Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Happy Birthday Judah!

It's been fun, all the way through, with this one.


He was born sharp-witted and ready for the world.
When he was a baby, swaddled in a sling, people would stop to talk to him all the time. I remember, in particular, an old man at the market who payed no attention to me, only the baby. He said to Judah(in reference to the universe), "You've been here before, right? Even though you can't tell me, I know you know. I can see it in your eyes."
And, Judah smiled. The brilliant way that he still does. 


He is baby number three, which means he sits right in the middle of the wolf pack. And this, I believe, is what makes him a bit edgy at times. A little lazy at times. A bit dramatic and boisterous at times. 
Nonetheless, we are all inspired by his mischievous, riotous ways.

In the last few months, 
we have all been astonished by his unrestrained artistic talents. 
He is an artist. Without burden, he is loose and free-spirited with his art. 


His soft sketches, a Love and Peace van, for all of us to fit in to; the puppy, that he desires to have one day; little fat cat, because his sister loves cats so much.


His unfettered hand at monsters.
They are all sorts of demonic and mean and wild, and
he has total control over them. 


Random dudes.
Zombie Joker and other guys that sort of resemble him, in my opinion.


And my favorite, Zombie Avengers, 
the first comic book that he ever wrote. 
Stapled and published by 'Darckhors' comics. 
Love


Recently, the most cherished part of my relationship with Judah has been our friendship. Nine is old enough to share thoughts deeply, but young enough to still sit close and read quietly together. He is quickly maturing into an understanding and kind young man who I am truly proud of.

Happy birthday to my little friend, Mahatma Judah, who I love so dearly.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Regarding His Name: Govinda

His name was Shani until the moon told me otherwise. One of the celestial gods, in Hindu myth, Shani bears the task of granting the fruits of one's actions; he is responsible for punishing or rewarding one in accordance with their karmic action. The son of the sun, he is feared and loved, all the same. As the story goes, after the birth of Lord Shani, as he opened his eyes for the first time, his father(the sun) went into an eclipse. He is known as the most powerful well-wisher and the most feared punisher.

But, the moon had another name for our last little boy.


His name is Govinda, an avatar of Vishnu, the incarnation of Krishna, and the protector of the the most sacred creature: the cow. In the tales of the Bhagavata Purana, Govinda revives the cowherds who are killed by drinking from a pool infected by a poisonous snake, simply by favoring them with his ambrosia-filled glance. In reference to prayer, it is said that, "If one just worships Govinda, one can easily cross this great ocean of birth and death."(from Adi Sankara's Bhaja Govindam)



So, when the moon was full for three long nights, I labored without realizing that I was laboring. And the baby waited until the fullest moon-night. When he opened his eyes for the first time, I knew that he was Govinda, the magic brought on by the moon. To me, Govinda means nothing more than the pure embodiment of love.


That is all that he is.


Happy birthday, sweet Govinda Hare!

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Happy Birthday Lotus Girl


All the reasons to love Haile:


because she has been known to throw the most Hatter party

because she is so much boy

except for her kiss, which always takes me back to youthful days, 
where everything tasted like lemon-drop lollies

because she is a girl, and that means she is strong

because she resembles all the colors of Fall

because her eyes were plucked from an owl

because she is Nalini, who sits on a Lotus,
and the goddess Gayatri gave her to me

Happy birthday, Nalini Haile, the universe couldn't have picked a more beautiful flower.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Saturday

It doesn't happen very often, but occasionally some days turn out to be absolutely perfect. Usually Aaron works on Saturdays, so Saturdays never feel saturday enough for me. This one was different.

In the morning, there was coffee and cartoons and shared laughter. And then we were off to the library together and back home with comics and novels and board books. Music and reading and resting, all together. And when the whole house was as mellow as milk, I found time to write.

It began as a story with cakes and children and quickly manifested into a strange tale of horror. With English manners and American violence. I found solace in all of its bitter sweetness as devoted writing time is hard to find in this house.

