Balls deep in the disarranged bacchanal of domesticity with a strong urge to pick up the old nylon-string, tune it down and everything/one else out, and play Domeniconi, improvising when it gets too technical. Read More
I never wanted to be a mom. I’d look at mothers around me with their horde of messy faces and lost shoes. How it took all weary-long morning just to get out the door. And then they’d go around telling people every little cutesy thing their kids did that day. That kind of life repelled me. Where was the depth? Read More
I’m eating leftover birthday cake from last weekend, cutting each slice thinner and thinner, hoping to savor the layers of buttercream godsend from the town bakery. I’m grateful my husband gave up sweets for Lent and that my daughters forgot all about the festivities and the giant box in the fridge. A secret delectable all for me and the one in the womb:)
2018, Amaya Engleking
I stepped outside onto the back porch to let the dog out first thing and a rush of vitality filled me as the cedar smoke of our neighbors’ chimney and the cold wet in the air stung my bare face. The mountains to the south were already enshrouded in heavy cloud and a few snow flurries met the wafts of smoke-drift. Winter! I need it. What a revival from the malaise of warm, dry January, sickly like overripe fruit in a moist and sealed container. Defying the seasons and the natural order of life cycles like the technological revolution. Read More
As sky arcs above; Read More
As I sat on the holiday parade float with the choral group and sang “Angels From the Realms of Glory” my own little three year old curly blonde angel, who had been tossing out candy, decided she couldn’t hold in her pee a moment longer. So there we were: me holding her off the side of the moving vehicle as she relieved herself onto the street. Nothing like a good mooning from a lit-up, garlanded caroling parade float that says, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” Read More
I hear Jesus speak in a language I do not know.
He takes my limp hand in his, looks at my thumbnail and addresses the atoms by name.
They are neither male nor female,
Like God or colors, Read More
The pain starts at night and I see myself holding you, your father looking into your eyes and finding a part of himself he had been missing. By the bright morning and cruel red-winged blackbird song though, there is no pain; your crib remains filled only with blankets townspeople and your grandmothers have knitted for you.
In the warm pool in the backyard under the canopy of the aspen grove, I Read More
“A SOMETHING in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon,—
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstasy. Read More
I read to you, my Baby In The Womb, your first book. It was Annie Dillard’s Holy the Firm. You may say I have great expectations for you, but really hardly less than the Lord your Father’s for you, Little One. You will learn this early on — and perhaps you already know (but most of us forget amidst the flashes and specks of this disco-ball world) — that God is perfect and so must be his Word. Therefore, the individual letters of the alphabet, or characters, are inherently essential and truth-giving: Read More