remembering simple things

Numbers and spreadsheets and contracts and lists, oh my! My husband's part-time freelance photography work (for which I handle the business side of things) is currently on the upswing - and while it is mostly fun and exciting, it can also be quite time-consuming and a bit tedious.

So tonight, since I can't seem to pull myself away from the computer long enough to actually go and do something relaxing, I 'virtually' refreshed myself by thinking about those lovely days we spent up north last year. The endless cups of chamomile tea by the lazy fire, those melt-in-your-mouth pirouline wafers, that colorful tangle of embroidery thread...

Take time to document -- in words or pictures or both -- the small, simple things of your life. You will return to them, eagerly, again and again.

(Photos by me, taken October 2008)

obliterated

"You Who Are Getting Obliterated In The Dancing Swarm Of Fireflies" by Yayoi Kusama

My best birthday present this year was from my husband, who gave me a membership to our local art museum. A couple weeks ago, we finally found some time to go and explore their new modern art wing (really wonderful + super sleek if you haven't been) with our cameras in hand.

The museum is lucky to have a permanent installation by Yayoi Kusama entitled "You Who Are Getting Obliterated In The Dancing Swarm of Fireflies" (seen above, photo taken by my husband). It's basically a small, dark room with thousands of tiny, hanging LED lights reflecting off of every surface. The lights, which are controlled by a computer, shift color slowly and in different patterns.

Hand-in-hand, we stepped into the room a little unsure of ourselves. The effect was dizzying, exactly what I would imagine stepping into a black hole in outer space would be like. I dramatically whispered into his ear that I couldn't feel the floor beneath my feet and I would probably puke. ("You won't" he said in that voice that I've heard a million times, the voice that feigns sternness in an attempt to disguise amusement. I love that voice.)

It took a few minutes for our pupils to adjust.

Soon after, I felt like I'd passed into another world.

Loose. Sinking. Peaceful. Swirling.
Excited. Drifting. Uncontrolled.
Endless. Floating.

I have been thinking about those feelings ever since the museum, because they are how I feel most days. Going from the workforce to full-time motherhood is a similarly disorienting transportation. There is so much I want to do, but instead I find myself standing still.

I am searching for a structure. A way to make order as the new lights of my life beckon with unfamiliar beauty.

"he who laughs"

Someday, when you're old enough to read this, you'll understand.

By then, you will have witnessed years of our fake quarreling, the all-in-good-fun teasing, the impassioned pleas to "stop the tickling!" You'll have rifled through photo after photo of he and I making silly faces for the camera. You'll have heard the stories -- like the time your dad threw snow in my face and I cried and he -- what else? -- laughed. You'll know that I adore your father's lighthearted spirit, and you'll watch him thrive on the the fact that I laugh at all of his corny jokes.

You will have come to know (and hopefully love) my often inappropriately loud voice and his penchant for sarcastic one-liners.

You'll know why we named you Isaac.

Earlier this week, after a particularly rough day, I held you in my arms and tried to get you to stop crying. I walked you up to the mirror, pressed my face to your chubby cheek, and started singing "The Farmer in the Dell." We bounced back and forth (the farmer in the dell! the farmer in the dell!) and back and forth (hi-ho the derry-o!) until your sniffles turned into a smile (the farmer in the dell!). You watched yourself with great interest, and your gummy grin was all the encouragement I needed to be louder and more animated with each chorus.

And then, for the first time in your short little life, a chuckle escaped from your lips. You couldn't help it.

I was euphoric. I'd been waiting for this since that moment in the hospital room when we looked at you, then looked at each other and said, "Isaac?"

Yes, we nodded in agreement.

Isaac.


[Happy Mother's Day to all the beautiful mom's, my own included! I had a wonderful day - my little boy sent me flowers and gave me a card (isn't he so advanced for a four-month old? ha.) and my darling husband made me breakfast and wrote me a sweet letter. Then they both took me out for a little retail therapy at anthro & urban where I picked up some new summer clothes. I am truly blessed!]

serendipity

A little bird family has set-up shop in the hanging geranium plant on my patio balcony. For a few weeks, there was a lot of commotion as Mom and Dad bird would flit and hop and fly about, guarding their territory and methodically creating their nest.

