That being said, I know I will look back and miss, wish for even, to have an evening to sleep and be woken to him hitting and pulling my hair at 3 AM again… someday I will wish for that again. I’ve heard too many wishful and reminiscent people tell me that to be too naive about it myself. Every time he wakes up, however, I do wish for the nights that we were not sleeping in a room that included a crib (as much as I love and am obsessed with his crib, it’s just so beautiful), and a room that had my bed, my comforter, and air conditioning again. (I am also acknowledging how some people just do not or can not live with air conditioning—now, year-round, you name it—and that it is a privilege to have to begin with—I will not live naive to that).

When trying to find and stabilize a routine in the morning that serves me, us, the family, the one thing that keeps taking me away from it is time.

Time to make a thoughtful breakfast every morning—everyone says breakfast is the most important meal, right?

Time to get a head start on the chores for the house before the mental motivation runs out with the clock—lots of people, I’m sure, do chores in the evening; if I have waited that long, they won’t be getting done.

Time to keep relationships going with friends, near and far—communication via phone either has to be limited to nap time or through voice texts while driving, or not to confuse my toddler about why I’m talking to or hitting a black screen. Otherwise, trying to find the time to meet in person…a luxury.

Time to run errands—I just saw a post online from a dad that was doing a day with the kids, and he mentioned, “Moms, I get the ‘need’ for errands now. We’re all just trying to make it to bedtime, huh?” Yes, but I enjoy the errands, truly, and there is always one to run.

Time to find something to eat for lunch—for us both now, and chicken nuggets cannot continue to be a default.

Time to find a meal to cook for dinner…and then to cook it—how many recipes do I have saved or written down, and they are just waiting for the energy to be brought to life???

Whoa, how is it already his bedtime?

Time to spend with my husband/best friend—but we’re so tired from each of our days. When will we have the energy, the space, the time?

Time to work on house projects—will they ever end??? The bathroom, the deck, the second bedroom, the yard, the garage, the flooring, the mosquito-infested boat on the side, the canoe out back that we need to sell?

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That is usually how the day goes in my mind…where did the time go? Who took it? Who/what did I give it all to?

OH! And I didn’t ever find time to read, or to write, or to work on that long project that I have all the ideas for, but just can never seem to make something come of it whenever I DO have energy to do something about it.

And, I only have one kid right now. How am I supposed to do this with more than one, one day? That seems quite literally impossible, even though everyone has said: “Your capacity grows.”

Notice the spiral.

The consistent, stringy, frail but persistent spiral.

Like that of some sea animal that I’m sure must exist (there are some weird things in the waters), and I know not the name of or anything about, yet I am SURE that it is out there: a spiraling, glowing, eel worm tentacle-type being. Something that, when it’s there, right in front of you, it fades in and out into the abyss of thought, the literal dark web of a mind, until it glows so bright it’s undeniable, unignorable, or once the dark is the thing removed situationally, and therefore the possibility of being next to this being is removed as well.

It must exist.

And if not in sea creature, then in the rainforest under a giant raining leaf, holding the sunshine from reaching the undergrowth so all that is left are the white crawly bugs and small flying insects, all too small to name right now (or maybe just since I do not like crawling things—my confident toddler seems not to care about that, lucky me, one day I will enjoy his lack of fear).

Last month, we traveled up north to Minnesota to visit family and to celebrate my sister running her first marathon. During the first half of our trip, we spent time with family at a cabin on a lake where the water stilled with the greetings of the sun and with all of my favorite colors put into one view.

Naturally, when away from home, all routines go out the door, and you just end up saying yes.

Yes to more naps…or no naps.
Yes to one more cast to catch that bass.
Yes to another snack.
Yes to ice cream.
Yes to a late, late bedtime.
Yes to an early morning, sneaking out of the room while the boys sleep.
Yes to pulling a chair to the edge of the water with a notebook and a favorite pen,

and trying to write when it feels like I have nothing to say.

Before He Wakes

I never get this time anymore, to watch the sky give up the moving clouds to the jealous water, lily pads, and weeds sleeping away while waves rock to sleep under them. Only in this morning time will the sky release his showful, proudful duties of movement. She gives just enough to catch and to keep you, letting your eyelashes shield the early sun, so you can keep her, too, in your look, because she will have to give up this place and time soon enough. She has other duties to keep now.

And while listening to the loon’s wolfish howl, I wondered if I could sit here just a little bit longer, at the foot of this Minnesota lake; I’m not ready for the duties again quite yet.

I’m sharing this as it was written, first draft insider.

And while rereading it as I wrote this post, I couldn’t help but wonder who “she” was.

The me that I was watching from another me?
The lake?

I cannot for the life of me remember who “she” was intended to be, who “she” is.
What a captivating thing, to read your own words and wonder what in the world made me think to write this in that moment?

Maybe I still wanted more time
even when I had the time.

So, when does the time ever feel like enough?

Or has my view of time gone to the point of needing to be reoriented again?

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I’ve spent three weeks trying to write this post during shortened nap times. And while reading a few things online that helped me to stay focused, I came across this poem of Wendell Berry (naturally) that was published in 1962 in Poetry Magazine.

Be Still in Haste

How quietly I
begin again

from this moment
looking at the
clock, I start over

so much time has
passed, and is equaled
by whatever
split-second is present

from this
moment this moment
is the first

While reading his simple string of words that connect the complexity of time, I wondered where he could have written this at. Perhaps his writing cabin on his farm, “camp”—

a place that I’d love to have my own of some day.

And I wondered to myself, out of his published poems on the significance—or in some cases, the insignificance—of time, this one had stuck with me, and why?

A reminder to stay present,

no matter the time I wish I could stop or take a mean hold of. Or the time I wish I could stretch and lengthen.

*Pause, a crying boy is calling for me.

Alright, I have time again, maybe.

Fitting, isn’t it, that I was called away when writing about staying present—staying focused on the current moment, not wishing away or wishing for more time?

And how exactly does someone stay “present”, “in the moment”, and “steadied”?

I believe one can do this by grounding all parts of the mind (and body, but I will save the woo-woo for now). That feeling we get when we walk through a forest with no rush to leave, that’s it. That feeling when we’re knee-deep in a conversation with a friend about how we’re feeling, no distractions skewing us, that’s it. That feeling of putting the phone down to play with your too-quickly growing child and getting to hear their great belly laugh again, that’s it. That feeling of the exhale of a sky-filled sunset after a busy day, that’s it. That feeling of getting actually to do your hobby and you make something you’re proud of, that’s it.

That feeling when we take our human-sized step back and realize that life will keep on going well past our bodies, and always has been. We cannot stop time. But we can stop ourselves long enough to see the present moment in time, and to stay there—wherever it travels to.

And maybe that is just enough.

Maybe that is where our time becomes enough.

Where it has the time to breathe itself.

What I’m Reading:

I am one quick to screenshot the books that others recommend—there is something warm about knowing someone that already read a book and was willing to share their thoughts on it that just makes me feel like I can trust the book. Here is what I’ve been reading lately…let me know yours!

1. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

   I just started this last week and am loving the simple tasks and practicality she brings to the writing life. Reading this slowly, chapter by chapter, really trying to implement as I read and learn. I’m not one to be quick with writing exercises, and somehow hers seem fun to try.

2. Hold Still by Sally Mann

   Having just finished her newest book, Art Work, a couple of weeks ago, I immediately ordered this one with a gift card I had been saving, and so far, I love it. It’s always interesting to read about the early lives of artists and watch, in their own words, what happened and how they got to where they were/are…and how they view it, too. Her story has what every good story has: scandal, murder, money troubles, theft, and all the intriguing parts of a good plot.

3. The Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry

   Part of his Sabbath Poems collection, this one is challenging me in different forms of poetry. I’m noticing new things about how to structure poems, learning new words, and experimenting myself as I read this one bit by holy bit.

   Leave a comment

Until next time,
Madeline

I turned out to be the only writer in attendance.

This intimidated me.

