirly chair. I let him open all the drawers in the display kitchen (okay, that was me). But after an hour of looking, and me still not being done, Cyrus was making a game out of chase me down the breakables isle. Clearly I needed diversion. Or a straight jacket. Are they illegal for kids? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the diversion.

Stuffing some plastic plates into my sunshine yellow IKEA bag of happiness I went to catch my child before the stack of glass cups caught him first. (relax, this ends better than you think it will)  Cyrus saw me and started to run. But then he stopped. The plastic plates pile behind me caught his eye. Miracle of miracles the boy came back of his own accord. He looked at the plates and peered into my shopping bag pulling them out.
"Oh wow, Mommy. I like these, do I!"
Well, who who have thought. Plastic plates. Of course. The perfect diversion. So I let him hold the plates. Situation conquered. Right?
Sure.

He held those plates through the rest of the store. He held them through the check-out. He held them on the way to the car. He held them on the 30 min drive  home. And when we got home I naively thought the game was up and we could now put the plates away. After all I did actually buy these plates for my kids to eat off at some stage. But I realized the error in my judgement when I tried to take the plates off him.

Bursting into fat sobbing tears Cyrus looked up at me and said, "But I love my plates Mommy. I wanna  take them to bed."
They were pretty plates. Like over sized flat candy. Six in total. All the colors of a crayon drawn rainbow.

"You really like those plates, Bubba?" I asked
"Uh huh, and I want to cuddle them in bed. There my plates. You bought them for me. I like them, do I." He was stroking them by this stage. No, I am not joking.
Taking my hands off his plates I said, "Yes, yes you do. And they are all yours."
Hey, for two dollars I can get some more.

Who said happiness had to be extravagant and hard to find? I got my master's degree today people. Just sayin. And I have a smile. Right now, in the middle of really tough re-writes, I'll take any reason to be happy. Writing is not for the faint of heart. Maybe I should go back and buy myself some of those rainbow plates to cuddle?

IKEA, oh land of plastic happiness, I love you, do I.

What about you? Got yourself some rainbow plates to keep you company while writing? If you take them to bed, I don't want to know. :)

The Town of Uncomfortable

I came screeching to the banks of... something. Something I did not have a name for. Something I did not see coming on the horizon, even though I was running from me and everything that hunted my mind. But there is no running past a Great Expanse. By its sheer mass, it made itself known.

I am not sure that I decided to cross it so much as I decided not to stay stuck. All I knew was that on this side of the Great Expanse was mud and running. And I was tired of dirty and disgusting. And all runners know you cannot run forever.

Problem was, on the other side of the Great Expanse was Unknown and Unconquered. Unfamiliar.
Un-everything really.

So I jumped into the Great Expanse. And promptly drowned. I didn't see that coming either. I know. How could I not, right? Jump in the deep end when you cannot swim leads itself to drowning. But there you go. I jumped. Cause that is who I am. A Jumper. And a Passionate Believer that the Unknown can become the Known if you will  just leap.

So the swimming was really just hacking at water and the breathing looked more like coughing up my lungs. But eventually I got real familiar with the Unfamiliar and all its fast flowing currents hidden below the kiss of a calm surface. And I didn't drown. Imagine that. Imagine my surprise.

To cut a long long story/swim really short (yeah, I hear your sigh of relief) I dragged my wet self out the other side and found land. And a town. And another whole way of being. And here's the most unexpected part about the Unfamiliar and the Unknown, once I got there, I mean after I got past the fact that the town I arrived in was named Uncomfortable, I actually thrived. Really.
Oh sure, not right away. Not even the next day or the next week. But once I stopped fighting the fact that facing fears, myself, my hopes and dreams and basically everything that ever meant anything to me also meant that I was living at least part time in Uncomfortable, I saw the benefits. I got to show up and be real. Cool hey? Some people didn't think so. But the ones that did, they moved to Uncomfortable too. And together we got real good at building bridges.

This summer I even bought a house in the town of Uncomfortable. Camping was getting old. And now I welcome the gift of moving beyond myself to new possibilities. And here, I'll go one step further, I like this new town. The ever changing, ever growing sum of the place. It has a great vibe. Know what I mean?

What about you? Ever been to Uncomfortable? Got friends there? If you read this blog, you do now :)

The Art of Smiling

If you cry well.

The art of smiling is, like all arts, a practiced skill. And it is in direct proportion to how well you let yourself cry. One cannot exist without the other. Smiling and crying. They are the ying and the yang. The white that wouldn't  know light without the black. Laughter that has never know tears is false at worst, and shallow at best. Can you smile well if you've never really let yourself cry?

The same is true even for characters in books. Without the angst we cannot relate. But true smiling that rises like dawn after the witching small hours of night is full of truth. That kind of smile holds all of the human condition and still chooses to show itself in the moment. It is a smile you can smile back at. Smile with. And smile because of. 

