You’re invited…

by Jennifer on October 29, 2010

For those of you who still have this blog in your feed reader or who stop by here to read, I wanted to invite you to visit my new blog site, A Road with a View. If you wouldn’t mind taking a moment to update your subscription, you’ll be sure not to miss a post. Thanks for stopping by and I’ll see you at my new place.  An excerpt from my new post there:

And so we go back, is what I was going to tell you.

But that’s not how it is, how it ever is. Always forward.

We are moving back to Arizona. In the process of working out (at long last) our parenting agreement, I decided that it made sense to live there again. It will make it logistically easier for the kids to spend time with their father. They miss their friends. They miss living there. I miss my friends and will be glad to take new measure of  the ties that bind parts of my soul to that piece of desert…(read the rest…)

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New digs

by Jennifer on August 14, 2010

Just wanted to leave a reminder that I’ve moved to my new site, A Road with a View.

I would love for you all to follow me there, so please update your subscription to the new feed or subcsribe by email so you don’t miss a post.

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I’ve justed posted a new entry over at the new place. You can read it here.


Moving day

by Jennifer on July 31, 2010

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been busy designing and setting up a new blog site, and I’m so excited to invite you to my new place.

From now on, I’ll be blogging at  A Road with a View. When you stop by, you might notice that, visually, things look a little brighter over there. I didn’t set out to create a lighter design, but it must have been intuitive for the new blog to reflect how I feel about this next part of my life.

Until I sat down to write this, I didn’t realize how sad I would feel to say goodbye to this place. To say that this blog – and the people I met because of it – changed my life isn’t in any sense an overstatement. I hope you’ll allow me a quiet moment or two to stop at the door and take it all in one more time before I turn out the lights.

…And right after that, I’ll meet you at the new place. I can’t wait to see you there!

I hope you’ll take a moment either here or there to subscribe to my new feed.

See you soon!


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by Jennifer on April 28, 2010

I could tell you things. Hell, I’ve tried. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve tried to scoop up the words like bits of confetti. There’s so much to tell that there’s not much I can say.

Important choices and heavy-sounding words (Custody. Parenting time. But you said. No, you did. What’s best. What’s best?) sit in front of me like paperweights holding down the loose paper scraps of what was, what is, what will be. There are things to do, always. And, always, things to decide.

I am one thing right now: a mother. The other parts of me are books on shelves, ordered, quiet. I walk past sometimes and run my hand over their spines. Whisper, soon. Without sadness, though. This is how it has to be for now, this focus.

I weigh things, all the time. If this, then that. If that, then what? The back of my head, where doubt lives, is a noisy, noisy place. The bird outside my window calls out and I hear what to do? what do do?

There’s no footworn path. No You Are Here red arrow. There is only before, and now, and next. No moment that feels closer to the end than the beginning. Just each moment that is what it is.

Just this bit of ground under my feet that could be any random point between two vanishing horizons, but seems meant, somehow, for making a stand.

We’ll be all right. I know that. Worse things have happened to people. This crumpled page of life, well, I’ll spread it out and smooth it the best I can. I’ll make sense of whatever is written on it, however smudged, whether it turns out to be a lesson or a cosmic joke or a song or a map. And we’ll go on.

There are good things, there are. Cherry blossoms. Cut grass. Eight year old girls having front-lawn picnics. Evenings outside. An owl in the woods behind the house, calling.

The hope for a life that’s simpler, but that’s always been there. It just feels closer. I’m at the other end of the tunnel, at that moment when  it’s still dark but you see that the world will get big again.

For now, I don’t sleep. Not the satisfying, restful kind, anyway – only as much as my body insists on when, at last, my mind shuts down. More than not, sleep is just the scratch of a branch against the window. A ghost across the room.

Then, morning and a light that is both truth and lie, morning song and demand, apology and forgiveness.

The days are a cold, fluid stream. Most days, I feel like the water that takes forever to polish and groove the rocks that lie beneath the surface, the changes so slow as to be almost imperceptible. And other days, the best days, I become one of the rocks that alters the course of the stream. That’s what I have to be, from here.

The rest can wait. Things will happen. Choices will lead to conclusions. Life will go on. And someday, I’ll take each of those books off of the shelf, brush away the dust, open its pages.

And I’ll whisper, Now.


Good fortune

by Jennifer on March 13, 2010

I reached into the bread basket on the kitchen counter and pulled out one of half a dozen fortune cookies left over from a takeout order a couple of weeks ago. I cracked it open and found this.

At the end of a tough day of trying to stand my ground about some important things, it was just what I needed to hear. And then I cried, ’cause that’s how I’m wired. (Oh, you would have, too.)