Make Something, Mama

13 :: Juice

Every day, he says,

“I want to make something, Mama.”

as he drags a chair across from the table to the butcher block
and climbs,
stands up tall
next to me,
ready.

I’ve been making something
with a little person (or two, or three)
next to me,
every day
for more than 13 years.

Some days
it wears me out.
I dream about being alone
and uninterrupted.

But other days I stand in awe
of how this simple act
repeated over and over again,

alchemy in the kitchen,
in the garden,

has shaped their hands,
made my life,
nourished our family.

Born to Farming

1 :: In Our Greenhouse Together

The grower of trees, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout,
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
He thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
descending in the dark?

The Man Born to Farming by Wendell Berry

Here we are, in our winter greenhouse, on January first. Unveiling the hardy greens that have survived the cold nights. This is the perfect place to begin our year together. Side-by-side. Grounded in home.

Deep In

344 :: Close In

Writing at dusk, writing by candlelight, writing under overcast skies. . .

Deep in this work right now. Back and forth from page to screen; type to text. Sometimes lost in these words and sometimes found. Asking the difficult questions: does this work matter? And is it true?