Dear Life (Repost)


Kim at her website called So Many Places: A Writer in the World ( has inspired me to write this quick “thank you” note to Life. I love her storytelling, that she is traveling the world and writing about it.

Dear Life,

Thank you for letting me have the time–and take the time–to play with my 5-year-old daughter this morning.

We made bookmarks out of scrap paper and pastels–I’d forgotten what smudging and blending the sticks of silky chalk feels like. We unpeeled the shells of paper to get at more and more color. The sticks shrunk to stubs.

The insides of my nails are caked with vibrant blue and butterfly orange.

We read from James and the Giant Peach–I’d forgotten how deliciously mean Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker are, that the magic starting it all is made from crocodile tongues (among other things), and how comfortably suspenseful the scene is when James first approaches the enormous fruit.

Thank you for Roald Dahl.

(Thank you, too, for the peach itself–I’ll eat bushels full of Jersey peaches when they are summer ripe.)

Thank you for Kermit’s Rainbow Connection, for House on Pooh Corner, for You are my Sunshine. Thank you for Lyle Lovett, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt. Thank you for allowing me this time with my kids–this time when I make them playlists, and not only do they listen to Mommy’s music, they dress up in tutus and dance to it.

Thank you for farmer’s markets–for the fresh kielbasa we grilled last night. The pop of that first bite, the sour dough bread, the healthy spread of dijon.

Thank you for what I see outside today at lunchtime: the mandevilla on my back porch, its deep red splashes of flowers, the way the vines twist and reach and change direction.


It is the last week of school for my first-grader.

My youngest child, the one sitting here next to me, will join her sister at school full-time next year.

We are poised in early June with plans to camp, to hike, to kayak, to travel. Summer comes on slowly, like today’s gentle, lazy rain.

But Life, I know your pace. How quickly you go. Exponential growth in just an instant, like that giant peach. When I think too hard, I feel your weight hang heavy from a bending branch.

Will I have done enough for them? Will we have seen enough together? What will they have taken in . . . when my time becomes only mine again?

Thank you, Life, for moments of calm awareness.

Thank you for the easy early-summer days and the possibility of more.

Any “thank you” notes to share?

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