Where to even start?
There is a lot I could write about/catch up on. Still, I liked "going dark" for a week. Sometimes blogging just makes my life noisy. Definitely fun. Sometimes inspiring. Oft times static. Clutter.
My mom and sister were here this week. They left this morning. The only thing I hate about them coming is them leaving. We have yet to experience a tear-free parting. Sappety sap sap sap.
I love my mom. Big and deep. One of my favorite things about her is that she is not a noisy person and she does not have a noisy life. She is quiet. Purposeful. Kind. Simple. Her make-up bag is a Ziploc. Inside? Four things: Vaseline lip balm, a box of dental floss, Maybelline mascara (pink with a green lid), and a tube of Revlon lip stick. That's all it takes. And she's radiant. More beautiful after almost half a century than she's ever been.
Her simplicity is more beautiful to me now than it's ever been. I'm crusading for more simplicity in my life (our lives). More of nature. More of stillness. More presence. More of each other. Less distraction. Less frenetic. Less artificiality - in food and self. (A semi-related aside: Why is authenticity tricky? Am I the only one who finds it slippery, hard to pin down? Shouldn't it be the most natural thing in the world to just know myself, and be that girl, all the time?)
I've been flirting with Thoreau and Emerson, hefting my anthology of English lit off the nightstand, reading a few excerpts. Letting it sit long enough to collect a thin blanket of dust. Picking it up again...
And thinking about what I really want out of the experience of this life. A garden. A big (really big) back yard. Children who know how to work with their hands and their minds. Chickens - my dad called this week and told me they gathered seventeen eggs from their coop on Sunday. Quiet evenings. Family games of Kick The Can and Andy I Over. A connection to the earth and to our food. Reading my grandpa Pearson's personal narrative to my tweens as a bedtime story (it is so charming and funny).
Is this naive nostalgia? Am I longing for something that barely existed three decades ago? That only exists in reveries and hyperspace now?
If I can't have chickens, can I at least be close to my mother?
I would like that very much.