Did I ignorantly think writing could be a part of this?
Did I bust their painting bubble by bringing something different?
Did I belong in this group?

Do I belong in any group?

Now, that last question is extreme,
yes,

and how often have we asked ourselves this about private, public, monumental, and minuscule things of life? These are the types of questions that come up when a mind feels too full, and it needs to be emptied, thought by thought.

I dragged my camp chair for two down the gravel trail into an open space roofed by towering bald cypress trees. I quickly realized that I should have worn my boots as the sloped ground was littered with last year’s fallen, itchy needles and budding poison ivy (luckily-not luckily-I can confidently identify the choice word that is poison ivy now thanks to the brutal and selfish bushes we pulled out on the side of our house that just happened to have the venom pulsing through every branch, it might have well have been like that, at least…that’s what it felt like to me having to fall asleep with ice packs on my arms and legs for a couple weeks to stop the burning pain and itch…did you ask for this story? Rant?).

There were some openings in the branches to overlook the glassed lake ahead.

Here, I’ll just show you—

The first drafts for eight poems were written in the two and a half hour span. Most will never be shared; they are simply just scribblings of words-incomplete thoughts that I tried my best to complete under the conditions.

After rereading the first handful about halfway through the time, I hated them. None of them had the exact idea I was looking for, or had felt. The thoughts felt complete in the safety of my mind, and as soon as they touched paper, there seemed to be a part of them missing…a disconnection at best.

What is going on?

Why can’t I write what I’m thinking?

What am I thinking?

Closing the worn notebook that is soon to be replaced with a fresh one, I needed to just sit back and watch.

Watch the evening unfold,
the animals meet on their coming and going from the sun,
the way the water told the secrets of everyone else,
the colors fade, then brighten, then fade again slowly,
the giant gar circle the turtle perched on a stick,
the telling of the fish jumping out of the water one last time,
the green and blue meeting yellow for the night.

Swatting at gnats, mosquitoes, and worrying about whether I touched poison ivy or not, it was time to write again—to fish out some thoughts that I knew I had but just had to find them properly.

I’ve always had a thing with water, and if it is not already annoyingly obvious yet, I have a thing with trees right now.

So, sitting under trees observing the day-fall water, it all came to me in one fluid stroke.

Watchtower

I have never sat under
dry cypress before,
only of the muddy,
murky waters of Reelfoot Lake.
Like the silver fin of the gar,
it feels too familiar
to a close fairytale. 
I cannot help my mind
but to wander into the worlds
that I have wished for. 
I could have had a louder life. 
I could have had a busier one. 
And that would have taken me
away from this patch
of wheatgrass and ivy
under the buttoned sleeves
of the scouring cypress,
watchtowers of my life
for the night,
Wander mind, freely, soaringly, 
the cypress will find you when it's time. 

I wanted a concrete thought, something I could explain, something I could draw out for someone else…or really, for myself to anchor my mind from drifting, from dreaming.

And that is what I was getting wrong.

Something about the night cried, “Let yourself dream without feeling guilty and like you are wasting time.”

Instead, I chose to hear, “Let yourself dream, and you are wasting time.”

No wonder thoughts never felt safe outside that wall.

Closing the notebook was a letting down of the annoying figurative guard at the door of my mind…forcing the guard out, relieving the duty; it needed to happen.

And the poison ivy at my feet kept me looking ahead to the water to keep anxiety of sleeping with ice packs at bay.

There is nothing lyrically or structurally amazing or transformative about this poem and probably should be reworked at some point in time, but it has the anchor to that moment that I was looking to grab hold of,

so it is transformative to me of that Thursday evening by a lake.

Until next time,
Madeline

the flowers on the Dogwood tree.

The way the tree starts providing her summer shade for us
is through the flowers. Just while the flowers are reaching peak bloom,
the yellow-green turning lime green turning green leaves
start unraveling and spreading.

Dogwood of the Valley

The mother of our yard stands strong but weathered. Wrinkles and cracks are showing deeper each year. I wonder if I will, too, after this year. I found a patch of stretch marks from pregnancy that I thought had healed, and I saw more scars on my face. She has a new bare spot on her bark. We are not that different, besides age. 

I wish the hydrangeas would bloom already, although I never did prune back the old dead wood like I had been meaning to for the last three years. Maybe it will be easy to blame myself when she doesn't bloom well this year. I love seeing her blue bouquets, and our new pink one we got last year on Mother's Day; she's rich and wise despite her small stature. They guard the front steps, and that feels fitting; a sweet and grand greeting to friends.

A changing of the season, like a cup of warm chamomile tea with an ancestor on their beloved front porch swing overlooking a cherished garden. The sun in perfect alignment to warm toes, but to keep out of one's eyes. The toes can keep the whole body warm if warmed properly. I wonder if that relates any to how the body feels when one walks on grass. Why were we designed that way, to hold such power in the feet? 

Or perhaps it's more of where the feet touch. 
I don't really know.

Dried chamomile, err, dogwood petals, graced the ground beneath my feet. And my thoughts turned to the mother of the yard. I entered the cycle of nature's wave. I entered the cycle of the communal mother. (Not in a woo-woo way that makes some weary and the others sit neutral. But in a way that everyone's spirit understands, even if words don't connect at first.) While my feet stepped on the petals, some were still new to death: soft and tearable. Others were familiar, and all that was left was their dry and cracked skin. The difference, yeah, in being torn and being crushed and cracked...one could sit with that for awhile I would assume. To be torn into pieces, one by one, or to be crushed and cracked into dried out fragments...can one choose? Will we have to? 

---

Her blooms are in their last days now for the year. Soon they will be on the ground for my feet to cool and for the sun to melt into the soil again. A friend wrote about the lilies of the valley she sees in spring. For a moment, or many, I was jealous of the vision of those white, pearly, droopy flowers one might get to see and pick in the weeks warming the month. I read her words while sitting on the front porch, with my dogwood in the background. 

Like anyone would clip and take flowers for a vase on a kitchen windowsill, I did with her flowers. She gave a specific branchling for me to pick. So I did. 

In a mason jar for cappuccinos, her finger dropped more each day, drying in the sun.


I can be your lily, She whispered. 

---

Mothers always know best. There is a thread running through each needle's eye of every living thing: the heart; mothers hold that thread. 

They must. It is how each is formed and sustained, through the cord, the thread. 
The connection from core to core as a passing of life, a travail for generational mothers to commune and leave to bless their own. 

My dogwood, she holds a thread to the birds and to my hydrangeas. Perhaps I shall start calling them hers. She lets me into that thread whenever my feet touch the petals she has chosen to drop. I am starting to believe she might drop them for me. For anyone who wants to hold that thread with her for a moment. 

When my baby, turning toddler son, smiles and points to her, the birds, and the hydrangeas, I cannot help but notice that interaction is our two threads touching. Our threads that ran through us before us and now after us divinely meet in this moment. It's wonderfully overwhelming when you think about it. 

I’m not sure why I wanted to see lilies of the valley so much. I had never thought about them that much before, since we do not have them around us, or even as a sight on our regular walks, for that matter.

There was something about lusting after something new, no matter how pure that something is in its own right, that caught me red-handed, earning my first sunburn of the season, as I looked at my familiar friend and the mother of our yard, neglectfully.

She knew that new things could still come from the form of old,
as long as one is willing to change one's standpoint, that is.

Until next time,
Madeline

It makes the room feel alive,
like we have no reason not to be happy in that moment, no matter what surrounds us,
like the light will stay forever.

This particular morning was not that.

It rained,
poured,
flooded.

Our windows are not very forgiving on those days.

They share everything, every little secret from the sun—a gossip drama.

When she is happy, we feel it.
When she is sad, we feel that, too.

Even the walls cannot help but take hold of her emotive waves and bursts.

So if it is raining where you are right now, that is the perfect scene.
If it is sunny where you are, just imagine

grey, grey, grey.

Confetti on the Floor

Grey walls,
              grey light,
              amber bulbs shine
                                               overpower(ed/ing).