If you look past perfection.

It is a smile in the silliness of little things. The ability to appreciate feathers, even if the fall in the mud. And butter flies, though they live such a short time. It is the baby that sucks his toes and the toddler with cake all over her face. And your walls. It is the tickle from your husband, though he leaves his stubble in your sink. It is the cuddle from your best friend. The a cup of tea with your Mum. Even though both are human. Imperfect. Flawed. Just like you. And there in lies the art of smiling.

A smile breeds in the reality of imperfection. Once you know what it is to grieve, you can know what is to laugh. Each day baths us in at least one moment of just being. And if you catch that moment, really hold it against your body, it might just be soft enough to practice the art of smiling.

What about you? What can you share about the art of smiling?

Have you Heard the One About the Cow?

"Have you heard the one about the cows?"
"No."
"There were two of them."
Is that the funny part?"
"Wait. I was just pausing for dramatic effect. I'm getting to it. There were two of them standing on the hill and the first cow looks at the other cow-"
"Have I heard this one? This isn't the stupid 'moooo' thing is it?"
*insert snorting laughter*
"Oh, Matt!"
"Let me finish it."
*insert eye rolling"
"So the first cow looks at the second and cow and says, 'mooooo.' The fist cow says, 'Darn, I was going to say that!"
*insert more snorting laughter*


"You would think that was the first time you'd told the dumb joke..."
"Oh come on *more laughter* that was funny!"
"Babe, it was not funny when we met and 17 and you told me. It was not funny at 21 when I had to listen to you retell it to people on our honeymoon. It was not funny at at 25 when I had to watch you retell it to our new born son. It is not funny watching him, at aged 6, retell it to his friends. And it has not gotten any funnier listening to you still retelling it in your thirties. You need a new joke."
*insert thinking husband*
"Okay what about this one. There were two fish, and the first fish says to the-"
"Maaaaattt!"
*insert me walking away*
*insert him still snorting with laughter*




What about you? Got any Friday Funnies to share? I don't want to hear the one about the cow or the fish. Otherwise, I am pretty open. Make me laugh. :)

Brewing a Brand New Sky

Welcome, 2010.

This is The Year of  Brewing the Brand New Sky. 

Will you brew one with me?

Peace walks its unfamiliar footsteps across the oak floors of the library inside me. How I have longed to walk with it. Together we throw opened the stained glass windows of my mind, freshly washed from the inside out. Filtered light dances in colors at our toes and the giggling is easy.  My windows open out, touching the blueness floating by. I drink in the air with its scented herbal teas and jam and cream flavors. A spring picnic.

Will you taste the sky above your life?

Scattered tea stained pages collected from their drift down empty corridors are gathered in my hands. Softly held.  There are many things I should not forget, and the past speaks often with wise old lady words gathered over time and tribulation. I bind the pages in a leather book and place it on a middle shelf away from the window and my sky. The past is reading material for evenings by fireplaces when settled on marsh mellow couches within myself. Not for now, I think. Though later I change my mind and let even these words and thoughts become apart of brewing the Brand New Sky.

The kettle within my mind begins to boil, puffy steam rises. Some thoughts are thick, others whispy. And all filled with good and honest things that float out as clouds in the blueness. Holding the kettle out the window against the back drop of sky I begin to imagine cloud shapes, just like a child.  

Silly whimsical creatures fill the sky.

Joy.

Oh, joy.

Could this happiness be mine?

As the steam whips away on breezes I pull the kettle inside the window and refill it with the water of my thoughts. This time I begin to plan out the clouds. What do I really want to see brewed in my sky this year? Then I laugh at myself.

Plan out the clouds?

Really Tab?

And waves can be pinned on sand too I suppose?

Again, I laugh. Kind laughter. A friend's voice within me. My own voice. And how strange it is to hear it.

This time, when my thoughts fill the kettle and I hold it to the sky, I remember to keep looking with a child's eyes. Wonder. Enchantment. A place where cloud shapes are elephants holding umbrellas and trees dancing with my little sister.

Again and again I fill the kettle. Again and again my new thoughts brew. How the sky drinks me in, holding my thinking in the cup of its opened hand. An awaked lover wanting my touch.

This year it is my resolution to brew that sky with gentle things. To pour a cup of tea in the afternoon shade and share with myself who I am and what I desire. To find the natural rhythm within and let whatever comes, the pain, the sadness, the new joy, maybe even the past with wise old lady words, fill the kettle of my thoughts and Brew a Brand New Sky.

Not always blue perhaps.

But this sky will be mine.

Filled with sweet discoveries of myself.

Even if imperfect. Especially if imperfect.

Even if unplanned. Especially if unplanned.

