Life is weird. Weird isn't the best word, but it's the first word that came to mind at this moment when trying to put everything I am feeling into just one word. Like the word settle. Everyone keeps asking if we are "settling in" and I guess we are, but are we?
Here's something you might not know about me, I love the dictionary. I am not a great speller, but a wannabe great speller. I love to look up words, often simple words, like appreciate and definitely (I can never seem to get those two right) and words like settle, just to make sure I am fully understanding what I am talking/thinking about.
When looking up settle I feel even more unsettled about "settling in", I don't know why, but it makes me feel that little twist in my stomach as if I had to read out loud in class or nobody to sit with at lunch. Settle in, settle down, settle up... do I want to settle? Are we settling in? All of our 9,000 pounds of stuff is unpacked and in place, if that's what it means to settle, sure, we are settled, but really? I think it took me 6 + years to finally feel sorta settled in Virginia, and here we are in Pennsylvania. I know that nothing stays the same, change is constant. No matter how much I want certain things to stay the same they change and my heart hurts as they do. We all live in a vortex of change and as soon as we start to settle something shifts. What can you do? You do what makes you feel good, unpack, paint the walls, rearrange again and again, love the ones you're with, cook pretty meals for them, explore what's around, love up the cats, make art, and hope for everything to be okay, all while photographing the fleeting moments so you won't forget... holding on to them for as long as you possibly can.
Recipes from the beautiful Brassicas cookbook.
For today, I will memorize
the two trees now in end-of-summer light
and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward
the black pond, blue
in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen
from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern—
quick—a glimpse of it,
the plume, a fox-tail's copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,
The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.
The hawk has its branch in the pine.
White petals ripple in the quiet light.
In the quiet, a necklace of gourds on the fence.
A mourning cloak on a seeded spray of crabgrass.
An undulant whine of cicadas.
thank you for visiting here and for the thoughtful comments you left on my last post. I appreciate each one so much. <3
wanna hang out with me? I'll be teaching a two day workshop in Southern California early November at Jenny Doh's Studio Crescendoh.