I am the latest in a long line of hardy and clever broads and I am no different, except my homestead is the hood.
This is a place where I write and share things. Mostly silliness, but not always.
the tough lady
Love’s such a delicate thing that we do,
With nothing to prove,
Which I never knew.
(Source: Spotify)
Maya and My Father-in-Law
He is not old yet, but life has taken its toll callously – the absent stares, fumbling for words, mistaking of banal objects. The cruelty of Alzheimer’s is how one’s own sense of self unravels. The only blessing is that soon he will not have to remember, and the fear of not remembering will fade. My curly headed niece has plopped herself proudly on the not-yet-old man’s Levi-lined lap with my old copy of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. She does not need to ask, but simply looks up, giving him the eyes (how do girls learn to do that so early?) and soon he’s reading to her. She doesn’t know all that stirs inside of him, the questions and confusion. To her, he is a nice man and a nice man will read her a book. I feel like a voyeur, but I can’t stop watching. His careful, weary hands thumb through each page and his assured voice rings warmly through the starched suburban air. She inches closer when it’s getting good and his arm generously holds her, wrapping her up in the moment’s suspense. Our children will never know him this way. It seems garish to point this out to anyone else, so unnecessarily heart-wrenching. I just continue to watch the two of them together.
Sometimes a moment is only that, a beautifully brutal reminder of the fleeting nature of it all. Now, he reads. Precise with intonation, lifting and lilting the words to push the tiny buttons of her delight, he reads and she listens. At this particular moment he is not fumbling, not forgetting, and no one is aging. There is no consideration of tomorrow – there is only a man and a child, both wiser than most, enjoying a silly book. For now, he knows exactly what to do. He will read to a little girl who has the remarkable talent to reap love from even the rarest loam. She plucks the perfect harvest and for a little while, it is autumn.
Pinterest - n. a web-based social arena where women conspire together to affirm each other’s food issues and body image unhealth; crack-like fuel for need-to-please crafters; self-created prison (Zooey Deschanel is your cell mate) with cute curtains made out of vintage aprons; the end of feminism; totally and completely addictive brain suck.I.have.to.go.to.there…
Today, I will be Chingona! (photo and art credit: Yreina Flores Ortiz)
buy it here: http://www.etsy.com/listing/93145213/la-chingona-giclee-fine-art-print-of
Unbattening the hatches
During this time of year I envision myself a pioneer or a Native American woman charged with the one duty that feels as satisfying as the effort - madly sweeping out a humble dwelling, shaking the rugs and airing out every inch of the hut, letting the sun dry up the last bits of dampness and fill the air with the sweet promise of spring. I can nearly hear the finches warbling their unmistakable tune of triumph over another winter survived. I can almost feel the strain in my back from bending, scrubbing out the cobwebs and unbattening the hatches. It’s a foreign duty to someone as familiar with pavement and touchscreens as I (woefully) am, but this act feels deeply familiar, and my longing for it so palpable. I suppose hundreds of years of instinct of the homesteaders and Apache before me are not so quickly silenced. But behind the simple yearning to decant my home lies far more longing - for open air, for hard work and true reward, for an acute existence, for nature’s place in life to return, for silence, for a place all my own beneath a boundless sky.