Here is an except of Fairy Cakes, a short story that I hope to linger with in the next few days:


When I was eight years old, I went to a party where I had no friends. All the children there were grim and green, full of ice and too much sugar. Their parents were friends of my parents. My mother mingled with long, slender women holding golden-spritz champagne in white-satin gloves and my father smoked BBMF cigars with a chain of distinguished men; the acronym stood for Big Bad Mother Fucker, and if you saw them, that is what you would call them. I was sent off to play with my friends.  
The green children sat at tables lined with red and white checkered cloth. The tables were filled with cream colored porcelain dishes. Tall glasses held mint lemonade and sweet peach teas. Sponge platters turned right-side up with the sponge batter, layered in a sticky white glaze, turned upside down. Strawberries swam in small tarts and black, blue berries sat fat on top. The children licked their fingertips and used their collars to wipe their mouths. The tips of their noses crawled upwards when I walked past them.
It doesn't always turn out this sweet, but when it does, it must be Saturday. And this one is worth spilling into a capsule. Happy Saturday!!

Friday, September 19, 2014

Luna




Luna

I remember a night, awake
in the middle of a string of pearly dreams:

A deer stood at the foot of my bed
Her eyes were liquid white
and her mouth, spoiled with red

She pulled at the layers of thin white sheets
“Follow me through the moonlight,”
her speckled form
weaving in and out of sight

I slipped out of my gown,
my skin was cellophane
Through the astral night,
we ran lucid like rain

Beneath a sky where stars are strung in lace,
hours held together by a set of invisible rings,
Bare underneath a cotton-cream moon,
she fed me a feast:
white cedar, tea rose, English yew
I ate hollyhock petals and picked the buds of roses
I watched her devour,
basil with licorice tips

We capered across the meadow;
covered ourselves in mint,
and at the bed of a shallow stream,
we slipped right in

The water was full of jewels;
we swam in its belly
and drank from its mouth
The cry of a woken wolf
hovered across the wind
she slid her fingers across my skin

In a cool pool of water,
the wind and the air and the wave
pulled in tight

The sky pressed against our playful thoughts
each moment began to lose its formative structure:
splitting into dancing particles,
twirling in and out of reach,
spinning out of shape

And when the strings broke loose,
the first glimpse of dawn swallowed the night,
sealed it away in a capsule, held together
by the ripe scent of twilight

I woke in the morning,
when snow-in-the-summers
sparkles with dew,
In my room, the air began to melt
my skin, covered in leaves of thistle and mint
my hair, damp and blue

The silver silhouette of the moon
peered its weary head into my window

I stretched my liquid limps,
covered in a thick film of
sea and star and sand,
and carefully pulled
a string of soft, white petals
out of my mouth

Friday, August 8, 2014

Happy Birthday Sunbeam!


After eleven years with this sweet spirit, I know clearly that he will never stop shining. There is a sort of dazzling light in his heart that illuminates beyond all odds.


He shared with me one day the idea that the sun would die and that life would die and how that thought made him feel so sad. I told him to write about it:

"Our sun will become an expanding sun, burn its hydrogen, and then turn into a helium flash, which will shrink and expand and shed its outer layers. It will become a ring nebula and then it will turn into a small white dwarf and cool down to become a cold, dense black dwarf that will no longer radiate energy and then no one will ever know that it was alive and that it produced life." -Sahaj


He is the single soul in my life who makes me most hopeful; he believes in the feasibility of impossible things. 
I'm truly blessed to celebrate another birthday with this beautiful beam!!

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Sickle and Hammer Soldier

Siddhartha:

Born in an age of transformation and wonder,
under the blue-light;
the bearer of water,
he knows the eightfold path
and the four noble truths

And after twelve years, he is a true star. He has become a witty comedian, an exquisite writer, and a dramatic artist. 

A few months ago, he gave me one of his drawings: 

The Sickle and Hammer Soldier

I see a young man: worn, wounded, battered; his chest torn open, heart splattered, blue-red blood. With the memory of brighter days, green meadows; lazy summers; spring waters, he carries on. Under the red sun, he holds his inner light in perseverance. And, it is that soul who wanders beyond ease and comfort, who will eventually find the purest form of salvation. 

Happy 12th birthday
to our little
old-soul,
Siddhartha