I am making bread pudding this morning.

A brunch down the hill, celebrating our boys who graduate from high school tonight.

Scald the milk.

Break the bread.

Sugar. Eggs. Nutmeg.

Raisins.

Bake.

Pain Perdu.

Lost bread.

I guess you could call butt erflies lost caterpillars.

I guess you could call men lost boys. Boyz 2 men.

I’d rather enjoy the bread pudding, the transformation, without thinking of what went into it.

I’ll get to that point with my neighborhood boys. I know I’ll love the men. Bu t right now, I still feel the scorching afternoon rides in the minivan from the middle school. Still want to hand them a fresh-peeled carrot. See them wrestling on the carpet. I still hear our friends solemnly singing Jingle Bells in May as my son ble w out the three candles on his cake.

In a few weeks they’ll be scattered away from the hub of the neighborhood: San Antonio, Georgetown, San Diego, Fort Collins.

They are really really fine guys.

Tonight, they’ll be a part of the school, of this childhood community for the last time. This morning, I’m making bread pudding.
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Just watched a tarantula cross the street. A female. Didn’t have those little hooks males have to better hang on when mating.

I walked down to the patio and there was another--a male--he had hooks.

Day of Tarantulas on the Move.

Wonder if they’ll find each other.

xS

Sometimes you see the train a-coming but you just can't get yourself off the tracks.

It’s 2:20 in the morning here. I am writing by hand from the floor of the laundry room. There are few nooks in our house where one would not disturb sleepers in the middle of the night.

Wrestling with truth or hormones or thirst or the wheezing snorting of a not mythological enough creature outside the window got me out of bed.

I was on a quest for truth last year--savor each day with the open eyes and senses of a six-year-old. No artifice.

The year was a bloom on the desert that breathed in lovely slow motion. A gift.

Open eyes and open heart do not serve well in a year of grieving. Especially if you have caused some of the grief with your blooming.

Rumi, the 13th century poet, suggests tearing up the foundation to realize the riches of carnelian below. He suggests the shedding of garments. Leaving the pond for the ocean. Being the ruby that you are.

Ann Patchett the novelist suggests down jackets are a necessary and practical defense during a Nebraska winter.

Today, though the temperatures are forecast to strain toward a hundred, I wear my parka...

12:53 PM

This year, on my 50th birthday, after eating at Chuy's with my family, I asked for a T-shirt.

Red fish wearing yellow sunglasses.

The t-shirt says:
'Life is weird
One day you're just swimming along
The next day you're being dragged out of the water by your lips.'

i am the fish.

i am the fisher.
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