Tag Archives: time

Call to Balancing


I hear the silence pop out of nothing.
The baby gulps his water with determined breath
beside me on the floor.

He eats only my breakfast from my plate
resting on my lap when I finally spread the blanket
and bring my coffee to the ground.

I listen to the crunch of toasted rye
and watch the caraway seeds drop,
see the bacon’s burnt edges coat his hands.

In a world where everything is within reach,
solitude and quiet float like monarchs in late spring,
bright, startling, luxurious, allusive.

I forget to look for them, yet am always scrambling to find them,
and here on this blanket we are alone together with only the sounds of our living.
Sip.  Gulp.  Chew.  Swallow.

You scootch close so that our legs touch, rest your hand on my thigh, press your head to my side.
You’ve been with me twenty-three months though I feel you are visiting, flashing a rascal’s smile as you turn the bend.
I am guard, guide, confidant and safe-keeper, and you are charge, protegé, secret-teller and limit-pusher.

I search for the counterweight to the days.
One brick balancing fifty pebbles.
A shovel-full of time lifting a multitude of moments.

When does Time stand still?


The three little ones swing
at the park, giggling.
I take a cue from a friend
and ask each,

“Do you feel happy?”

“Ga!” they answer in turn.

“What does it feel like?”

“Ga ga ga ga ooo”

We rush down the slides
on the way back to the van,
making a train, helping each other –
(just once more!).

And we scoop up our biggest one
from lesson at the violin teacher’s house
before snacks,
fresh diapers,
bathroom breaks,

Fifteen minutes at the park
during the thirty minute music lesson
Time had nothing on us.

Hello, Time


A washboard and a wood-burning oven
are things I don’t have.

A few months ago
the little ones were sick, for weeks,
and I was exhausted, but I didn’t cry.

Then my washing machine fell apart inside and quit spinning.
But I didn’t cry; I used every stitch of fabric in the house
before packing the back of our van
full with dirty clothes
blankets, sheets, pillow cases,
towels, rags, more towels, and more rags
and driving to the laundromat.

When I made back to the house,
lugged in baskets filled with clean laundry,
wiped noses and gave hugs,
the oven broke. I cried.

I actually felt that if I had a washboard
and a wood burning oven
I could have kept it together. Maybe so.

The other day my dishwasher stopped running
and the water sat in the bottom.
I filled the sink with hot soapy water
and lined the counters with towels
and set to work.

The most fascinating thing happened:
contentment came to me as I stood at the sink.
I couldn’t be rushed here.
I could not force myself
to hurry through this task
like I could hurriedly stuff the washer full of
pajamas, t-shirts, and shorts,
and frantically line the dishwasher racks with
plates, bowls, and glasses
and move on to the next thing.

I spent the following few weeks
letting dirty dishes collect in the sink
throughout the day,
washing them in the morning.
Sometimes I would even stand there and dry them.
And the kids would run through the kitchen,
stop by my legs for a quick hug,
and keep going because everything was okay.
My world didn’t end, in fact, I found a whole new one.
My relationship to time has changed –
I don’t rush myself to get things done,
but sort of let the doing happen –
all because the control panel on my dishwasher burned up.