Every morning, I’m given a fresh start. The gift of a new day. I can see the sunrise, feel the wind on my face, hear the one I love saying my name. I can make today matter.
Fresh start
Where the Butterflies Go Review in iBOOKS (four stars): ‘These poems are like a key’
‘A willful and successful destruction of boundaries’ **** (4 stars)
by Shawn Halayka, Dec. 24, 2011 under Where the Butterflies Go in iBOOKS
Anima and animus. Love and sorrow. Past and present. An array of dualities are presented to us in these poems, accurately depicting both the beauty and horror of life at the same time in a masterful way that gives no ground to useless pretense or extraneous detail. Most importantly to me, these dualities are not presented as paradoxical or contradictory, but rather wholly integrated. The end result is quite illuminating.
What really hit home for me were the poems about Challenger/Columbia and the tragedy of Di. These specific poems are deceptively short — it may have only taken a few minutes to read them, but then it took me much longer to process the resulting flood of memories related to my own childhood and young adulthood. These poems are like a key, and one’s own life is the vault.
I can only assume that some sort of fancy voodoo magic was implemented by the author, because I am fully enchanted by these poems. Superb work, as usual.
The Fashion Show In My Closet
If you read my post Mike Holmes I Think I Love You, you know how impressed I was with my husband adding baskets to our walk-in closet. But this? I had to sit down and catch my breath when I saw this surprise.
Bill, who is still working on improving our walk-in and will likely be upset I’m sharing these ‘not quite finished’ photos of our closet, made me a floor-to ceiling shoe shelf for my favorite heels. And he’s going to add little lights over them! (okay, that was my idea –thought it couldn’t hurt to ask right?) So unnecessary! So gorgeous! I don’t want to leave my closet! I could stand here and stare at it all day. But I guess I need to work, to pay for all the wood.
Our daughter saw it for the first time this morning, and ran straight to the bathroom to find me, calling out,
“Mommy! Mommy! It’s like a fashion show in your closet!”
Thank you, honey. I love you. Here are three more words: Mike Holmes who?
I Don’t Do Mondays.
“The pumpkins are funny. You, you aren’t that funny.”
My six-year-old’s latest passion is telling me I’m “not that funny.”
Kayla has invented a “Funny Meter’ and tells me daily that I’m “only half-way there,” while she and Bill are “way at the top of the Funny Meter.”
Given that I like to inject humor into much of my writing, my ego could get a rather big bruising here, but I love this little game we’re playing too much to honestly let it bother me.
I find myself making more jokes when she’s nearby, trying to inch my way up the Funny Meter. Yesterday, I got her laughing about our rotting pumpkins. I even resorted to some potty humor. Kids love that stuff.
“That one out there in the garden? The one that’s frowning? He’s saying ‘There’s frost on my bum! Get me outta here! I didn’t sign up for this!”
Kayla started to giggle.
“Hey! You’re laughing!” I said. “I’m funny!”
“No,” she retorted. “The pumpkins are funny. You, you aren’t that funny.”
And with that, she was off on her school bus, and I was left walking home, laughing at what had just transpired; wondering how to make my kid laugh at my jokes again before she hits Tweenhood and finds me not only not-funny but also not-cool.
This morning, I got her laughing by verbally creating an alternate ending to something on TV. But this kid is always one step ahead of me.
“Hey! You’re laughing! I’m funny! I’m funny,” I said, laughing at myself, and the desperation in my tone.
“Oh, no.” said my stubborn child, her face frozen, expressionless. “No, you aren’t.”
“My mouth was laughing, but my mind didn’t find you that funny.”
I hope she’s a little easier on me when she’s all grown up and attending Law school. Somehow, I doubt it. That’s okay. I’m happy just being her Mom; happy to stay smack in the mediocre-middle of the Funny Meter.
I just hope those pumpkins don’t move up any higher.
Heather Grace Stewart 