Seven years of blogging.  Sounds like a good number to go out on.  This space has served its purpose, I think.  It gave me a creative outlet, a place to grieve, express myself, find new friends and explore a world of craft, art, photography.

It was a huge part of my life and helped me cope with life and celebrate the ordinary.

Somehow I don't feel like I fit in this place anymore.  In fact, it makes me profoundly tired.  I've outgrown it, I guess. 

Time to explore new possibilities, new ideas. 

Maybe I'll start a photoblog.  That's one thing I never seem to get tired of.

I'll add a link here at some point if I decide to head in that direction.  In the meantime, I'll always be posting to flickr.  Can't stop me.  It's like a disease.

Thank you to all my loyal readers and commenters for keeping me going as long as I have.


Recycle Bin

Cleaning out my phone of a few recent shots.

Sitting on the sidewalk in the sun, waiting to pick up Drew.

Spinach smoothie.  Breakfast.

Lots and lots of walking.  And a little running.

Microwave potato chips.  Thanks, Emma!

My new ring.  10x bigger than I thought when I ordered it.  Love it.



it feels as if


a very small, very angry person

is making all the rules.


Puddle stomping

I decided to revisit walnut boats with the boys. Last time we made them, we were limited to a kitchen sink boat launch because of weather.

But yesterday evening, the warm spring air and the morning rains had given us perfect waterways in the rutted driveway of the vacant driveway next to ours.

The boys each made their own sail and Ethan helped me fill the walnuts with dripping hot wax.

Walnut boats

They lined up the fleet at some sort of prearranged starting point.

The Launch

After that, we were all a little unclear how these boats might "race" each other. The boys decided they would blow on them to get them going.

It was pretty intense.

Walnut boat race

Within seconds, boats were tipping and sinking and hopes were dashed.

Sadly, one unfortunate walnut was even stomped on in a fit of rage.

Then came the natural progression of chaos and splashing and mud in the eyes.


And, not much later, bath-time.


Medical history

In my closet today I found a lined piece of paper folded up inside a book. Nothing profound, just some notes I had jotted down during my OT internship living in Providence. I was trying to keep a more personal record of my everyday interactions with patients. Something more human than the treatment plans I labored over every night.

I'm glad I found these. I remember each of these patients clearly.

January 21:

Portuguese, 91 years old--constructional apraxia. This morning he put his straw in his pancakes and leaned over to take a sip. I had to redirect him 2x. The confusion in his eyes made me want to cry for him. How hard to grow old. Later, we laughed together over the language barrier.

Walking down the hall with a patient we heard E, a little old African American woman, legally blind, twisted and shriveled in her chair singing, "Amazing Grace", her head tilted to the side. Beautiful voice. When she finished, everyone at the nurses station stood up and clapped.

January 22:

The therapist I was shadowing said he was her hardest patient yet. An Asian man who insisted on watching Good Morning America during ADL's and refused to sit while grooming or dressing. He kept referring to the differences between The East and The West as excuses for everything. I could barely stifle my laughter the whole time especially at his comment while dressing, "I'm too intellectual for this nonsense!"

And, on the back of the paper, a poem, which as weak and rough as it is, brings back a visceral anxiety, remembering those three months:

Every week I face my fears
and pick them up
and put them on. I wear them
like a sweater
all week long.

Til Friday comes
and gasping, I can
throw my fears aside.
They sit there in the corner
and watch me all weekend long.


Every day is yours to win

On his birthday or Christmas, Andrew would often request a mix CD. Sometimes he would give me a list of specific songs. For the most part we shared a love for the same kind of music. I could usually predict what he would like.

Andrew also introduced me to some obscure bands and singers. He was always up on the latest thing and knew what kind of sound I would like. Whenever these bands come out with new albums, I listen with him in mind.

A few days before he died, Andrew stopped by our house and I remember discussing a particular new song with him. I asked him if he'd seen the video and he hadn't but he liked what he'd heard.

In the days after his death, I worked on a presentation of pictures and videos from his life. We decided to use his brand new laptop to set up and run the slideshow. I opened up his media player to get started, and there was the last song he had listened to. The one we'd discussed together.

Yesterday I fell in love with a song from R.E.M.'s farewell album. Just a sad, sweet, somewhat vacuous song about making the most of life.

Listening to it today, as I drove to meet a friend, it struck me why. I knew Andrew would love it too. Exactly his type of song. No one else would quite understand why I turned up the volume, pressing play over and over, the bittersweet breaking my heart.