Most days I spill words, like I do my coffee, burning, aromatic, luke-warm, sometimes stale, straight into my white, hard covered, journal with my inky black pen. I write what I feel and what I feel might overtake me, maybe already has, and mostly how hope wraps itself around me like my favorite blanket tucked tight like a burrito. All year long, I pour out my thoughts like a kettle who’s water is screeching ready. If I don’t pour . . . .
image / Elisabeth Heier
I’ve never been one to cheat on Thanksgiving. It’s always felt at bit two-timey, to me, to put a tree up before that thankful Thursday. Everything, feels so rushed in this round globe we are spinning around on. It can never just be one thing at time. And, that goes for holidays too, I suppose. This year, I can’t wait for Christmas. So much so, that I think I might have it in me to cheat on Thanksgiving this year. The true confession is that . . .
I’m looking for words.
I know where to find them.
They are are huddled up inside my head. Usually, when I leave them there, they group and they gather. It’s like they meet for coffee and all discover they haven’t gotten out much and that they might as well just pour out like the steaming cup of coffee they’ve gathered for. And, they do just that. They pour out. Pour out in my journal, on paper, and spill on this blog. The pot is empty, the gathering gone, and I feel full. But, these past two months I haven’t been able to pour. If I’m lucky there is a drip, or a drop. Mostly, there is only a slight aroma which evaporates into a tease of the rich taste I remember (It’s how I have to take my coffee these days anyways, only through the olfactory).
I’m not looking for words.
I know where to find them.
I’m sorry for the radio silence.
This past month and a half have been strange. I’ve been sick and just haven’t been able to keep up. Honestly, it hasn’t been a matter of keeping up, It’s more like . . .
I’ve coming to the desert for 20 years, now. Tucson has taken it’s place in my heart as a home. And, anyone that knows me, well, knows that home is my heart.
I’m sitting at a desk, in the room I don’t usually stay in, in my parents home situated in the foot hills. My view is fixed on the valley, the mountains behind, and the tall long armed saguaro cactus right in front of me. This is the the room my grandpa always stayed in. The room that belongs to our dear friends who, for 15 years, have traveled here with us. And, the room that I holed up in with Liam Brave, 3 months old, inconsolable. Nursing wouldn’t calm him and for some, hormonal, reason it made me sick to my stomach and with thoughts of panic, every single time I fed him. This room is more than a room.
I brought all my babies here. Spent sick days, huge and pregnant, here. My first had her first birthday here. We were here on that dreadful day in September 2001. Awakened by a call from my Dad, and rushed to wake our friends. We watched the news, cried, and prayed. Tucson might be the strongest tradition my kids have had. This southwest sky will, no doubt, paint the colors of childhood in their memory. This place will always be my heart because it was where family was family. Beginnings of my babies, forever friendships fostered, special times with siblings, precious time with parents…..a place they had for themselves, always with the intention to share with us. This house is more than a house.