It wouldn’t be spring without a little snow…

(oh, the things I’ve become accustomed to!)

Passover (2001)

Blonde and swelling in her seventh month of pregnancy, she leans on her husband’s shoulder, sighs, and tells me in her most matronly, 19-year-old voice, “Well, what’s the point of college anyway, when Yosef is an accountant and I’ll have a little one to love so soon?”

~

An immaculate, lacy white table. Four glasses of wine and Hebrew stories of an ancient bondage. The excited voices of my sisters repeat words they’ve said almost fifty times since infancy. I’m dying to run upstairs, dial my secret Roman Catholic ally, whisper away the receding hours with dreams of moss trees in Savannah. Perhaps respect for the past is too deeply ingrained in me.

 ~

In morning synagogue, half asleep, I watch the 21-year-old women giggle in small circles with babies in their arms. And they glance over their shoulders, they nod, they smile weak hellos.

My 5-year-old insists that Bilbo Baggins is a girl.

The first time she made this claim, I protested. Part of the fun of reading to your kids, after all, is in sharing the stories you loved as a child. And in the story I knew, Bilbo was a boy. A boy hobbit. (Whatever that entails.)

But my daughter was determined. She liked the story pretty well so far, but Bilbo was definitely a girl. So would I please start reading the book the right way? I hesitated. I imagined Tolkien spinning in his grave. I imagined mean letters from his testy estate. I imagined the story getting as lost in gender distinctions as dwarves in the Mirkwood.

Then I thought: What the hell, it’s just a pronoun. My daughter wants Bilbo to be a girl, so a girl she will be. And you know what? The switch was easy. Bilbo, it turns out, makes a terrific heroine. She’s tough, resourceful, humble, funny, and uses her wits to make off with a spectacular piece of jewelry. Perhaps most importantly, she never makes an issue of her gender—and neither does anyone else.

Bilbo Baggins is a girl: Until children’s books catch up to our daughters, rewrite them. (via daxsymbiont)

I’ll reblog this for forever

(via memymarie)

I love this so, so much. 

(Source: sashimigrade, via wreckandsalvage)

Happiness is the first signs of spring,

is chance encounters with deer, two blocks away from my house,

is noting and taking pride in my own progress this year,

is celebrating my friends’ successes,

is sunny, 70-degree Boulder afternoons,

is Ben & Jerry’s free cone day,

is planning and dreaming about a summer European adventure,

is today.

“ Also marking the passage of time is the fact that 10 years ago today, the idol of my youth, Kurt Cobain committed suicide. 10 years ago this Thursday, I was sitting at my desk listening to the radio when they broke the news. If in my daze of watching reruns of Unplugged on Dora’s couch, trying to come to grips with what in my vulnerable youth confused and depressed me, you would have told me that 10 years later I would be sitting in an office typing away, barely thinking about the events of that week, I would have spat in your face. ”

It’s been twenty years now and the events of that week have become so distant, they might almost be from another life. But, to be fair, sitting in a soul-crushing office and typing away seems almost as distant… So…

(Reblogged from a previous life where I used LiveJournal.)

(Source: rachmouse.livejournal.com)

The pants have now changed and moved across the street! Things are HAPPENING!

The pants have now changed and moved across the street! Things are HAPPENING!

A sign of Boulder’s secret underworld:
In four months, I’ve watched this pair of jeans make its way from one front lawn to another and then closer and closer to this house’s front door.

A sign of Boulder’s secret underworld:

In four months, I’ve watched this pair of jeans make its way from one front lawn to another and then closer and closer to this house’s front door.

“ April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain. ”

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

On a cloudy April 1st in Boulder, Colorado, with so much wandering of the spirit, and still so much to do…

2003

At twenty-three and a half, I’ve forgotten how to shape my future into a small photograph and be happy. If I ever knew how.

At twenty-three and a half, I’m reading a torn copy of Anne of Green Gables I cried over at ten; eating cherry cheese knishes; playing dress-up in my parents’ clothes and too-big gloves and socks; dreaming of mac ‘n cheese and MTV afternoons with my high school best friend; aching for college.

My younger sister is married, pregnant.

Every morning, I board the 7:40am train to Penn Station and scuttle my way to the office. Like an adult. Like a cockroach. Like I believe in what I’m doing.

Coming Home

Is better than it ever used to be.