Sometimes, a sense of scale

is all I need.

Almost Christmas, again:

and we take out the birds with party hats from Nancy, the silver bells from my Mom,

 and the little wooden deer from Zihuatanejo, and I recall 

all of those days and all of my people.

Grasses the color of her hair, and the creek is

shaped by tidal waters and moves with our changing thoughts.

My dear ones remain mysterious

 despite all my assumptions and my constant stream of questions.

A November birthday

Figure/ground, and thinking about the gardens conjured by Bonnard:

Late night fruit:

the perfect weight in the palm of my hand.

Sometimes the present goes on and on

so that, months later, you realize that this sight is still humming along the wires 

of your body, and this singular hour has not yet come to an end, as if

the rules of time were suspended just for you.

Who will you be today?

Halloween reminds me

that we are all in disguise.

A world smeared with color

Out of the corner of my eye:

this one image could launch a novel.

Like a white horse

coming through the landscape.

One moment among many

Is the remembered world

always fictional ?

Still thinking

about portraits, and the way that they pose more questions

than they answer.

If you want to learn about nuance

come to the coast and watch the light change moment by moment,  

so that people and dogs seem to inhabit a long, slow, Nordic film.

There are so many ways

that the days are longer in the summer.

Precisely because life is not simple

I feel a wave of relief when my eyes fall on something this quiet and complete.

Cold water and a swift current

made the crossing chancy in just the right way.

Just a few months ago

summer was beginning, and the days that stretched out in front of us seemed endless.

We're all looking out for you

How our summer began--

just a rumor, now.

Two girls and a rose

Distance

The state or fact of being apart in space.

Easy

The only map we found

was from the 1930's, so driving involved a lot of guesswork.

She likes to tell me her dreams

and then ask about mine. I told her that sometimes my dreams are so strange 

that I wake up laughing out loud; those are my favorites.

Twenty four summers at the lake

and more to come.

On this unexpectedly cool day

I notice that I'm already nostalgic for this summer.

Summer parties seem to follow an arc

Last week

Time

is what's missing during the busy part of the year. 

Sudenly there is time to notice the light, to think about what it might reveal.

We headed home

right as the rain began. It was a tropical rain---
welcome and warm, rinsing the salt off of our bodies.

Dream time

Wrapped:

after a long day, a hot bath.

When I'm too tired to think,

I still find myself startled and blessed by what I see.

Out of the corner of my eye

The last day of April

and it's my Dad's 83rd birthday. Last night I was making a chocolate sour cream cake 

for this occasion and he was watching "The Unforgiven", and he looked up at me and said, 

"we've had a lot of birthdays together". I'm wondering if this endurance in time, this 

persistent scramble to understand, is the real hallmark of love?

As far as I can tell

this is a solitary time for her, although her days seem crowded with activity and change.

Just opening the door,

Enmeshed :

These days I can't help thinking about how we are all rolled up in one another's lives-- 

it's unwieldy and intimate-- sometimes claustrophobic, sometimes all the comfort I need.