Long drooping shadows
                       are the visual
                                        to the constant
                                                        play of rain.

And I still get to
         look at confetti
                 showered and spread
                            like flowers in spring,
                                        sprouting from wet ground. 

My flowers today,
       plastic and wood
             sing to me.
                    Do wildflowers sing to you in the rain?

How or why I viewed these little toys as flowers,
I am not sure.

Maybe it was because I missed them outside,
I missed the yellow daffodils and purple lilacs blooming in our front yard.
I missed the white flowers on our Dogwood that would bloom soon (currently are!)

I missed seeing the way these flowers looked in the bath of the sun.

Who told you that you can’t view other things as flowers, too…huh?

May the weather not keep you from finding the sun on days full of rain,
and flowers in weeks when they are far past bloom.

Write down where you find your flowers today,
and send it to me.
I’d love to see.

Leave a comment

Until next time,
Madeline

And frankly, whenever I do sit down with an open journal and an empty page in front of me, I do not have much to say right now, it seems. I have jumbled thoughts and dreams, ideas and pursuits, and nothing seems to flow quite as well as normal.

This summer (I say summer because this morning feels like a true summer morning; our home is already too warm to sit in without the ceiling fan going and to keep the windows closed after 9 am), it feels as if it will be a big, full, chaotic, fulfilling, and dream-filled summer.

As I write this, it is my husband and my third wedding anniversary.
On that day, three years ago, I was shivering and shaking in a silk dress and white dress coat, standing on my parents’ back porch, about to say “yes” to my husband-the easiest decision ever. It was cold, so cold, that in some of our wedding photos, Caleb’s late grandfather is covering his ears, and I’m still not sure why I chose to go coat-less for our very short and sweet ceremony. Silly idea of me.
And today, I, wearing shorts and a tank top, went on a walk with our baby and sat on a bench down in the town square watching the firetrucks go by and tulips bloom while we sweat and laugh and can’t wait for daddy to get home from work.

April and May bring the most unpredictable weather to us here in Kentucky, and still, that in and of itself is the most predictable thing for us Ohio-Valleyians, expect the weather to be on its own agenda, to have its own reign, to not follow the forecast whatsoever.

A sweet spring with a natural, moving, and promptful time of pursuing dreams, it’s coming. Truly a chaotic summer, and in the best “most summer” way, chasing those high-up dreams brought down, I want it.

Our baby will be walking soon.
I hope to spend more days at the pool.
We can realistically fish now that our son is not a newborn.
We are healthier.
We are less distracted.
We are feeling a renewed purpose in work scenarios.

We are excited,
dreaming,
expectant.

Expectant; we/I (one flesh) have been wrestling with that word for a little bit now. Where do the lines, the borders of contentment and expectation of bigger things, cross? Meet? Or do they follow each other for a little bit before parting ways?

Is there something in contentment that stifles the expectancy for dreams to be fulfilled?

Is there something in expectation that stifles the ability to just be present, grateful, without wanting/needing more?

I don’t know. And I don’t know where they go.

I know that I love my life, and I am grateful for what we have, where we live, what I get to do, and the family I have.

And I also know that we are expectant for dreams to come true through everyday patience and quiet obedience, through our childlike faith and ability to ask for dreams and opportunities.

There are days when I think too much about it.
There are days when I feel too overwhelmed to do anything about it,
wanting to have the right attitude, the right mindset, the right amount of gratefulness (that is so silly, it’s never-ending, it should be, at least), the right level of dreaming (ditto, what I said earlier). I get in my own way.

The warm sun seems to incinerate all of those worries these days.

This feeling is light.
This feeling is full.
This feeling is fun and warm and feels like how a summer-like spring day feels.

A Prayer for Warm Months

                             To a season full of long, bright days in which we spend the    
                             entirety with only the sun and shadows to tell our time, with
                             dreams that chase us, with feet soon to learn to walk on their 
                             own, evenings soaking in our wonderland creek, mornings 
                             cooling in the first waves of the sun walking along rows of the
                             miniature jungles for the crickets and ants, some days my dreams 
                             feel like them; small and unnoticed, easy to miss, and some days it
                             feels like the entire colony follows me, chasing up my legs and 
                             arms, impossible to ignore, they bite and nag until I pick the leaf 
                             for them to carry, and they carry it, what will my dream leaf be 
                             this summer, or can I have a few to give them, so we can swim in
                             our creek, and float in the full sky, creating slowly and much, 
                             growing and baking with our makings in the sun, so the ants can 
                             carry my dreams with me. 

As the weather becomes less unpredictable after these two months,
may our dreams become expectant,
full,
true.
May our gratefulness become perpetual,
easy,
simple.

What dreams have you been reluctant to realize, to face?
What new things have you been nervous to try?
What prayers have you been fearful to ask?
What things have you been neglecting to be grateful for?

May the ants help you find your dream leaf to carry.

Until next time,
Madeline

Usually, I start each of these with an easy update on the local weather; something that people joke about as a small talk conversation starter, they loathe or dread, or perhaps some love it.

Personally, I lean toward thinking, why would we not talk about the weather?

It’s the one thing we can all see
and feel,
sometimes even taste.

It’s one of the first things that most of us check in the morning, determining what we will wear for the day, our shoes, maybe the bag we’ll pack our things into for protection or ease. Choosing for us whether our coffee will be warm or iced that morning. Contributing to our mood even? It’s not shameful to agree. I promise.

And maybe even some of us can agree on the conspiratorial thoughts on the weather…?

I say all of this to 1) justify/explain/validate why I start most of these posts with a comment on the weather and 2) to show what I notice as one of the initiators for most of my poems.

So, anyway, the weather earlier this week was what true spring feels like.
When you think back on old animated children’s movies, it was true to how it was this week.

Plants are flowering or budding,
trees are pruning their branches,
grass is claiming it’s land,
birds are flying, singing, and nesting,

colors are filling again.

It no longer feels like a bright, new canvas pressed tight and nailed to old wood.
It feels like the paint is being mixed on the palette and tested for color swatching

before the whole canvas is full again.

We like to remember and look for the caterpillars, the birds, and the bright flowers come springtime. And we always forget that to bring that, must come

the springtime storm.

Dark grey all day skies,
fresh petals lost and lay,
wind and breeze come with their force,
and the rain,

the non-stop rain.

I like walking in the rain. It feels peaceful and inspiring
and cleansing.

Walking the day after the rain,
I don’t like it. Not really. Maybe a tiny, tiny bit. But definitely not a lot.

It smells, mostly of sour, less of sweet.
It is messy, yet doesn’t call for the protection of rain gear.
It is humid, and muggy; I would rather feel the rain than sweat it.

Well, this day, I walked the day after the rain.

Celandine

Some things tell of spring;
          She is on her way
          swiftly and soon. 

The Bradford Pears are flowering!
          with beauty and blooms

                    must come debris and disease.
                              Not always strong enough in life's storms,
                           

                        Most of the spring is not.
The fields smelled of
                                              creeks today.
                                              And the creeks smelled of
                           the deep part of the creek as it does on a summer evening
                           after having bathed in the sun all day long.

The creeks
                                        always carry the weight and worries
                                        of the spring.
                                        And they just label it, "flooding."
                           If they don't flood,
                                        something must. Our minds?
                                                                       Our hands?
                                        You forget the weight when someone else
                                                          is holding it.
                          
                            Whenever the excess is pruned, dried,
                            ground for life is left. 

On our walk, I was looking for that life, the familiar friend I missed. 
I couldn't find her; maybe she wasn't ready.

                            A goldfinch sang.

                            She sang on a branch reaching out over the 
                            yellow trail flowers,
                            there she is.

Celandine and Daffodil, our spring bearers,

                our life found in the flooding.

I picked three little Celandine stems
on my last bit of walk before getting to the car to go home.
They graced my kitchen windowsill
for just a few days before they started to wilt.

Each of those days,
it rained.

