The Saltwater Recollections

Letters from the shore

I will not remember 

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what came out of his mouth. It’s not in 

me today. I will not be so sheepish.

I will remember the rainbow city and you cutting the blocks with your pizza cutter.

you running into the kitchen to get it 

along with your spatula.

Ellington playing and sun pouring into the windows

every inch of the room filled with it.

Your face and scent. 

Your voice as you named the shapes of the blocks in your own way, calling it

ha cycle.

And your uh oh

when it fell to the ground.

the protection of life and the home we inherit

Have we really begun to believe that life begins and ends at birth, and does not deeply reflect the home, the planet, the community, that we all share? 
I would hope, that if your heart moves for the protection of human life, it not only moves for the birth of that life but also the life of the bodies which it is dependent on.

Can we protect life but not protect the womb? Can we tell a life it deserves to be born but provide it clean air, water, and food?

Can we promise it a womb, but not safe home for the rest of its days?

Pro-life then should also be pro-earth, pro-air, pro-water, and pro-life for all creatures. It should mean also pro-social equality, pro-free education, pro-universal health, because anything short of that has mistaken what life is, why we have evolved to life at all. 

How a life lives after birth is not besides the point. It is the whole point, and the very reason for life itself

Chinese laterns

In Summer we kept going back to those parts.

Where chinese lanterns grew, it was our future speaking like children from the womb.

You handed me one during those last days.

Nothing feels as like it should.
But we moved next to the lanterns and waited one year for the orange paper pods.

Oh the color.

It made me remember the first time I saw the moon.

Driving to the ocean, with the girls in the back we had just made a last minute date to see the water.

And above the coast came the glow of a blood moon. 

Everything had feelings then, and now the lanterns have only made me remember.

But they too will properly degrade into lace and bury their color.



I wanted to make a note of my nightly sensations. I turned on my screen and starred into the white space for several minutes before realizing that it wasn’t the medium I needed to spill my guts.

I had lit a candle to set the mood, but its dim flame was diminished by the hypnotic draw to the screen. And so I pressed the tiny button below the monitor, sending it away. Because this, I wondered if I would somehow be the very first person to write an entire literary work in her head, without needing to transcribe it into words.

It was then that I remembered the typewriter. I always keep it beside my desk. That old clunk of metal, that may have taken on the role of décor in my period of neglect and actually forgotten its function altogether. But atlas—muscle memory. You never forget how to write you name, ride a bike, or type on your old clunk of metal (or rather flea market treasure, and gift from your true love).

The candle is burning now with the ability to rightly fill the space with its warmth. It has taken the lives of a small moth and beetle, which lay below the white hot wax; glazed over like polished gemstones. It was with me outside; my little square of private property that hosts the sounds of cicada-cricket symphony, full moon rises, and the few brave stars that somehow peer beyond the congestion of the Garden State.

And somehow, in the midst of taking in my surrounding, and thinking about several other things, I managed to have a startling thought—it might really be happening. For so long I wondered if it was really happening. It never, ever was. But again I am here, wondering, and again hopeful that I might be right.

Because for the most part of my adult life I was expecting something to change, without having to do anything at all. I expected the road to open on its own, without my say or command. I would take it into the light where I would finally be home.

Age is telling me that it isn’t my destiny to wait.

Build the road and live by your purpose.

Become your own creator–

A box 

A box is never a permenant place for life to keep.    Eventually, the force of the growing spirit pushes through the cracks to find what is just beyond.

And what you might see cannot be known from the walls of your familiarity.  But you may know it from a dream.

And I do. I dream we are looking upon a mountain from a valley of many greens.   Reaching up for the words to name the motion that floats us up to its peaks. 

And in awe of it all, from the mountain tops of our making, our habits are true.   We live without the box, but always inside something new.

Sea soaked & never still

After a tough few days of teething and miscommunication, we took a much needed evening walk on the beach. 

The low tide created perfect shallow pools of water for Harper to “bish bish” in. 

The pulsing water created perfect ripples in the sand–the way a barren desert may look from a birds eye few. 

I was able to stare at the sand and the water, pulling and pushing each other for more than a few seconds, & I began to get lost in the details of glistening light and textured shadow. My heart felt so big jusy starring into the endless ebb and flow. 

The sun was getting lower and lower as six oclock came. The air became cool and my sea soaked boy wanted only more of the ocean.

It reminds me of my childhood love of water. The fish in me that sent me swimming in my grandparents green swimming pool, or spend entire days, until dusk swimming in the ocean.

Theres an energy that moves through the water–

Ageless, limitless,

Never still.


Evening walk 

  Rays of gold greeted us on our evening walk. The wind almost scared us away, but we pushed through it and got to meet four ducklings. We sat and watched them dip their beaks in the water while floating in the rough waters. I told you never to feed them, that they need to find food that is good to their bellies. That was before a little girl showed up with a bag of white bread. She sat next to us, gleefully tossing big chunks into the water. You were probably a bit confused after that. One day you’ll understand why we don’t feed the ducks, and also, why we don’t eat white bread.   

 I watched your facial expressions as the ducks dove for the bread. You must think we live in such contradiction, asking you not to feed the ducks, but in the next breath making garbage and and other waste. 

But know this: I want you to have many evening strolls under golden rays. I am treading lighter day by day. So you have a piece of earth similar to mine. 

Sweetest goodbyes

When you were born I couldn’t imagine you as a small child. But here you are. The daring human who challenges me daily to be more patient, playful, kind and aware of the giving life we both have received. Your ability to play through life is poem in itself. You cry and in the next moment laugh because you are so purely authentic and capable of being alive without emotional baggage. 

I wish I could preserve you, child. I fear as the days and weeks pass you may become more like me. Afraid, closed off, and  temperamental. You are still none of these things and for that reason I smile when I could scream. I hold you and kiss you when my primitive body begs to hide. Sweetest goodbyes will come, but today you are here, and I am your student of love.

Within that, there is a peace and acceptance for myself. Mothering is not a 9-5. But neither is any mans life. Realizing the power of being alive is wanting more hours in the day. Because in existing, we can’t imagine the void. 

I can only see your face, and in it I see an eternity of love. 


My favorite place 

I’ve become fond of the blank space. 

Perhaps I would feel different in sunshine but what the snow offered to me this morning I took with an open heart and it ended up surprising me with freedom to roam my soul.

There is a place of contentment with white. But beyond there, I find so much desire to search these spaces of substance.


Before the sun. Before it unveils what we all wish we could be. Life granting grace, compassion and warmth.  And it melts yesterday and takes winter from us like a long spell. 

The spongy ground sings spring. 



In an effort to grow creatively, I have begun the task of completing one unique and personal project each day.

Some days it is an early morning journal entry. Other times a sketch or water color. Perhaps, a song. Whatever it is, it is mine. My time ticked away pleasurably. A satisfied forward motion.

And already this task has guided me to other positive habits.

And It is teaching me that great things take time.

It is teaching me the value of 15 minutes.

And that each breath is truly what you make it.



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