Wake.
Grow.
Bloom.
Blossom.
Change.
The season turns
again.
The past and present
are not the same,
but the cycle
is certain,
a constant.
And I can feel it –
down in my bones,
deep in my soul –
now
more than ever.

Wake.
Grow.
Bloom.
Blossom.
Change.
The season turns
again.
The past and present
are not the same,
but the cycle
is certain,
a constant.
And I can feel it –
down in my bones,
deep in my soul –
now
more than ever.

Y’all, my heart is so happy.
My parents came to visit last week. Graham’s work has been insane, and some nights he’s been up until 3:00 a.m. or later. We were struggling. We were both tired, our house was a mess. The cat’s feeling neglected. I don’t even want to talk about laundry.
We needed help. And we got it, and more.
My family has always done music. I’ve posted about it a lot, and I’m just so elated that Lucy seems to love music, too. My dad brought out his mandolin, and she was just fascinated.

Absolutely entranced. And she wanted to try it for herself.

She cried when he put it away. She’s never done that before, with any toy. (We got it back out and gave it back to her, of course.)
These little moments, they just keep coming. Lucy is an easy baby, but life around her has been generally chaotic. These sweet new memories make all that chaos seem like nothing at all.
Milk drunk, y’all.

It’s a thing.
Here, there, and everywhere you are,
my hair –
in the shower drain and on the rocking chair,
fistfuls in my hands,
landing all around in tangles, clumps, and pairs.
You and me,
we were really something, weren’t we?
One day you’ll come back,
I know –
or, at least, I hope it’s so.
Until then,
my old familiar friend,
we’ll weather the (thinning) clouds together.