What from spring can you bring into your home this week?
What can you notice on a rainy or day-after-rain walk?

May you be lifted by the colors, the songs, the warm(ish) breeze
that will soon bring the plenty.

Until next time,
Madeline

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It’s a big week.

We will have a one-year-old by the end of the week

and I think I am silently losing my mind.

I’ve noticed that dates feel dooming to me ever since I was pregnant last year. I’m still trying to nail down in myself exactly why I might feel that way, and I fear I am nearing the answer, but working my way nevertheless.

Could it be anxiety about deadlines that I’ve created? Or the ones the government sets for me (tax season always catches me off guard, can’t you tell)?

Something about time.

Time is the one thing in this life we do not get back, have the opportunity to have back, or can recreate, no matter how hard we try.

Now, I am a person who believes in the eternal afterlife and that my soul has always and will always exist. I may be on an island alone with those beliefs (I truly don’t think so, but I felt like I should include that), but it’s relevant to what I want to share here…and perhaps teach myself while I type.

If eternality is something I will have, or have had in its own way (spiritually), why should time feel this way?

Why should it feel like a clock waiting to shake and ring until you anxiously agree to it?

Why should it feel like the sky closes in ahead, and soon you’ll be able to reach the clouds…but in a terrifying way?

Why should it feel like it’s something I’ll never be able to truly reach and hold safe, never to part with?

Well, isn’t that the point?

I like to read with my son,

for many reasons.

One, books are good. Reading is just factually and fundamentally “good” for children in their development, wondering, and growing. Have you ever read a book to a child and thought, “Wow, that’s a good lesson to learn in there.” Or, “Hmm, that’s a pretty good idea.” Or even just simply, “Oh, that’s such a cute story.” Children learn from what they read and see, and I, personally, like to flip the physical pages that are only found in books (scrolling is just not the same, sorry), and Thompson seems to like that responsibility when we read, too. He’s quick to turn the page before I’m done, so our stories are pretty fractured right now. The books with animals and teachable moments seem to sit well and longer with him, even as a one-year-old.

Two, books are fun! If you haven’t already heard, noticed, or seen, the bookshelves my husband built for me in our living room might as well be my entire personality. I’m obsessed. I love looking at them, I love sitting under them, I love pulling out books from them, and I love that they are practical storage, rather than keeping my books in dusty produce boxes from Costco under our bed. Books are fun for adults, and books are fun for children. And I will spend every moment of my motherhood believing and living that.

And Three, books are beautiful. I always have separate stacks of my favorites on the shelves, and ones that are beautiful and meaningful to me. They just have to live separate from the crowd…and children's books are no different to me. A few months ago, I was reading with Thompson, and I noticed that most of the inside covers of his books all had art on them in various forms, rather than just having another blank white page or something; they chose to fill them with color, paintings, and sketches. I loved that. I’m sure adult hardcover books usually have the same, but it just felt different while reading his books with him and seeing the colorful designs and artwork. The books themselves are already full of wonder and creativity, and the publishers saw the inside covers as just one more little spot for another moment of whimsy.

I have had an ongoing little project of mine to save scraps of paper (literally anything: parts of envelopes, tags, scrap pieces of cut paper, egg carton labels, etc.) and keep them in the smallest mixing bowl I have. One day, I realized I have random lines of poems living in my phone or that I’ve shared online here and there over time. Some could probably be considered their own finished poem; others, I need to save them for when I can expand on them in due time. I cannot afford to lose them.

Throughout this newsletter, I’ve shared a few of the little thoughts in there that have to do with my son and the last year with him in our family, and I’ve paired them with the inside covers of a few of the books I read with him that bring me whimsy, wonder, and inspiration.

Children’s books don’t have to be just for children, FYI. ;)

Time is fleeting in its own miraculous, vicious, thievishly exciting way

and somehow, reading a children’s book with my son has reminded me to linger in wonder

not fear of time.

Not fear of time passing
or how fleeting it is
or how it may take the things I never want to leave me.

Time is inevitable.

And I think if I spend my time reading more colorful children’s books, and remembering the dreams, wishes, and fantasies that are inside,

I might just enjoy my time more.

It’s not hard to see that children’s books are written by adults.

Yes, some are just artistic people who enjoy color and immersing themselves and others into other worlds;

however, what if they are also written by people who didn’t want to just forego and hand over the life of whimsy (yet or ever) because that’s “what you’re supposed to do in adulthood”?

Can’t we have both?
I sure as heck think we can.

I hope we can.

What if,
creative children turn into creative adults, and creative adults turn the world inside out for people who have difficulty seeing the world with wonder sometimes.

And yes, the world will always have the space for wondrous things.

The question is,
do we?

Dreaming is not limited to childhood.

Whimsy is not limited to adolescence.

While I was putting this post together, I noticed something (a lot of things, but I will spare the extra time).

The spread of the colors featured on the pages of these said and shared books can all be found in the natural world. Every one of them.

So, you may challenge with “Even the lime green from Eric Carle’s Panda Bear Panda Bear book?” Yes, have you seen moss in the depths of a forest that has not been walked on yet? Have you seen the spring buds of an old Dogwood tree?

“What about the orange on that page?” Sure, that’s a good one. Freshly picked and cleaned carrots from a morning harvest, brightly blooming marigolds, summer field poppies,

it’s everywhere. We just have to look.

Another thing I noticed. I have seen all of these colors (maybe with the exception of the lime green, I guess) in the sky. At one point or another, at different times of day and in different locations, the sky shows it all. (Just a random tidbit of a thought).

Doesn’t that just mean, just go outside into nature, and you’ll find the same whimsy as a child’s book has?

My challenge is: Yes, and.

Read the books
Find the story
Laugh at the made-up character
Dream about visiting that fantasy city
Note the colors
Marvel at the creation

And

Read the river
Find the animal tracks
Laugh at the animals around
Dream about the sky tonight
Note the colors
Marvel at the creation

There has always been a connection between wonder and the outside world for me. It has only noticeably been strengthened since becoming a mother. And I don’t find that an odd coincidence.

I hope to teach Thompson and the rest of our future family, Lord willing, the amazing and wonderful and fantastic and inspiring and marvelous things of the outdoors and of art. And of how usually the deepest art has its roots taken in nature, too.

When we step outside and take the time to notice,
we live in a life-sized storybook.

A story that has always been written, outside of time or the fear of time.

Nature has no fear of going unnoticed; it lives without us. It actually thrives without us.

And yet, I would argue that we cannot live without it, much less thrive in its absence. There is a story outside that is yours,

yours to find, to read, to take or borrow, to sit with and dream of.

What if all the stories and colors and fables we read about
are simply waiting for us outside so we can write our own

in our own time?

Until next time,
Madeline

or at least, I’m somewhat hoping so.

I think the thing I write about each morning is just yearning for the sun now. Or wishing we could swing a weekend trip to the beach, to sit in the sun and have hot feet in the sand, a reason to wear shorts.

It will all be here soon enough.

While trying to find a poem for this week’s newsletter, I didn’t know whether to pick a recent one or not.

I’ve been working on submitting my writings to various online publications and reviews. Each thing I submit must remain unpublished to be eligible. It has been an ongoing winter project of mine to curate some of my work for publications and submissions. In that, I’ve had to select some of my favorite work as of recent for that category, leaving some that I’ve forgotten about in the poems in the creases of my journals for Substack and social media, or poems that just plainly do not fit the overall theme or grouping of the book I’m still working on finding a printer/publisher for.

That being said, I found this poem the other day in the journal from last year, while I was still pregnant during the snowstorm we had at the beginning of the year.

The Snow Just for You

The snow fell yesterday
and I couldn’t help
but dream about how next year
your tiny, innocent hands
will grasp the frozen water
with awe…or unsettled confusion.

Your dad will build you a snowman
every year until you can help him.
We will pull you on a sled
until you grow big enough to push yourself.

We’ll make snow cream and eat it
while our cheeks are still rosy
and noses are still dripping.

