Posts Tagged ‘life’

fieldnotes on motherhood, vol. 9

December 13, 2016

like absorbing
a hundred bombs a day —
a thousand —
with the very core
of your being,
into the very synapses
of your soul
but then later,
at bedtime,
the folding up small
into one another
inhabiting the same space
returning to the same
home base.

like sneaking past
the monster’s den
on the tippy toes
of your breath,
waiting for the tremble
in the earth
bracing for the roar
but then after,
the storm past,
light spilling from your smile
from your eyes
melting the memory
of colder hours.

like trying to
tame the lion
and again
knowing that it can’t help the truth
of its own wildness,
that it will bite the hand
that feeds it
but then at night,
your voice in the darkness,
calling out
for solace
for security
for love
calling out for me.

that’s what i’ll tell you
when you ask
what it was like
when you were two.

– a.
december 13, 2016



fieldnotes on motherhood, vol. 3

December 31, 2014

hush now, my love

no need to fuss

and wail as though the end is near


i’ll hold you close

and with my kisses

protect you from what it is you fear


and if all that love

just isn’t enough

to soothe your tender little heart


then come with me

take my advice

the record player’s where i’d start


let’s put us on some Etta

some Otis Redding too

we’ll play some Little Walter

find that Muddy Waters groove


then dance around the room

and fill our souls up with their tune

let their words soak through our skin

and put us in a lighter mood


cuz life can feel real heavy

when you let it in, it’s true

make a tangle of your insides

until you don’t know what to do


but if mama learns you anything

before this life is through

it’s that there ain’t no ill

that can’t be cured by the blues


– a.

december 31, 2014

fieldnotes on motherhood, vol. 2

July 8, 2014

i’ve come to love the afternoon with you

that softly rounded peak of our budding daily rhythm

it emerges each day from the dull haze of morning

and floats aloft the often jagged edges of the evening hours

suspended time, it seems

defined by the slow shift of sunlight and shadow

against the living room curtains

a safe space for magical moments

and unexpected gifts

like those few precious hours just days ago

when you, my little jumping bean,

my little guppie always in motion,

grew quiet

and dreamy

and, nestling your head against my shoulder,

decided inexplicably —

deliciously —

to rest

your tiny body slumped against mine

wanting nothing

and giving everything

a fleeting eternity of utter surrender and perfect bliss

and i thought:

this is the stuff of true wonder

this, right here, is what will carry you through

– a.

july 8, 2014

fieldnotes on motherhood, vol. 1

June 9, 2014

remember tonight:

standing on the stoop

just before sundown

bare feet on cool concrete

slight toussle of the evening breeze

whispering of summer

and the stillness

that wrapped the neighborhood



leaving just you two,

you and your infant son,

to hear the birds in their bedtime banter

and see the sunset suspended

in the shatter of water droplets

dangling like forgotten diamonds

from the bouganvilla

the gentle sway of your dance together

the impossible softness of his arm

and the bare blue of sky

reflected in his eyes

just you two

alone in the universe

of small blessings

– a.

8th of june, 2014

so long, farewell

May 17, 2013


so long, little lemon tree outside my office window. it’s been great hanging with you over the past year and a half. thanks for smelling good, and looking good, and giving a home to that little red-headed hummingbird i love so much. you sure know how to make a girl feel better about coming to work. even on a monday.

xoxo lex

notes on a dry spell

January 11, 2012

it’s been nearly a month since my last post. which is due, in no small part, to the collective mania we fondly refer to in N. America as “the holidays.”

but to point a finger at the whirlwind of gingerbread lattes and carol refrains that left me dazed amidst scatterings of discarded wrapping paper and pine tree needles, trying desperately to catch up to the words “new year,” is to single out a half truth. i suspect that my radio silence has less to do with seasonal madness than it does with perennial over-achieving. or over-committing. or any other over estimation of how much time and energy I conceivably have to offer the world (and its increasingly demanding doppelganger, the cyber world).

in short, life is crazy. to qualify that comment with “these days” suggests an eventual return to some semblance of sanity. or at least a potential visit by its distant cousins, balance and peace. and if there’s anything i can be sure of these days, it’s that that particular eventuality is not in my immediate future.

this reality has lead me to a chain of frenetically interlocking questions about life that I won’t bother hanging around your neck right now. but if i wanted to boil it all down (and i do), the base element in question is value. and where value is in jeopardy, so, too, is inspiration. more and more i question the value of spreading ourselves so thin, of plugging in to so many worlds and concurrent brain waves, of striving to be someone to everyone. i struggle with how, in this age of gluttonous access, i seem to be so bereft of exalted thoughts and moments, however small. it makes me wonder if we are really built to give so much of ourselves away. or take so much that is not ourselves in.

the irony of sharing this via a blog post is not lost on me. but i thought that by articulating these thoughts, i might kick start a metaphorical labor of sorts. purge the inspirational doldrums and find my way back to hearting on the world around me again.

it’s a little too early to tell, but i think we may have made just enough progress for me to believe that this is true:

don’t worry, all you old farts out there. we have room for your dreaming, too.

happy turkey!

November 23, 2011

as i assume my annual role as mayor of mashed potatoes, i’ll be sending out some special thanks for salt and vinegar Kettle Chips, perfect gin martinis, new car stereos, yoga classes, great books, good surf, self discovery, hour long massages, great debut albums, beautiful sophomore albums, the power of a good laugh, mid-week bottles of wine, buttermilk biscuits from Salt’s Cure, old friends, old friendships made new, dogs named Tuesday, husbands named Tony, and our sweet little house up on the hill.

may your own holiday weekend be laced with gratitude and smothered with indulgence….

{image via}

happy friday

November 18, 2011

back to reality

October 16, 2011

“Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.” – Paula McLain, The Paris Wife

let me first admit that it is nice to be home. i wouldn’t exactly say i was homesick. but i did miss certain aspects of life on this side of the pond (which, when i really think about it, pretty much boiled down to our puppy and our porch).

but whether or not it felt good to lay my head on my own pillow last night, the truth is there’s no familiar tonic potent enough to wash away the taste of Paris (blame it on the foie gras).

so, even as i feel myself sinking back in to the smells, sights and rhythms of home, my head still swims amongst the cobblestone streets, cafe tables, refined fashion statements, endless cups of coffee, bottomless bottles of wine, and triumphantly caloric meals that filled the past two weeks.

if you care to linger with me, here’s a few visuals to help paint the scene.

my hero

August 30, 2011

to the little girl in the pink sweatshirt and pigtails who rode the dragon swing all by herself:

i forgot i’d taken your picture, until i came across it on my phone the next morning. i laughed with such pure joy every time i looked at it, i thought my heart might explode.

thank you for sharing your journey from ignorance to wisdom with us, and for reminding me of the beauty of the human spirit in triumph. in ten short minutes, you traced the emotional arc of a true rite of passage, and of every great heartbreak.

you totally earned that high-five my friend Erika gave you on your way out.

xo lex