From my living room, where baby Isaac and I spend the majority of our day, I watch the expectant parents with a happy heart. It is a secret world, up there amid the red geranium petals, but in my new state of motherhood -- it is entirely familiar.

A couple days ago, I peeked in and discovered these sweet blue eggs.



The picture doesn't quite convey how teeny tiny they are!

Things are quiet now because Mama bird is hunkered down, keeping her eggs warm until they are ready to join the world.

Is she tired and weary, like me? (Four months of sleep deprivation and I am SO completely exhausted.) Does she get lonely, occasionally, like I do? (Infants aren't exactly known for their verbal prowess.) Does she start each new day with the babies on her mind? (His voice is the first thing I hear, his happiness is the only thing I want.)

Here on my patio, unexpectedly, a kinship. We stay-at-home moms have got to stick together.

Life is just RIGHT sometimes, you know?

changes

Change always comes bearing gifts.
-Price Pritchett

Somehow he escaped his swaddle AGAIN (Houdini, that one. I'm not even sure why I try anymore) and liberated his feet from what I'm sure he would tell you is the harsh prison that is his yellow flannel receiving blanket. You know, if he could form sentences and speak and what not.

Before I took the picture, I sat on the floor for a minute and watched him sleep, his face partially hidden from the afternoon light, his arms and legs limp with that enviable relaxation unique to babies and children.

I thought about how much my life had changed, and not changed. I remembered that before he was born, I frequently worried that I might lose myself in a black hole of diapers and baby talk. That I'd become unrecognizable, unhinged from the things that connect me to myself:

active solitude + self-possesion
simplicity of mind + body
delving + digging intellectually
discovery + creation of beauty

As I brought his tiny foot into the viewfinder of my camera, I happily realized that I was doing the thing I was worried I would lose. I was enjoying the solitude. Celebrating the simplicity of perfectly formed baby toes. Discovering and capturing a beautiful moment.

In the midst of all the overwhelms, it's comforting to know that change doesn't always have to change you.

addendum

It occurred to me while re-reading my last post that perhaps I sounded a bit... dramatic?

Like, someone who didn't know me might get the impression that my baby died or something. Which is NOT what happened. My little boy is alive and well and doing what newborn babies do - that is, eat, sleep, and poop.

I should have mentioned that he did eventually come home, but at the time I wasn't trying to tell the full story so much as I was just wanting to jot some thoughts about how I felt during those crazy days before and after his birth.

The experience of having a baby was and is so intense that I need to write it all out. Unfortunately, the experience of having a baby makes it nearly impossible to do that -- coherent thoughts are a real luxury when you're working on only a few hours of sleep every day.

You've been warned!

plans

what I thought:

40 full weeks,
so ready.

excitement!

small overnight bag waiting patiently by the door,
clean and organized home stocked with all the necessities,
a sweet little nursery decorated modestly with a few carefully chosen things.

calm ride to the hospital,
taking the practiced route,
holding hands with him.

complication-free labor and delivery,
my perfect baby.

lots of cuddling,
marveling over fingers and toes,
leaving the hospital together, a newly formed family.


what I got:

water breaking far too early,
not ready.

fear,
more fear,
and even more fear.

toiletries thrown haphazardly into a red shoebox,
half-eaten pizza abandoned on the dinner table,
an unfinished child's dresser sitting out on the patio.

miserable ride to the hospital,
blinking back tears, lungs tight with worry,
clutching and clenching his hand.

tough decisions,
labor and delivery,
my perfect baby.

taken away,
watching him through plastic,
ten eternal days of tubes and monitors.

stumbling out of the hospital alone, drowning in an ocean of tears.

on simplicity: beginnings

Four years ago, I was fresh out of college, living in a small one-bedroom apartment with my brand-new husband and struggling with the nagging feeling that somehow - life wasn't as it should be.