This time next year,
you’ll laugh and play
and I might watch with a tear on my cheek.

The snow may be finished for the season,

I don’t know.

I don’t really care.

But what the snow brought this year
was more than just refreshment and chill.
It brought memories and fulfilled dreams.

I wonder what it will bring next time.

I wonder what the sun and her warmth will bring to us soon.

Until next time,
Madeline

I had yet to make my morning coffee, and I was trying to justify the $7 to go get a latte out of the house

and maybe, if I’m telling secrets now, to break up the time before his morning nap, so I didn’t have to play with magnetic blocks or a shaker egg again.

After a few minutes of some discontent tears, from who? Who? Us? Both?, I loaded us into the car, half-presentedly dressed, and ready to go get my morning coffee.

Sitting in the driveway waiting for the windshield to defrost, yesterday’s warm front already come and gone,
I tried to figure out what I wanted to listen to.

The audiobook I’m working through on parenting? Definitely not.
The artist who has been on repeat in our house lately? Ehh, not feeling it.
The playlist that would’ve probably fit the morning? I don’t feel like skipping stuff.

So I turned on the radio.

107.7 THE EAGLE

He was crying, and I was
about to. We needed to go for
a drive. Something about a drive
that de-escalates everything, what is it?

I turned the radio on, I’m not sure
why, I never listen to the radio anymore, but classic rock
seemed like a fine choice for the morning, hoping
for something not already on my playlist.

At the highest point of the expressway,
the ramp that sometimes scares me
if I think too much about it, proved
the horizon looking as an
old painting hiding away in an attic,

waiting to be dusted, held, or
maybe just found again, to be
appreciated, or just plain noticed.
Blue-gray bony trees met a dusty-rose spring pink
of a waking sky. A simple sight

moving around, dusted,
while my son slept in the back seat
to the lullabies of Lynyrd Skynyrd
and Guns N’ Roses.

When was the last time you put on the radio?

and didn’t switch stations during the commercials?

and listened to the corny radio shows?

Turn on the radio sometime today and notice what is new around you that you can see now.

Until next time,
Madeline

The last hours before bedtime that linger, drag on, stretch out beyond your/their/any limit.

The sun lowers to his rest while you become jealous, angry, bitter towards the time in-between you and your rest yet to come. I mean yes, the sun has extreme responsibilities, but isn’t raising (a) human/s extreme responsibility, too?

Exhausted food sits drying, seeping, soaking into every pore and crack in the surface it rests on.

Soft music plays behind you, no longer selecting what you chose back around lunchtime; even that feels like a thief.

What was meant to be a sweet, intentional, lamp-lit family dinner turned into a ruckus of an evening,

and yet it’s still my

Favorite Meal

In the boxed-out, blue-washed backyard, I remembered the day while cleaning mindlessly the remnants from dinner. “What did I even make to eat?” Rushed timelines and a changed schedule left me feeling alone and upset. The two hours before his bedtime were now an extension of the tried and red-faced day we had had; rather than the relief that floods when a third party (the most important) steps into the conversation on the other side of the threshold, de-escalating everything, instantly. Picking up his dirty spoon, I remembered what I had made: tacos. An easy meal, so I tried to make a new cilantro sour cream (I’m not very savvy in the kitchen), and even set out taco sauce for the other plate. I had tried extra, on a day like today? And it wasn’t bad, maybe could use more fresh lime juice next time, or even some garlic salt mixed in. “I just wanted a break, an easy night.” He hardly laughed at dinner; unusual. Normally, I get to see the growing teeth and still mostly gummy smile I love. And he didn’t want to read Goodnight Moon tonight either. “He’s so tired.” It was a long weekend, for everyone. I picked up my dinner plate, cubed chunks of avocado coated with said cilantro sour cream spilled from a cold tortilla, half-eaten, lowly filled with seasoned ground beef and chicken broth rice, all flavorless now. Tacos are not my favorite meal. And they won’t ever be for the foreseeable future, but it doesn’t matter what I/we eat, or don’t eat, a meal spent with him will be my favorite; the last one always will be, until the next. How cold, uneaten meals become a favorite is only known through the dewy, squinted eyes below the dimly lit overhead dinner table lamp, shadowing the smile of a little one to his favorite people; sparkling with slobber and slime. The backyard is shaded to a dark navy as I dry my hands with the cherry red towel hanging off the broken dishwasher. Tonight was unexpectedly my new favorite, and so it will be tomorrow as well.

For today,
yesterday,
or perhaps tomorrow.

Those days come and go, fleeting by their own pace.

They bring invitations to live yet long, full, grateful days
if we do not wish them away while they pass.

Until next time,
Madeline

Last year, it felt like I had a million and a half things flurrying around in the already full mind of mine. Most of them had to do with questions like the one I wrote about below, which you’ll be able to read in just a few moments. And the rest were usually ones like “how can I be creative with this…and make money from it?” My chapbook that I released last year felt like the odd project out, where I wasn’t needing or expecting to “make anything” off of it. It felt fun. And that was enough. I am more selective about what I share from my journal now; not everything makes the cut to become a post or a part of a collection for a printed project. The poems included in my chapbook, however, always felt like they were written to be shared for the purpose of connecting those estranged thoughts we feel we create in postpartum that actually have the ability to help create us, for better or for worse.

Anyways, I’m getting too far into what could be (will be) the intro to another newsletter I have upcoming, a hot take—stay tuned.

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The poem I’ve chosen to share this week is from that very poetry chapbook, Through Words and Water1, and it’s one that almost didn’t make it into the book.

He was 3 weeks old when I wrote this.

I was 3 weeks into being a mother.

Is This Not the Baby of Someone Else?

How can this be mine
to keep
to steward
to prepare,
is this not the baby of someone else?
Someone who knows what to do when he cries
who doesn’t get frustrated or defeated
who feels like motherhood is an easy yes?
That person may exist
but it is not me
parts of that person may be found in parts of me
fragmented and cracked
but it can’t fully be me.

Is this not the baby of someone else?

Yes,
someone else that who I was when we started
and who I will be at the finish.
Thank God and Amen.

I felt so disconnected. There was something so different than what I had expected to feel that felt like more than a cloud but less than a wave over me.

Even though this poem reads as if the author had come back to finish the end at a later time, it was finished in full, in the middle of the night, during a feed, and I am pretty sure the tone of this poem shifted as I watched his little chest rise and fall in my lap.

In all of the fearful unknown of everything to come and how that would alter each and every little detail of our lives, he was the reminder that I needed that everyone does this, and it’s meant to be figured out along the way, and

that we have been and will be forever changed

with every rise and fall of that little chest.

You cannot go through the beginning of a major life change and not be changed yourself. Well, I guess one can, although it seems to be a bit of a wasteful thing, not to look and be changed by the things around you…or to ask for a change every once in a while. Even the most awful of moments can lead us into a new us.

For the first few weeks, he didn’t feel like mine. I didn’t feel like myself.

And I think that may be the point.

I was so scared of this changing me that I didn’t take the honorable step to see that he was mine, to keep, to steward, to prepare into this life. He still felt like something we were fostering or keeping for a certain amount of time before handing over to someone else (who knew what to do when I did not). Which, in a sense, I guess that is what the whole of parenting is.

However, I wasn’t connecting that this major act of pregnancy, labor, and delivery, and all of the hormones, pain, fear, and joy that join in, was the act of bringing him to us
to keep,
to steward,
to prepare.
To change everything forever. To change me forever. To change us forever.

We were never designed to stay the same.

And thank God.

Until next time,
Madeline

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Normally, the sound of calming tunes accompanies me while I write, but not this morning. Just the blaring sound of the dog or two across the street waiting to be let in, or perhaps he’s trying to talk to the birds who have come back since it’s warmed up again…who knows.

A stainless steel grey is the only variant of the clean scene outdoors. (No water stains out there)

Well,

except for the occasional cardinal or blue jay.

