ENVIRONMENT: a self-portrait



(barefoot in clover, the ninth moment of my day)

The first: Rosie calling out, "Dad!" from her bed. His eyes fly open and he goes to her...she asks if he'll please rock her in the rocking chair now--which answers the question of my last moment yesterday before sleep. (M. worrying because she will not let him close to her lately and me replying, "It's just a stage, it will pass. You know that, right?") He is running behind schedule for work after this rocking chair session--but he wouldn't have missed it for the world.

The second: descending the stairs to set the kettle on for tea.

The third: sitting at the table with my journal writing: "Still a silvery sky, though there is no rain. Small seams of blue skirt the edges like flared hemlines--a yellow haze, like Prufrock's fog--lingers, though it has yet to rattle the window panes or curl about the house. The first two blooms ever have opened on the clematis vine--this was its last chance year, none of the others before have seen it flower or grow. They are inky purple-dark--like distant stars with their pointed tips. A candle flickers on the table now--the struggling refrigerator hums to the level of distraction. Chai by my left hand, legs tucked up beneath me, eyes heavy from sleep and dreams of trying to divide my life into four-grid segments, plotting it all out on paper--like it is just that easy." (These, my first words of the day)

The fourth: finishing my journal and diving into the manuscript--writing half-awake lets me dodge my inner critics (who like to sleep until noon).

The fifth: getting Petunia up for school--she is sleeping Indian-style and wakes to say, "I dreamt again of fairies in the garden." (These, her first words of this day).

The sixth: getting her breakfast started and hearing the details of said-dream, plus updates on the horror story she and her friend, Diego, are creating in school (she's the writer, he's the illustrator).

The seventh: waking boy-o up for school--he stretches and uncoils, blinking at me bleary-eyed, his dandelion puff of hair standing on end in a dozen different directions. "Three days after this until summer," he whispers (his first sentence today).

The eighth: watching them board the school bus after our whirlwind of morning routines, a smile rising as Petunia remembers as they approach the steps that it is his turn to sit by the window and she pauses, pushes him ahead of her, and pats his head when she doesn't even know I'm watching.

The ninth: taking photos of my flowerbeds, grapevines, and blueberry bushes (ripening--if only I can keep the birds off of them). Catching this shot of my foot in the clover and sighing aloud...I have waited a long time for this heady, blossoming, barefoot season.