Burning Suburbia


Shades of slate and gun metal pursue me

in a way the other women wrapped in their profiles and friends

would understand more than they want to believe.


Our spirits dream while we say,

How much? That’s too much.

I have to have her there by 3.

We need to get away. It is never just us.


In the suburbs I drive over hillock after hillock

again and again,

for bread and milk,

my fingers searching beneath my skirt for something so dirty it is clean,

so corrupt as to be pure.

God’s Design

Today I read something really interesting in my devotional. It talks about God wanting us to pay attention to the way He designed us. It says we should dive into the things God has designed us to naturally focus on and that we should examine where our talents lay. Our talents are God given, and they tell us something about what He would like us to do with our lives.

How did God design you? What are your gifts and passions, and how are you using them? The answers to these questions can tell you a lot about how your Creator wants you to live.

I need to give this a lot of thought, especially now that Craig has decided we are stopping at one child. Right now Angelica fills my days, but she is growing fast and will soon be grown. I only have 14.5 years til she is 18. I will only be 42 when she goes to college. How can I make sure my life is still productive and vital after she is gone? What will I do when there isn’t a little person who needs me?

I will have to find a way to harness my gifts (what are my gifts?) and pursue my passions. I don’t intend to go back into the work force.  But maybe I’ll open an art supply store or maybe I’ll volunteer through a church or start a ministry or open an art gallery or teach classes in something. I know I’ll be writing. I will write no matter what. I know I’ll be scrapbooking. I know I’ll be blogging and taking photos. These are all things that I can do in the season of motherhood and beyond to further enrich my life and keep my identity. But what causes and passions can I pursue when Angelica is grown that maybe I can’t pursue while she is young? What does God want me to do with the second half of my life, now that I won’t be raising children into my 40s and middle age?

I’m excited to find out what life has in store for me, and to design a life that my Creator wants me to have. In my devotional it talks about God being excited to take on the journey of our lives with us, and I love to think of that. Maybe God is as excited as I am about the next twenty years, and the twenty years beyond that. May God help me to craft a creative, fulfilling, accomplished life that touches the people around me.




The children salivate when they see me,

a mother,

and dream of their own.

This is the exploratorium, she tells me.

The room is filled with grinning toys.

and the dolls go ignored because it is hard to play a mom

when you can’t reach yours.

Mother Angst

I am snow. Not real snow. I am too thick and fat and warm for that. But I am equally fickle, white, storm tossed, blinding. There are many just like me swirling in this orb. And who I love is this boy. He is so little, his smile almost too wide for the edges of the plane on which we live. He is a good boy, quiet and sad. I know that if I am not his mother I was meant to be. Still, his life is thin, will tear at a touch, and he will slip out of existence like a mirage of water. I will be left tumbling over strange faces who may have that sweet jaw line or wiry hair, but are not my son.

Scrapbook Page

Scrapbook Page


They beam summer red

dribbling on her mini thigh

while the nurse checks her labs.

He is her comforter

a teddy bear when the catheter comes.


Tiny text. Fair font.

A spray of sea.

A wash of greenery.


His mouth opens crazy

eyes bulging

to make her shriek

with gladness


Outside each frame

I sit rigid behind the lens



grateful that my miniature joy monster and I

are never alone.


My neighbors collect babies and

I envy them their cornucopia of giggles.

They have had their eye on my storehouse of sleep for months,

and if I didn’t need it like blood I would arrange a trade.

My pill plant is growing chubby little tablets

dry as math.

Harvest day is here.