Tuesday, March 14, 2017
I'm leaving the doctor's office—a routine appointment. As I walk down the sidewalk avoiding the slush, I hear the drone of cars passing behind me. Spring had come early, the cherry blossoms blooming in March. But winter hadn't left yet either. The heavy snow that fell the day before shrouded city streets, newly green lawns, burgeoning tulips and lilies, and trees in blossom. As I pass under a young tree, I look down and see its pink petals—which the heavy, wet snow had pulled loose—mixed with snow and landscaping rocks. The sun is already shining again, and I smile at the impermanence and incongruity.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
The news was bad today, with seventy-seven dead in a terrorist attack in Nice. It's hard to process, especially when you have two young kids at home—and when it seems to happen every week. I hear my dog scratch at the back door and let her in, leaving my three year old on the potty and my one year old on the other side of the baby gate. It's after eight pm, and the night air—not cool, not warm—envelopes me. The string lights hanging from the porch ceiling catch my eye. I feel the urge to return and make sure my kids are safe, but I also feel compelled to plug in the lights, let their soft orange glow brighten up my little corner of the night, and have one moment of quiet beauty.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
I'm in downtown LA, but I almost feel like I'm in Japan. Sushi and ramen. Candy shops. Wooden structures with curved roofs. Paper lanterns. We're not sure which restaurants are good here. We step inside one. Leave. Pass another and then circle back to it. There, we wait for a table, and after we're seated and served, we feed our toddler with chopsticks. Diners at nearby tables laugh at his wide, ready mouth, and we laugh, too. On the walk back to the car, the night is warm. People talk and laugh. A man sings karaoke in the plaza. It's well past bedtime, but we're on vacation, and so I stop under the paper lanterns, point them out to my son, and in pointing them out to him really see them myself, white and red and filled with glowing light against the starless blue sky.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
We arrived by bus. The heat and humidity immediately oppressed us. After visiting the expansive, air-conditioned gift shop, where we had a short break, we boarded a trailer to the Tulum ruins, which we entered through a doorway within the wall that surrounds them. First the bumpy trailer ride, then the narrow doorway, gave me the feeling of entering a place apart. As sweat formed on my forehead and ran down my face, I followed the guide from crumbling structure to crumbling structure along winding dirt paths lining cliffs. Our guide talked of frescoes, carvings, gods, and goddesses, of rituals and riches, of an observatory to track the movement of the stars and a window meticulously built to frame the sun at equinox. Nostalgia can trick us into thinking the past was somehow more special than the present, and it wasn't. The past was just different. But that difference hangs around the stone structures like an aura. It reaches out and brushes against you as you navigate the ruins, as real as the stone, as visceral as the heat.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
In his brand new, tufted and skirted bassinet, all creme, taupe, and beige, my two-week-old sleeps next to me—fed, changed, and tightly swaddled. His eyes are shut, his body is still. If I kissed the top of his head, it would feel like a peach and smell like fresh laundry. He's so close to me but separate, too. At least for now, he doesn't need me to hold, feed, burp, or carry him. He could wake up in an hour, or even ten minutes, and every hour after that. But for now, everything is exactly how I imagined it would be; everything is perfect.