unruffling feathers.


I am sorry.

Sorry for what I said. Those sarcastic words were meant as self reflection.

Frustration for all the projects and ideas I am leaving by the wayside.

Exhaustion makes me difficult.

Sorry for not calling or writing. The task becomes insurmountable the longer left.

Sorry for saying I would do something, then falling short of expectations.

It’s just one of those kind of seasons.

there. that should about cover it.

Adding to the scatological….

a tiny book review


Miss Julie and other plays by August Strindberg

three thoughts:


*angry with his mother

*a dream play? for someone with limited sleep? no.

Don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy these. Although I feel like they would have gone down easier in, appropriately, August when one feels like the growing season is getting a little out of hand rather than in April, the beginning.


pop on over to 

Sense of Story

today for our book review of

Sarah Water’s 

The Nightwatch.


that’s weird….

After all my whining about King Winter with his rascally ways, spring, or what passes for spring in these climes, has arrived and with it a contentedness.

This season of my life I am finding gone the static dissatisfaction. The lip pursing/berating aspect of my nature. Did it melt away?

Suddenly I am able to part with objects. Our extended family community is present. Lesson work is just where I anticipated it would be.

The pieces are fitting together.

Doing my best to keep the momentum.


momentum keeping activities

frequent reading*tea*early to rise*

simple stitching*no yelling*

staying home*getting sleep*

tea drinking*minimal wine gum eating*

bread baking*dirty dish denying*

daily writing*baby charming*

limited internet*being the one that says ‘yes’ more often*

*keeping myself periodically honest with the Write Alm Prompts

today: something changed.


One bag of six to twelve months age baby girl clothing.

Special occasion dresses, good enough

to pass along.

If you are looking for those work-a-day wear items,

they will not be here.

Those onesies with first meals smeared

along the cuffs and collars,

stretched out sleepers,

pants wearing at the knees from first bouts of crawling.

Those are tucked away in a little box.

The one I have allowed myself

filled with the small trinkets collected

here and there to remind me. If I have tears

in my eyes when I hand them over, pay no mind.

It’s not you,

it’s me.


I just had to go through them.

Like they were calling me from the basement,

reminding me I would not be needing them again.

No sense in them moldering away.