Or, at least, it wasn't what I thought life should be.

Those early years were a humbling time. Not only was I dealing with the inevitable growing pains of a very green and fledgling marriage, but I was constantly followed by thoughts of what I was lacking or what had to do without. I'd lament the fact that I was stuck living in a rented apartment while everyone around me purchased a home of their own. I'd wonder why things were tough financially for us even though we both had good, stable jobs.

Looking back, all I can say is - thank goodness for the benefit of time and maturity!

As our marriage grew stronger and the early kinks of domestic life worked themselves out, I found myself appreciating my husband more, which in turn made me appreciate our life together more. Instead of being discontent with my circumstances, I came to love our mismatched collection of hand-me down furniture mixed with stuff we were able to buy for ourselves. Instead of wishing for a large house, I found myself savoring the cozy intimacy of our small space.

I didn't know it at the time, but that attitude of gratefulness and contentment sowed the seeds of simplicity in my life.

Next: Less really IS more.

still here...

[ Sorry for the silence. The stomach flu knocked me out for a few days, and then we went on vacation. I'm just getting back into the swing of things and will be posting regulary soon! ]

on simplicity

One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few.

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Life is BIG right now. BIG and SCARY and EXCITING and worthy of words written in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.

I find myself easily overwhelmed these days. So, I thought it would be good for me (and maybe you'll enjoy it, too) to reflect on simplicity and how it has a emerged as a major theme in my life these past couple of years. The upcoming series of posts will be about why simplicity is so important to me, how it has changed my perspective on nearly everything, and practical ways I've incorporated it into my everyday life.

Check back soon.

(Picture is of me gathering shells on the Jersey shore earlier this year.)

favorite weekend snippets

simply GORGEOUS weather. didn't have to turn on the air conditioning once. love the feel and sound of breezy air coming into our home and gently stirring things about. there's a mess of papers on the floor now, but I don't care,

you should look into getting yourself a husband (if you don't have one already) that will, in one weekend: wash both cars (by hand, of course), do routine car maintenance, do the laundry from start to finish, do a week's worth of grocery shopping, and most importantly, remember to bring home donuts for a saturday morning treat,

accidentally stumbling into a department store clearance sale + nothing to do on a saturday afternoon = a trunk full of half-price goodies like ralph lauren towels, luxurious supima cotton sheets and pyrex glass storage containers,

impromptu photo shoot of me and my growing belly; the pictures turned out nice and I actually felt quite lovely for the first time during my pregnancy,

celebrating 4 years at one of our favorite restaurants, very much enjoyed hearing the waitress call us "lovebirds." talked about baby names and speculated on who we think our kid will look like; was so content and happy that I wondered if my heart (and my extraordinarily full stomach) might explode,

making way for baby continues; spent all day sunday sorting, cleaning, and organizing. threw away piles and piles of stuff. my back aches and my feet hurt, but twas a small price to pay for the supreme satisfaction I now feel.

bright blue days

Dearest husband,

This morning, I followed my usual get-ready-for-work routine. Stumble out of bed, shower, lotion, hair, make-up if I feel like it (but usually I don't, you know), clothes, then, and always last, jewelry.

As I slipped on my wedding band and engagement ring, I lingered for a moment. I let myself revisit that place, four years ago, where we stood under a bright blue sky and pledged our love and commitment and unending devotion to each other.

I thought to myself: wasn't that a great day?

Tonight we ate sandwiches from a paper bag for dinner. Quite different from the fancy lobster skewers and potatoes au gratin and bubbly champagne of four years ago. Tonight, instead of a first dance, you sat on the floor of the bedroom with your new drill bits and fixed my squeaky chair. Tonight, in our mutual exhaustion, we snuggled on the couch and enjoyed a new episode of The Office.

You kissed my forehead and rubbed my belly and waited to see if the baby would kick for you.

Wasn't it a great day?

Love and kisses, your devoted wife,

M