“the whole town does look like whatever hope becomes after it begins to weary a little, then weary a little more.” - Marilynne Robinson
The length of late winter took its toll. It rains now - grey and icy and earthy.  We engage spring, awkward as baby colts, unsure of ourselves and mistrusting the thaw.  One day were ecstatic, buoyed by the sun and melting drifts and sidewalk traffic, next were discouraged, wearing mitts again and fighting a north wind.  The signs are there: the falcons nesting on top of Thoms building, the visible shingles, shifting river ice, geese.  Here spring isn’t green or pink or blooming.  Here spring is brown and it aches.  The river is loud.  The people are tired.  The city is dirty.  Summer is birthed  the heaviness and weariness of winter doesn’t just fade or melt, it is laboured out of being.  Summer is fought for and with tears, it comes.
He stands at the top of the stairs, his pajamas tucked into his socks.  He grins brightly before turning to escape. Every move is a game, a teasing, an invitation to engage.
Sometimes he is wild.  When he runs his strides don’t lengthen but speed up, so the sound is like heavy rain or tapping - staccato.  In a race, his belly would cross the finish line before his feet and head.  Instead of by a hair, hed win by a belly.
There is a plant hanging over the bathtub.  When I water it it sometimes sheds dark leaves.  Later in the bath the leaves stick to him like leaches.  He pulls at them and says oh and then, pausing, wow.

Becoming a parent is difficult to talk and write about, not because the words are hard to find (though they are), but because when you find them, they feel too intimate to share. The smells and sounds and stirrings of the heart are individual and holy. There’s a sense in which the universal experience is yours alone when the opposite is actually true. You hesitate to say anything at all, as if staying quiet better preserves the miracle.

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Lenten Spinach Rice

2 lbs spinach
½ cup olive oil
2 onions
4 cloves garlic
1 cup rice
1 cup water
¼ cup fresh dill
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 cup crumbled feta
(lots) of calamata olives
salt and pepper

Sauté onions in oil at the bottom of a big pot, until golden (20 min).  Part way through, add garlic and rice.  Add spinach in parts (it wont all fit in the pot at once), until all spinach is wilted.  Add water and dill.  Cover and steam for 18-20 min.  You may need to add a bit more water.  Add lemon juice, salt and pepper to taste.  Fold in feta (we add more than one cup) and olives.

Del Mar, CA

"[You] wise old island, mute, leading the life of pure creaturehood open to any antelope or saint.  After you've blown the ocean sky-high, whats there to say?  What if we the people had the sense or grace to live as cooled islands in an archipelago live, with dignity, passion, and no comment?" -Annie Dillard

"I was, one might say, not so much anticipating the future as nostalgic for it, since what in my imaginings was to come was in reality already gone."  - John Banville

this poem

this album

this album

this article

I stood behind you as you climbed the stairs today.  Your knees were bare.  Your dad said “welcome here” when you reached the top.

The day we got engaged we were taught how to eat mussels.  A waiter you knew from law school served us.  He informed us that once the meat of the first mussel had been eaten, the empty shell could be used as a tool to pull the second and third mussels from their shells.  Like tweezers.

Another day, a completely other day, we ate seafood in a strange and empty ocean town on the Moroccan coast.  There was calamari and fried fish.  There was a dipping sauce that made you sick.  I remember reading our book aloud and loud outside the bathroom door through that night.  I felt helpless.

Every time locals or travellers in Morocco asked us of our direction and our reasons for choosing the towns we chose, we were sheepish in our response.  “We like the ocean,” we’d say.  “Where we live, there is no sea.”  They would look at us with baffled expressions:  “You flew all the way across the world to be on the ocean?”  their eyes seemed to say.  “Yes,” our eyes said back.  

 manitoba soy beans

Ives and I spent so much of this summer in our front porch.  Almost every morning we were there.  In the first warm months, I would nurse him while I read the newspaper and then my book.  I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek in June.  He would fall asleep easy and often.  It was quiet.  And I found ways to tuck him into my lap so I could use both arms to read and eat.  Now, he sits in his highchair while I make us both breakfast in the kitchen.  It is busier.  It is louder.  He mostly eats what I eat now.  When I boil myself a soft boiled egg, I leave one to boil longer for him to eat.  He eats only the yoke, grabbing fistfuls.  There are yellow crumbs all over his face.  I turn the radio on and he darts his head about looking for the source of the sound.  I make us each a piece of toast.  I put jam on mine.  Half of his ends up on the floor.  We move to the porch and talk while we eat.  He is less restless in the porch.  He is distracted by birds and cars and neighbors.  I watch him.  He looks so much like his dad to me.  He makes pleasure sounds when he eats pieces of banana and watermelon.  People smile at us as they pass on the sidewalk.  Sometimes I miss the easy early summer.  But then he stuffs a piece of grape in his mouth and looks at me with a shocked sort of gladness, urgently reaching out his grubby fingers for more - and I don’t.  I am excited for fall, to wear our sweaters in the porch and let him crawl through the leaves I rake up.  I am thankful for the seasons - that they will aid me in remembering his first year:  the cold and cozy beginning, the first quiet warmth, the busy hot summer.

After breakfast, he needs a bath.  There is avocado in his eyelashes and berry juice in his diaper.  After his bath he is so cheerful and we play.  He climbs everywhere.  In the porch, his highchair is covered in mess and there is a three foot radius of toast and sweet potato crumbs that I probably wont sweep up until he naps.

writing for Kinfolk:

photos of us, by Megan 
Medium Format Kiev 60 TTL / TMax 400 film 

a beet almost as big as she is

film, by thom. edited with vsco.

I am finding blogging awkward and difficult, now.  Unsure how to grow with/in this "space".

So, for now, uploading phone photos here.