Small Stones 2012

Click the image to find out more about the River of Stones. It's something I've wanted to participate in for a couple of years now. This is the year. Check back on this page for daily stones.

January 1 - Witnessed the rebirth of another today and it lit a fire in my soul.
January 2 - Rain and firewood. One last day of respite, ready to begin again.
January 3 - The quiet seeps from the corners and sweeps me away.
January 4 - Her teeth are all falling out at once. She longs for grownup teeth, but I am savoring a gummy grin I haven't seen in 7 years.
January 5 - The sun finally made its way through the clouds today and I discovered that in its absence, it had been busy painting the sky lemon yellow.
January 6 - I accidentally inhaled a spider in the wood shed. I felt all eight of its little legs on my tongue and a soft squish as I tried to spit it out. It must have been a young spider. "Now you'll have to swallow a bird to catch the spider," my husband helpfully pointed out. Perhaps I'll die.
January 7 - He read me a passage from a book that made him laugh so hard he cried. I recommended that book. It's another one of the invisible threads that stitch us so tightly together.
January 8 - In college I dissected a bullfrog. It has something wrong with it and its pancreas took up almost all of its visceral space. Today I find thoughts of other people's pancreas taking up almost all of my visceral space.
January 9 - "I made homemade laundry detergent today," she said. "Really? You're so Fight Club," he said with a hint of pride in his voice.
January 10 - I could have been someone else's small stone today: "Perspiring woman in too many sweaters tries not to look frantic while searching for her own sensible silver hatchback in a sea of hundreds in the mall parking garage. A study in dignity while being hopelessly lost and carrying a giant cookie. Hold your head high, girl. Make it work for you." Happy birthday, Chief Lou! This one's for you.
January 11 - Sun (sun!) this morning in time to illuminate the sparkling frost grass and that one tree who forgot that fall is over - towering brilliant red in January! - rosy cheeks and puffs of cloudy breath, warm mittens and hot coffee in my cup. Magic on our walk to school.
January 12 - The Hooligan gave me a precious stone today: "Look Mama, do you see the bronze in the sky?" He was right. The clouds were bronze. "If you look at them with your eyes open, they are bronze. When you close your eyes, they are still there. Only they are green and bright yellow." He was right again. We stood on the morning sidewalk, holding the clouds inside our eyelids.
January 13 - At the zoo with the Hooligan: he pretends to be a beaver in a warren of child-sized tunnels; I pretend to be a crow and eat popcorn off the ground.
January 14 - I tuned my jBird's new guitar today using a program I found online and my hollow ear, adding a whole new way to miss my dad.
January 15 - Adults are concerning themselves with traffic reports, weather updates and tough decisions. Cooler heads are contemplating tiny snowmen.
January 16 - Remembering a famous Dream today. My scalp tingles with the thought of it while I selfishly help myself to some extra weekend.
January 17 - Is it strange to cry at preschool pick-up? You didn't see the explosion of delight on the Hooligan's face when his sister surprised him there. You would have cried, too.
January 18 - It has been a week of uncertain Saturdays. Listening for the phone call, the release from daily routine. Falling back on the pillow with the unspeakable joy of having my most important people safe and warm under one roof for another day.
January 19 - The day gets steadily better with each new flake. Brilliant and wet and cold and piling deeper, I pile deeper into blankets and fire light and ahhh.
January 20 - The weatherman apologizes profusely for making my day. I should send him some flowers. Perhaps some snowdrops.
January 21 - Sloppy legs and feet brave slush, ice water in my sole, to cuddle, read, listen an watch. Library day and noodles to warm us up.
January 22 - Nap upon nap upon nap. How can it be that I married the most wonderful man alive? Sometimes stumbling dumb luck is a front for something more.
January 23 - Returning to routine as if from a dream. The rain has erased our winter playground. If it weren't for the crusty snowbiscuit in the front yard where a snowman once stood, I may be tempted to believe I imagined it all.
January 24 - A jaguar walked right up to us. The shuddery thrill of wildness separated only by a pane of glass. She refused to acknowledge that the jaguar only wanted to inquire where I got my fetching hat.
January 25 - It is the sort of singular hangover that can only come from staying up way too late, giggling, trying to decide on the name of my rap posse.
January 26 - Everywhere I went today reeked of bacon. It wasn't until late this afternoon that I realized that it was me. And now I'm preoccupied with what sort of malady might make one smell like cured meats.
January 27 - "I'm hungry," I said "I think I'll get this." "Mom," she said in that certain tone she takes with me when I exasperate her with my silliness, "You should not take chances with gas station sausage biscuits." I took her word for it. She's usually right about such things.
January 28 - The Hooligan swings on his belly, hands pulled into his jacket sleeves to protect against the cold plastic and metal of seat and chains. His scissoring feet spell out 'joy' as he flies.
January 29 - A strange day, indeed. The clouds outside are dense, impenetrable. So am I. I find myself rousing, as if from sleep, to discover someone has been talking to me.
January 30 - We are conspirators. We stalk the aisles in search of only the things on our list, but sometimes some stray nonsense falls into the cart. We say nothing about this; acknowledging our complicity in the Pop Tart Affair with our silence.
January 31 - A brisk walk and a warm cup of coffee, long overdue, with a friend. We finger our yarn and speak of things, lapsing quietly sometimes into the convivial counting of stitches.
February 1 - She is radiant. She shines even through tears. She is profusely thankful. She takes very little for granted. And then she passes out cold, having used up all the light in the day.
February 2 - "How was school today?" I said. "Oh! It was great!" she said, "I felt just like Hermione Granger all day!" There are some pop-culture icons I can live with.
February 3 - Spending the afternoon in an overly-hot room, ripe with unwashed hands and half eaten lunch, listening to small people tell me animal facts. My younger self sometimes marvels that I would find this a near-perfect Friday afternoon. Sometimes I tell my younger self to shut up. But not in front of the second graders.
February 4 - How can it be that I love the human spirit so much - I revel in its diversity, seek to understand its adversity - yet when confronted with masses of these humans in my space exhibiting this diversity, I just want them to all go home?
February 5 - These friends; a family into which we were not born, yet gravitated through mutual affection. To have been given such a day  - voices raised in laughter and in song - is a precious gift, indeed.
February 6 - I want to sing just like Doris Day. All sultry-cute and blond bombshell. But without the anti-feminist claptrap.
February 7 - His voice wobbled on the edge of courage. "My head is wonky and I just don't want to go today." A mental health day at the age of five.
February 8 - These are things that thrill me: a cord of seasoned fire wood, a tiny hand wound up in my hair, a twinkle and a wink over the tops of too-small heads.
February 9 - The enviable resilience of children: a study in bouncing joyfully back from heartbreak.
February 10 - "Are you jBird's mom?" asks a small, strange girl. "Yes I am." "She told me you were blind."
I marvel at this small, strange girl who does not yet grasp the concept of hyperbole. She is looking for my dog or cane.

August 23 - I am practicing for the quiet. The sky has been near tears for almost two days and so have I. I think it's practicing, too.
August 28 - There are lockers. Lockers! To watch a little girl almost faint over a metal box on the wall is the highlight of my month.
August 31 - They suddenly strike common ground and their laughter explodes, overlapping, resonant, in harmony. It sounds like church bells.

October 17 - I am not exactly clumsy, sometimes I just do random bits of inadvertent violence to my body.