Friday, February 24, 2017

Now He Is 10

On Monday, Gus turned ten.

On Sunday, we had a family dinner in his honor, the menu, bangers and mash, was changed last minute to pizza and grilled sausage because the weather was beautiful and I could not bear the thought of going in to cook.

On Monday, he went to play laser tag with Tom and a friend. Tom is quick to tell that he won two of the three rounds.

Two nights ago we ate apple cobbler for dessert because it didn't materialize for his family dinner.

Tonight two friends are sleeping over. There will be a bonfire. The kids will run around the dark yard trying their best to scare one another. And my Augustus, will have been completely and thoroughly celebrated.

Which is as it should be because his very name means great or important. I know my mother eyes are biased, but I see great and important things in his future. I see his charming kindness ushering forth a movement. I don't know how large or small, but I know the world is a better place from having my son in it.

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Brackish Reflections

It started with the photography business; as I put creative energy in to it, I started to neglect this.

And then the election ripped the ground from under my feet, and I was having a hard time finding how to exist here without ranting, wailing, crying. 

I feel out of practice. There are so many thoughts swirling, and I can't quite remember how I let them come to fill the screen. 

Over the past four years, the practice of documenting my family has brought be immeasurable joy. But truthfully, I started to become self-conscious saying the same things over and over again. Repeating myself and repeating what so many other mothers are saying across this wide web. But I want to return to that even if it means I will be repeating the same few ideas ad neuseam. Even if it means the occasional rant, now and again. Because there is value in giving my thoughts space to settle. In allowing myself moments of reflection. 

Friday, February 3, 2017

Time Only Marches Forward

Last night I showed Arlo and Alamae this video. Halfway through, Arlo began to cry.
Because Alamae isn't a baby anymore.
Because she can't go back.
Because time only moves in one direction.

When I used to teach my students about tone, I explained that nostalgia was like being homesick, but for a time, rather than a place.

Arlo cries and begs for it to stop or for it to operate like the other three dimensions, moving forward and back at will.

I want to cry out too. To keep him curled up next to me. To be able to visit this moment again one day. When he is a father himself. When he has moved away. When he no longer a four year old boy discovering.

One Year Round from rachel weaver on Vimeo.

Monday, January 23, 2017

This Weekend We

On Saturday I was one of the million who marched. And it was powerful and beautiful and positive.

Then I spent Saturday night battling on Facebook in response to my presence there. I went to bed angry and hurt.

On Sunday, I woke up. I went to church. I sang to Jesus. Got my heart together. 

We drove from church to my sister's house to meet her new puppy. She made brunch. We played in the gray, misty fields with children who refused to dress for the weather.

The kids found a plastic car long forgotten in a dilapidated lean to. They chased the puppy to exhaustion. 

Before going home we went to see my other sister's in-laws farm. To visit newborn cows and dodge electric fences. As usual, an afternoon in the country had me longing for my own piece of land in the quiet.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

A Jumble of Christmas

Memories piled on top of each other. Tangled toegther. People. Places Things.

A bungalow with tables piled high with Swedish dishes.

Water color and masking tape paint projects.

Presents wrapped in paper bags.

Late night ideas destined to bring in millions.

Mexican folk songs and homemade pinatas on a Wednesday night.

A bartered pirate ship.

Sweet potato chili. Roasted chicken things. Shepherd's Pie.

Performance art with four kids in tow.

Red-footed pajama clad wrestlers.

The genius of drunken song writing.

Too many cookies.

A dad enamored with his son's Christmas gifts.

Oma's Christmas magic, reliable as ever.