On Motherhood & Sanity


Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Searching for a Mattress, July family self-portrait


Adventures are filled with such mundane things. Here we are, one week in to our new home-country, searching  for mattresses for our new home....


***
The family self portrait  project started in January 2011. 
I take one portrait of the whole family, myself included, once a month.  
In late 2013 a "ghost" writer joined the initiative and now each photo is accompanied by a poem.
In 2015 the kids started collaborating and introducing their own ideas
...the project has a life of its own

also,
Every family should do this. It's an amazing record of the little things that matter


To see previous months click on the links below:


***
2016


Tuesday, July 26, 2016

blast off and initial landing.....

...10
...9
...8
...7
...6
...5
...4
...3
...2
...1
... 

... BLASTOFF
           



 I have overshot, or undershot.

Whatever it was, I did not reach the intended target. 

I seem to be floating aimlessly in limbo, neither here nor there. 

My body aches from death and rebirth and all the lifting of suitcases and boxes the process entailed. 
It was exhausting.

Muffled sounds from here mixed with the echoes from there make everything unintelligible.

Then there’s crocodile we saw on our way to get coffee.
Limbo. 
Dreams.
Not even Frida Kahlo could have thought of that one.


The jungle surrounds us. Distant echoes of the concrete  jungle we once called home –and let slip between our fingers- mix playfully with the nuños among the wet long grass. 

I miss you. All of you. Each of you.  
I also miss me and all that could have been but never was. 

Another story left unfinished. 

And so begins the process of rebuilding.  

I will soon gain the strength and the will to lift the hammer and break the muffled silence. Shatter the emptiness and beat the drum to the song of new memories. That quiet, quiet song I can’t quite hear yet but know is coming. 

The promise of a brand new shiny world.

for now I don’t yet have the strength. I only miss you.  

Sunday, July 24, 2016

we are in the business of saying good bye


they don't know any better really. It's their third continent, but they don't know any better. They don't remember anything from before. This is their home. This is their life. This is their story... about to change

We are but days away from our next move. It feels like we've lived here one hundred years.  My skin feels and smells like Brooklyn.

I don't remember it being so strange. this feels so much like home it seems hard to believe soon it will no longer be so.

They are brave. They are excited. they are marching into the unknown with a smile and a shovel.

Not entirely certain what the shovel is for.

But now, today, we are in the business of saying good bye. Different days entail different activities. and they are all about holding on tight to what we are about to let go. These days  are about creating memories. affirming that we are here.... having one last dance with who we are and who we love.

Monday, June 13, 2016

Erased.... June Family self portrait

It feels like we are being erased from the picture. 
The ground we stand on... almost photoshopped beneath us. 
We are but an image. 
Stand-ins in our own life. 
The countdown begins for us to disappear.





***
The family self portrait  project started in January 2011. 
I take one portrait of the whole family, myself included, once a month.  
In late 2013 a "ghost" writer joined the initiative and now each photo is accompanied by a poem.
In 2015 the kids started collaborating and introducing their own ideas
...the project has a life of its own

also,
Every family should do this. It's an amazing record of the little things that matter


To see previous months click on the links below:


***
2016



Friday, June 10, 2016

ridin' the waves or a bad case of the nomad cowboys blues



Last night home. I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want tomorrow to arrive.

The house is eerie. I’ve never been here before without the kids. We have taken down the paintings, covered the holes on the wall, given away the plants. We are erasing our steps in the sand. Like we were never here. Like this time never existed. Nothing lives here anymore. Nothing but our ghosts sitting next to our suitcases. It’s quiet and dark, and somehow I no longer belong here… nor anywhere else.

When tonight ends, a certain world with certain possibilities ends. I rode home from dinner one last time. Rode my new bike, like a horse, through the trees and cobbled stone streets. I looked at the shops and the sculptures. Those things, right there in front of me, they are no longer mine. Those closed shops, for me, are closed forever.

I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but moving is a little bit like dying. A little part of you dies. Relationships end. Friendships and the stories to be told go unfinished. Some stories, they get cut off, mid sentence, as if it was some bad tumor. The body and soul become restless searching for that missing limb. Feeling it’s discomfort but unable to find it.

If I ever had to write a poem about my life it would talk about nostalgia and missed opportunities. Every move and every choice entails missed opportunities. An entire path you can imagine, envision, but never travel.

I know. I know. The new show is about to begin. I know we will be fine. I know there are adventures to be lived, new friends to make, new things to love. But I’m tired and I want to stop ridin’ the waves that come and go and leave nothing but foam in the sand.

Yet, I can’t conceive never moving again. I can’t conceive that my new home will be my last.
I got me a bad case of the nomad cowboys blues.