Cardinals and Blue Jays

The painter
He used only grey and shades of grey
in order to remember this moment
and scape; a place of nothing,
of the quiet and the still.
And yet

there is something like the bug that lights
in flight that He must have missed.

But, could He have missed it in sight
or simply by hand blight.

He does not “miss” or “forget,”
so the intention was a gift to me
to see what He had left

in plain sight for the curious eye to see.
The bugs of lightning and thunder were
no more than mere birds.
Can one call them “mere” when they color the entire view?

Sweeps and strokes of primary
fly. Engorge. Sing.
Deep crimson meets a long sun-faded indigo
in the air of chilled whisper and dream.

He missed this?
Or could He have saved it for me
to find a winter treasure, only those who
pursue and persevere get to affirm.
My colors a primary,
swimming in a lake of grey,
summer friends come to winter.
A warmth He gave me today.

It’s a lonesome grey outside. And while I haven’t yet gone on our daily morning walk yet where I usually can find some of the color hiding underneath the bore, the color came to me in-between the panes of our windows and breaching branches in the backyard.

A color-washed bird helps to break apart the camouflaged patterns of winter.

And there are other things, too.

Perhaps today you could look for your
cardinal,
blue jay,
grosbeaks and
purple finches.

They are there, in stealth and hiding, only if you don’t sit long enough for them to find you.

Until next time,
Madeline

We’ve not had the easiest nights as of late, and naps are frequent but not long enough for me to be able to rest while he rests.

Yet I still know that one day will come when I won’t get to watch him sleep, he won’t sleep in our room, and he won’t need me to fall asleep.

The duality of these thoughts feels like a mean joke sometimes; knowing how fleeting these days and nights are and wishing for them to pass at the same time. The definition of “bittersweet” must have come from a parent.

Order your copy of my poetry chapbook!

From the beginning, I’ve noticed that he has this crossing of veins on the side of his head. Under the glow of our red light, which we use on my bedside table, it looks like a stamp, a marker drawn on.

He’s always had it, and the older and chunkier he gets, the less I can see these tiny tunnels of blood.

And the less often I get to watch him sleep.

Head Veins

It’s almost five in the morning
and I can’t help but watch
the river vein pulse on the side
of his head.
The skin of his eyelid,
absolute and meeting together
in the perfect merge.
The lone neck roll
waving through each suck and swallow.
The bit of chest showing
through a too-big sleeper onesie.
Arms crossed and limp
in between me and him,
holding me.

This is another poem from my newest chapbook, Through Words and Water. I am not sure that I’ll get to have this experience with our other kids to come, so I had to give it a space in this collection of poetry.

And, since it is Advent season, I cannot help but wonder what Mary thought while watching Jesus sleep during the infant days…

What will our life look like?

Who will my son love, teach, heal?

What will he look like in a few years?

Will his personality surprise me?

What will it feel like, to watch him save people?

The Savior came through the way we all are born, because he had to. And they were all surprised by an infant king—the flawless lamb .

The humanity in the Divinity will continue to leave me surprised, too.

Until next time,
Madeline

Well, it snowed!

And not just the familiar and lame Kentucky early winter dusting, no, this was a good, heartful snow. School was called off (still doesn’t mean much here), so kids spent the day sledding and breaking in their stiff winter gear. The roads were slick, and we had to spend time warming up the cars earlier to melt some ice—a true snow day.

I have yet to bring out a candle with our crawling baby around. It would be truly impossible for him to touch the top of our coffee tables or our kitchen table; however, there is a small fear that I would drop or knock a candle over on him when lighting or moving things around, and so it’s simple, I just cannot have candles out yet.

All of the bulbs in our lamps glow with a warm, amber hue very similar to the color of candlelight, though.

Tuesday evening, I started my Advent reading (three days late, yes, there is grace), and I’m just choosing to read through a devotional/study/not sure what you would consider it that I have read for the previous three years now. Honest Advent by Scott Erickson has been a winter rope leading me through these weeks, inching toward Christmas. An artist and writer who paired very honest (can I say that?) and somewhat contradictory Advent thoughts with his original drawings. I say contradictory since he chooses to actually write about Mary for more than just one of the days of Advent. Every other Advent I’ve read only gives her one day, where Scott challenges that thinking and leans into the reality that Jesus was born through human childbirth, lived in-utero, fed via placenta and had a newborn phase, too. Sounds familiar.

Read Day 1 of Scott's Advent work

This is my labyrinth way of getting to the introductory thought of this week’s poem:

I wonder what kind of weather and environments Mary experienced while being pregnant?

The candlelight comment might first seem like it’s flying in from left field, but, imagine something with me:

An angel comes to you — a woman, in a society where the man is the religious leader of a home and family — and tells you that you are pregnant by no means other than something miraculously spiritual happened unbeknownst to you. Not just that, no of course not. That this miracle baby will be the Savior of the world, anyone’s only saving way to eternity.

A teen girl with the faith to say “use me” would be used as the vessel for saving foreverness, the only human to have been given this opportunity, pressure, calling, responsibility,

faith, trust, and pathway.

You wonder little things, and then as you write them, you realize they become big things.

So I wondered

what was the night like when the angel came to her?
Was it bitter cold and cloudy with an absence of stars, or was it comfortably warm with a sweet smell of honeysuckle and grass with all of the constellations to count?

What was the day after like?
Was it the same or noticeably different?

What did the air feel like while we went through the first trimester?
Was it humid and muggy, holding nausea in the air, or did the chill curb it all?

What did riding a donkey through late pregnancy feel like?
Was the ground muddy from a rainstorm season, or could it have been dry and dusty from drought?

What was the night sky like the night she gave birth?
Surely the stars were out, at least just one, but was it the only one?

What about the first morning holding her newborn babe?
Wrapping them both in layers to protect from frost or keeping dry from a storm in the summer heat?

The Wonder

The stars in the sky would keep to lead you
did you know?

Through the wondrous saving of forever
of all who accept

Comes a babe

Through the reality of humanness
with bloodshed, ache, and fear

Everlasting peace still reigns
in every grunt

And push,
tear, and exhale,

Comes a babe

Eternally attached
Soon to be fragmented, yes

Yet He must have come out
golden and shining

could it be the stardust of angels
anointing His face

the world will pray to see
on their last day

til their first of the new

from the babe.

A working draft, if I’m honest.

May it spark Advent thoughts—no matter your heart’s view of spirit beings and creation.

May it remind you of the truth—the first Christmas night was bloody, messy, uncomfortable, and perhaps even awkward at times.

May it encourage you to find a new side of that teenager Mary—remembering her faith, yes, and the environment in which she said “yes” to.

Until next time,
Madeline

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To everyone who has purchased my latest poetry chapbook, thank you!

Each message in return, encouragement shared, and forward to a friend truly makes a difference. I am a firm believer in the principle that whoever is meant to find my work, word or photo, will find it. Whether it be near or far, familiar or new, I know whoever is intended to hold these simple words through phone or book, will find their way.

Since releasing my chapbook, Through Words and Water, I have had the opportunity to hand-deliver a few to those nearby and give context to a few of the poems included during our time. Context truly can make a difference in how someone receives a grouping of words (not just poetically or artistically, in truly any sense…think about it). Having that realization, I decided that I would share a selected handful of poems from my book with the intention of giving broader thoughts and context behind them, hopefully giving a clearer and deeper picture of the backdrop to the words, and to hopefully relate to a few more in the process.

I have actually already shared a couple of the included poems in the past months. If you missed them and would like to read those posts at some point, they’ll be linked at the end of this newsletter.

If you have already got your hands on this little book of mine and read through it, you may have winced at the first poem…

or maybe you sat deeper in your chair…

maybe you closed the book and opened your phone to look at photos of you in the same moments…

or maybe you read on with a tear, hoping to feel those words for yourself [again].