I want to accept myself and fill that sky with New Thinking that doesn't deny me the beauty within.

What about you?

This is The Year of Brewing the Brand New Sky.

Will you Brew one with me?

[image]

Still Stompin Through the Puddles?

"Ever tried

Ever Failed.

No Matter.

Try again.

Fail again.

Fail better."

~ Samuel Beckett

I am thankful for the lessons of failing.

These are some of my greatest moments of success

because I am still here

I am still trying

still stompin through the puddles...

What about you? Failed? Failing? Still moving forward? Care to share a moment that helped define you?

Destination: Road Ahead

A few years back Miserable became overpopulated. Cramped. Hovel like. A Third World hell. My Self lodged an application to move. Heart granted visa immediately. Head withheld my application pending an interview.

"Look, " Head told me, "We've always lived in Miserable. What right do you think we have to up and move to Happy?"

I staggered. I could tell he'd been chatting with Guilt. Just the sort of thing he'd ask.

"I'd just like to go is all... this place is a sodden dump. Look at all my tears. "

"Fine. Fill this in Miss Too-Good-for-Miserable, and we'll see..."

Head handed me a departure card. The list was exhaustive.

What are your plans for travelling to Happy? Approximate length of stay? Do you have enough fiances to support yourself in Happy? Do you have friends or family already living in Happy and able to support your application for status in the country? Will you require a work visa for Happy or a tourist visa only? How much money are you bringing into Happy? Any goods to declare? Baggage that needs to be claimed? Will you be travelling alone? Dependents? Immunized against depression ... and on and on and on...

"Does Happy need to know all this?" I felt sick.

Head sneered...

I went home and called my husband, Matt. He already lives in Happy. "Shred the questions. Burn the paper. I'm waiting for you."

So, I'm writing to you from The Road Ahead. A postcard from Future.

Head protests. Let him, I say!

Heart and I bought milkshakes at a road stop in Fun. And we blew bubbles. And threw some of our caution to the wind. It was weighing us down. You must see Fun. Do stop by if you come this way.

And pass through Hope. Repeatedly, if necessary. Beautiful place...

Heart sometimes likes to ask me, "are we there yet are we there yet are we there yet..."

I have no map, so I can't answer. I'll know it when I see it though.

We play eye-spy to pass the time. Notice the surroundings. And breathe. We do lots of deep breathing. Song singing in the darkness helps too. And Matt often comes to sit beside us when we run off the side of the road. He knows where we are at, and he can get back to Happy all by himself. Good thing too. I don't feel responsible for his travels.

Head checked in with me today.

"Where the hell are we? This doesn't look like any place I know..."

I know.

Bliss.

God, I know...

So, pot holes and flat tyres not withstanding, Heart thinks we are pretty damn close.

Happy, here we come.

Destination: Road Ahead.

What about you? Any fun to report from your Road Ahead? Or perhaps you just need someone to sit beside you in the ditch for awhile. I hope you find that person and I hope that person finds you. Hugs all. Sometimes Road Ahead is full of pot holes... I'm on the look out for Road Stops with milkshakes and friendships. (And thank God for my Matt :)

Wish you all Happy writing this week.

Clover

Clovers are my silent friends, spread across the back yard like a rash, and still I love them. I haven't always had affections for weeds. I was once a Rose or Lilly girl. Pick me up in your clean car wearing your pressed shirt and take me somewhere nice. Beer, if the wine list mocks our modest budget. Then pave the way to kisses with daisies. But clover? No.

Then we went and made mini versions of ourselves and let them run around our backyard. We killed the clover, but we let the barefoot noise makers stay. We like them. Mostly. The first spring Husband was not quick enough to head off the clover onslaught our first born waded through the patches before I could stop him.

Bees, oh God. The bees.

My husband bloats at the mere whiff of them. I didn't want to conduct a home science experiment to see if my son would react the same way. I ran out after him, picked him up and tried to pull the fistfuls of clover out of his hands. "No! Mummy pretty flowers for you. I wuv you."

Suddenly roses paled in comparison.

We still spray the clover, but every spring my little boys beat us to at least one patch and ignore my objections to their shoeless wandering as they pad barefoot through the clover mound.

And every spring there will be at least one small vase stuffed with wilting clover beside my bed.

Isaiah calls them Mummy's favorite flowers.

I don't correct him...

I may one day have to explain why his girlfriend curled her lip and growled,

but not yet.

They are my clovers. For just a little bit longer.

Home

Where is home for you? 

Is it nestled in his favourite armchair, or beneath the throw rug that the two of you bought when you were newlywed? Does it sound loudly in the silly sayings that only the two of you understand? Do you hear it in the rain on your roof when you lay awake together just to listen? Do you feel it when he reaches for your hand or in the way he says your name? Are lead down the path to home every time you walk along that beach, through his park or beside your river? 

Is it a place beside a window where sunlight can hold you while you snuggle with your children? Is it seen in the scuff marks down the hallway from new leather shoes bought for the first day of school? Do you find it in the pages of your favourite book from childhood, or in the picture books your babies are now too old to read? Do you hold home in the softness of your newborn's fingers wrapped around your thumb? 

Do you hear it in the song you first danced to? In the music that made you sing when you were a teenager or in the lullabyes you hummed during those first wakeful nights?  

Is it in the yellowing photographs that take the hands of time back to when your grandmother was just a girl or your father just a boy? Is it in the scent of her perfume, in the way she brushed her hair, in the little movements her hands used to make when she talked? 

Do you find home in the garden that you planted to grow tomatoes just like you used to do when you were a little and your grandfather showed you how? Do you find home when your fingers trace the script of your great aunt's recipe for leek and potato soup? Is it there in the birthday cards from friends of all the years gone by? 

Do you taste home in your family's favourite meals or see it in the games you play on clover filled days under blue skies in the backyard? Is it in the squealing and pounding of small feet, far too early on a Saturday morning?

Is it beside him late on a Sunday night?

Where is home? 

How many people does it hold?

How many places has it known and how often do you live there?

Mine is all around me when I look when I choose to see. It is on the face of everyone I keep close. I have many little homes tucked away in all the thousands of memories that connect me to both my past and my future, but most importantly to my present.

What about you?

Where is your home?

imperfectly perfect

This is dinner at my house...

"Boys! Dinner!" Me with polite first request. The term 'Boys' includes husband.

Hear nothing in response and yell sweetly again, "Boys! I-SAID-IT'S-DINNER!"

This time mummers come from the six-year-old who is busy writing Australia's next best novel or working on some mathematical equation he isn't supposed to come across until eighth grade. I'm joking. He's bright, but he's more likely to be drawing Ben-10 characters over and over again. You know Ben-10 right? Course you do!

Husband appears at the back door with a sodden toddler tossed over his shoulder.

"What happened?" I ask. I shouldn't have.

"He might have found the hose and wet the dog and then buried the..."

"Okay, okay, I changed my mind. I don't want to know."

"Should we bath him before dinner?"

Me looking at dripping sand and diaper hanging down between the toddler's knees...

"Yeah, that could be a good idea."

I sigh because I had high (if not naive) hopes of a hot dinner served straight to the table.

But I see the grin on the toddlers face and the smile on husband's.

Imperfectly perfect.

"Cool, does that mean I get to draw for a bit longer?" six-year-old head appears from the office.

"No, go have a bath with your brother."

"Ohhhh! I don't..."

"I don't want to hear it!" I finish for him, re-guiding the misguided sentence that was about the leave his mouth.

Fifteen minutes later the oven dial is still switched to 'keep warm' and when I peak in dinner is looking dry and more unappetising then it was prior.

But I hear the gleeful squealing as the dog joins the splashing in the bubble bath... and close the oven door. Even though I don't think husband has a lid on the bathroom shin ding...

                                                                                                       Imperfectly perfect.

Twenty minuets later and the bathroom floor needs mopping. Two boys are running down the hallway butt naked and Matt

 (husband I included with yelling for boys earlier) is chasing their giggling right down to their bedrooms and all the way back again. I am wondering if we are ever going to eat tonight.

But I see the chubby little legs running faster than they really should be, followed closely behind by the gangly boyish pair and their daddy chasing them with  arms snapping like a crocodile... and I smile.

Imperfectly perfect.

Then the phone rings. It's my mother. No, it's not a good time right now. Can she ring back later? 

When the toddler finally has his footsie jammies on and the six-year-old has the buttons on the front of his shirt nicely mismatched we attempt dinner. But I don't get the first bite in my mouth before a child dying of thirst needs his drink refilled. The dog takes advantage of me turning my back and eats the food the toddler was offering and the six-year-old delights in showing us how milk can come out of his nose. But we are all laughing. Even me.

Imperfectly perfect.

Eventually, food is eaten. Well, Matt and I eat, we bribe the toddler with the promise of ice-cream and the six-year-old takes the last piece of meat off my plate while I retrieved the toddler's spoon from the floor for the hundredth time. But the dinner table is full of cute toddler mispronunciations in attempts to talk that make us giggle. It is full of school day recounts involving a sand castle that Jimmy knocked down. How dare he?! And a rather teary tale of  losing a ball over the fence, yet again.

Imperfectly perfect.

"Glass of wine?" Matt asks when they run off to play until bedtime.

But he doesn't need to ask. I'm just getting up to find a bigger glass.

Family. 

Imperfectly perfect.

Self included.

Just the way I like us.

What about you?

What's imperfectly perfect in you life?