Each time I hand over or drop the book in the mail, I pray that it meets the hands that open it well and with tenderness. I know stories and experiences are all different. Some harder, some easier. This is mine. But in the space in between differing stories, there lives deep emotion. The one thread holding it all together is the reality of humanity. We can all relate to feeling grief, joy, crippling fear, and bursting happiness. The stories that drive us to those feelings are where we divert and have a story all our own. There is community in the sharing of intimacy, and however different our stories may be, we can relate in ways that may just be hidden for a while.

You do not need to be a mother to read or relate. How? Have you felt the pull and fullness of joy and fear at the same time? Yes. That is what the essence of the poems in this book is about for me. (I do personally believe there is something different, though, about holding a being you’ve created, or rather, that our bodies were designed to create, hold, and nurture. There is something special and empowering, yes, about businesses and dogs and projects. But how much more is that of a human baby made from only you and another - or given to you in the process of adoption…this is for all moms!)

This was the first poem I wrote after delivering my son.

It was four in the morning, and he was sleeping on my chest, wrapped coldly in his first diaper and bare-backed.

Two shared blankets covered our legs. My husband slept next to us, after the longest day of his life, too.

The lights in the room were dim; it snowed outside after a sun-soaked morning and a dreary, rainy afternoon. Did you know you were born on the day of all weather? The only sounds came from a vent in the corner and the muffled steps of the midwife on call down the hallway. Not even his breath makes a sound yet.

What was today? What did we go through? You mean everyone does this? Is this how everyone feels afterwards? Scared to go home? Because how can I take care of this tiny thing? How is this mine? How will I do this? For the rest of my life?

The questions attacked.

And kept attacking.

So I came armed.

Needing to corral the thoughts for a proper reflection, I wrote.

And writing peeled the cracking exterior of fear that had subtle, quiet joy painted underneath.

Now, poets will tell you to revise, ReViSe, REVISE. I hardly do, if I’m being honest. Oops. (Well, to the point that they will tell you to. I will change words, not directions). In this particular season of writing, it feels purely documentary, not as much crafting or formulating. That being said, this poem is the same as it lives in the notes app on my phone from the hour I wrote it. And it felt right to leave it that way, for now at least.

So, this poem, this somewhat jumble of thoughts, was what I felt at four in the morning, holding my son just six hours old, in the same place he was handed to me.

I Am A Mother

I’ve been one
the past ten months,
not in a way that most see.
They see “soon to be”
this baby is in me
we are just one
for ten months.
Then through blood, skin, and fluid,
we fight to release you
to your own life
with choice and love,

Through blood stained sheets and shorts
lives the fact that we have always been one, sharing bodies.

Through the force of contracting muscles
lives the desire to have you be your own.

Through words and water
lives you.
You will see why it’s all worth it
one day.
That one day for me
is today.

I will be sharing three more poems in this format over the coming weeks from my chapbook. With the hope that they show more under the words, each one is different and has its own story behind it.

Poetry can lean towards only sharing the half-story of a moment, thought, or dream. This background may provide a stronger foundation and surrounding space with this poem…and the others following.

The space and time of building a family are different for everyone. This is how those first weeks went for me. It may be sensitive for some to read, or feel just out right wrong to share. And that’s okay.

Birth feels that way.

Holding your newborn baby feels that way.

Breastfeeding feels that way.

Motherhood feels that way.

Until next time,
Madeline

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We’ve been in and out of teething, sleep regressions and progressions, and feeling clingy or independent. He’s learning a new skill and developing a new part of his brain, and I’m learning how to keep up with it all while keeping things going around the house and in preparation as we enter into the holidays.

Often at night, when he keeps me up and it’s beyond repairing my sleep cycle, once I finally get him to sleep, I’ll open my phone and scroll back through photos from this year. Memories pass and are reintroduced. Emotions feel much less important. Stories are retold with teary eyes.

How can so much life pass in such seemingly few months?
How can so many “firsts” happen in the first year?

I hit the point in time where he would still fall asleep on me. “I don’t even know the last time he did that…well, I probably have a photo from it…July 14…” What had become normal for us now was coveted in those moments. And what is coveted now is for those moments to come back. I had been trying and wanting for him to sleep independently, in his crib, without me. To fall asleep on his own.

Did I know that I’d sit up at night wishing to be a part of his nap time again?
Did I know that I would lose sleep wishing to hold him while he slept again?

All of these seasons and stages and brief expressions that these babies give us, they only last for what seems like never long enough. What was looked over and wished to pass now becomes a prayer to have back or to look forward to the next time.

Will we know when these days pass, we will want them back?
Will we know when these days are passing?

Be Careful with Your Prayers

You used to be far,
in a boat all your own,
sailing away in the air
down the hallway.

I wished, hoped, prayed,
for just another night
that you would fall asleep
in the warmth of my arms.

It had been weeks,
years without earning them yet,
since it last happened.
I missed it, you.

During my prayers
He took me back to the nights
where I prayed for you
to be okay without me.

We must be careful
What we wish and pray for.
It does come,
It does happen,

And without warning.
for weeks
I prayed that you would want me
again.

Tonight, you fell asleep in my arms,
nuzzled into my chest,
wrapped your arms around my neck,
He heard me this time, too.

Our prayers will billow
and wave back and forth.
And He always knows when to give
and when to hold.

I do not get to bring him to the coffee shop anymore since he’s discovered how to screech and scream. And the coffee shop nearest us is in an old bank, I.E., echoey and dense". I’m not quite sure the baristas or patrons really appreciate our morning commentary the days we decide to walk up for a treat. So my writing time is now limited to when I get the occasionally long afternoon nap time with no chores to do or when someone offers to watch him while I get out of the house.

Hopefully, a routine can be started again. One that lends itself to sustainability and flexibility, while continuing to pursue this outlet. It feels like a watering hole to me that I only get to pass by without stopping.

Here’s to pursuing new routines…or having the flexibility to not have them some days.
Here’s to showing gratitude for whatever stage we’re in…knowing it passes all too soon.

Until next time,
Madeline

How might you resonate with these thoughts this week? Let me know! Many may relate to parenting their child or finding routines for the home, and many may not.

Leave a comment

My new project, Through Words and Water, is a collection of 20 original poems from those first couple of months following our son’s birth.

During those early mornings and nights that seemed to have no end, I wrote. And I wrote where I was able to, in the notes app on my phone. These typed declarations of motherhood, in all of its conflicting and combating thoughts, came together to show me a picture I had yet to see, even though I was the one holding the thoughts I had chosen to write.

These poems all converged into one commonality of a spine, meeting at a space where joy and fear melt into one.

As I was curating the content for this chapbook, I expected these poems to have a blue undertone, one of fear and of being overwhelmed past description. However, as I re-read all of them in sequence, I was able to see that joy won as the backdrop for them all, even in the doubt or questioning, joy overcame and weighed more than the feelings of fear.

Who is this for?

At first glance, it may seem like this collection is intimately for mothers and mothers only. And although most of the contents will directly speak to mothers, it can be insightful and encouraging to those not directly in the season of motherhood.

I imagine husbands and fathers reading these poems, gaining a deeper understanding of the range of thoughts women in new postpartum nights may have.

I imagine friends reading these poems, knowing how a friend feels in the days and weeks after life-changing events.

I imagine mothers reading these poems, years after bearing children, reminiscing on how they spent those early nights, feeling as they look at their growing children.

I imagine mothers reading these poems, who have the desire to bear children one day, yearning to feel these words for themselves, praying over their future kin.

I imagine mothers reading these poems, finding words that make their thoughts feel real and normal and grounded.

So what is a chapbook?

A chapbook is essentially a shorter booklet version of a full-length poetry manuscript that one would find in a professionally published book. I decided on the medium for this specific project due to its cost and print turnaround time, and the ability and freedom to add collections and adjust formatting for the future full manuscript.

My intention is that is will be a familiar friend on a bedside table, clipped to the fridge for a reminder, or to hold a bit of space in a nursery.

Ordering Details

This chapbook is available for pre-orders TODAY!

Order my chapbook now!

Pre-orders will be fulfilled within a few weeks after printing. And all pre-orders include a 4.13×5.83in exclusive & limited printing of “And Under the Moon”.

A Poem Peek

Here is a poem that I have not shared yet except through this booklet:

Like A Weed

Cartilage of the ears develop
So quickly. One day they are
Still as soft as dry sand or
A fresh spring leaf; never Knowing when the trace starts or Ends in your hand. “They grow Like weeds.” Yes, they do.

Every walk we take outside, I note
How many new weeds I need to pull now
And how tall the ones I’ve put off pulling are.
Everyday when I look at him,
I see something new and less new, like ears.
One day they are barely felt as some thing attached to the skull, The next they feel like their own part. Full of whatever
Makes body parts feel like its own part, blood?
Cartilage hardens however it does with collagen and fibers and Now ears are normal ears, which just means
He’s growing
Like a weed I can’t pick and stop. No,
Like a weed that just keeps growing until
It turns into a flower, then a bush, then a tree
All with its own name. Bones fusing
are the Roots deepening to the earths core.
I can’t watch the growing anymore, it’s too fast
And I’m worried I won’t notice it all before it is too late.

Other Projects

It’s been a constant battle to know what to take on for work and when to spend the time working on it since having our son. A battle I know will continue to chase me the older he gets and the more I need to learn about parenting.

My poetry book, Tree Talk, is a project that I’m still seeking publication for. And since pausing that project, it has been reworked anyway. It will have it’s time when it’s supposed to. For now, I’m working on a few other projects that will come before Tree Talk.

As for future chapbooks, Through Words and Water will be part of a three-part series. More to come in the future!

My hope is that whoever is meant to have these words in hands, and for whatever season comes to them next, that these words can bring bold perspective, unruling hope and a faint light to what the first 6-8 weeks can look like.

To everyone who has supported me through purchase or encouragement, thank you. Each word and share is a meaningful action to me and to others in spreading the message that holds close in my work.

Until next time,
Madeline

With the onset of Autumn finally being here, the sidewalks are layered with leaves again.

The best crunch, the ground has more color than just green…for the short time being.

While on our daily evening walk, it was raining the entire time. Some minutes, just a few drops here and there, others, a true full splash from head to toe. As the tempo faded in and out, I noticed front porches I had never seen before, and trees that were a little taller than the week before.

From our walk last night:

Old Growth Oak

Under the great canopy of age,
leaves live as memories
meant to fly and fall;

Every season grows new skin for the
skeleton left from the year already lived.
Something like generational grace,

greeting the new line with familiar faces
hidden in the veins of each leaf.
Waving in the wind, a veteran

in the sky. Flying with an old friend.

The oaks, they sing only hymns,
the myths that end up being not just folklore,
but fact, and the stories of past lives
where fairies would fill their trunks and
the family of the decade would carve their names into the heart
of the old growth Oak in the back yard.

What trees around you have caught your eye and mind lately?

Until next time,
Madeline

However, I hope to establish a more structured writing routine each week, allowing myself the time, energy, and space to write more and for longer. The weeks where I find or set aside that time, usually results in a more rested and inspired week.

//

On that oxymoronic note, I have been participating in a challenge that I gave myself over on Instagram, to post a poem a day (well, I’ve missed a few days but what’s new) with a video. Just something short, quick, and light, low expectations.

It was formed out of a desire to give a place to all of the random and loose lines and thoughts I have throughout my day, and turned into a writing challenge for myself to grow.

Watch my recent challenge here!!!

It has been a little more difficult than I thought;

1. To remember to take a video each day - I’m just not good at this

2. To write something relating to whatever the video is of - Eh, it’s alright

3. To remember to post it each day - I’m really not good at this

I find myself not just noticing things throughout my day now, but searching for them.

For this week, I will be sharing two of my most recent poems from this ongoing series!

//

This past weekend, I was in Texas to photograph a friend's wedding and found plenty of things I wish I had found the time to sit down and write about. While I was leaving College Station to drive closer to Houston before my flight home after the wedding, I must have left at just the right time for the sun, steam, and sweetness of the last summer morning to come out and play. Since I was driving while having these thoughts, I had to quickly write them down when I finally got to the coffee shop to sit and work for a few hours.

There was a feeling I had when driving that morning, one of peace, or maybe of true quietude. All I could truly hear was the hum of the asphalt under my feet moving at the pace of 75mph, yet the peace I felt quieted even that.

There was something garden-like about this place and time.

A Poem A Day: 012

An Eden called Texas,

Olive and Oak born twins, rooting in fields of old.
Colors wed here, as in Galilee, when the sun nears a greeting.
Yellow is green is blue is purple.
They all find their children in the flowers lining the visitors pathway.

They must have heard the hum of cattle,
They must have seen the blended colors,
They must have felt the wind through trees,

And said, “Yes, this is it.”

As of late, Thompson and I (if you are new here, he is my 7-month-old!) will go on a walk each morning. And we’ve been absolutely blessed with the weather here lately! A few cooler mornings before the sun reaches her peak and lots of breezy, leaf-falling walks.

We finally have the crunchy sounds of dried leaves under our feet and the orange mornings I long for all year round.

Since we live close to a coffee shop, on mornings when I feel like being semi-social with adults, we will walk there as opposed to our loop around the neighborhood. We get to pass the gas station, a few banks, auto repair shops, and usually a fire truck or two on this route.

Once I ordered my coffee this morning (praise for a maple syrup latte, why is this a seasonal drink…petition to have this at every cafe all year long please and thank you), I looked back at Thompson sitting in the stroller. All I could see of him were his feet, kicking up in the air and his little squeals telling me that he is in-fact NOT napping like he should be, but having the best time. (He really enjoys that his laughs echo in this particular cafe, the patrons, I am not so sure we agree)

This one is for the mornings I hope to never forget.

A Poem A Day: 009

These mornings are for the fresh air that will keep life to these memories for me.

You won’t remember our walk to coffee this morning, or any morning,

but I will. Your laugh at the big-cheeked squirrels and the tempo of your kicking feet,

even that feels like a shadow from a different life.

//

Whether you are a writer or not, I’d love to read the random thought or line floating through your head today. Simple or complex, there’s always a space for them here.

Leave a comment

Until next time,
Madeline

However,

it’s been miserably humid here with scorching temperatures, making it difficult to spend any time outside without fear of harming a new baby in the heat.

The windows (and fans) have been on and open as much as can be, and early morning walks to beat the heat have become routine, but I cannot lie and say there wasn’t a sigh of relief and contentment being able to walk outside with my little one in the middle of the day with no fear, knowing he is comfortable in his too cute little baby blue hoodie.

There IS something about summer that no matter how hot, humid, and hurried it seems to be every year, that will always be missed;

the sweets,

the sticky ones and the savory ones.

Summertime Sweets

Strawberry knees / Caribbean water wide open skies / that iced vanilla oat milk latte / afternoon cherry lemonade / candy colored wildflowers / Swedish fish that look like bluegill / only catching bluegill / cool creek waves splashing our toes / high light ripping through the trees / John Deere green leaves not yet fallen / time spent on the water / in the water / looking at the water / pool splashes streak the sun-kissed skin on our faces / like watermelon stained cheeks / ice cream sticky lips / melt and melt and melt / it all melts / we all melt / the humidity must be all out soon, right / the summertime sweets are almost all out / soon for the chocolate that cannot melt and the apples to match

I’ve had some fun lately, challenging myself to write about some of the more simpler things in life. Sometimes I can bog myself down thinking and writing about deep things that I can miss the simple joys of what sits right in front of me/us.

I’d love to know what simple things you can see today.

How the place of sunlight is changing on the walls as the seasons shift,
How the homemade coffee made you smile,
How the hour to yourself felt relaxing,
How the camaraderie you’re in energizes you day after day,
How your leftovers mean you don’t have to cook today,
How you’re excited to see your friends tonight,
How you can’t wait to get a treat tonight,

Maybe the last one of the summer.

Until next time,
Madeline