A friend who saw this video earlier, said River is “goal oriented.”

This is something I should take to heart.

I’ve been watching him struggle to figure out his own body. It’s hard work, but there is so much joy when he does something for himself.

So, as I’m finding ways to district myself from the task at hand, I at least have the boy to consider. I may not figure it all out right away, but if I try like River, I’ll get somewhere.

For those of you who aren’t poets, I’ll probably have to say that I’m not talking about jeans. Larry Levis has been a very influential poet to many writers in the past two decades. And he happens to be at the center of my thesis.

His posthumous collection—aptly title, Elegy—mourns the world itself. It’s an incredible book.

When Elle and I travelled to New Zealand, and  later to Guatemala I carried only three books with me for the half year we were gone. Elegy was one of them. I’ve digested his words slowly and they have come to bear a weight on my own.

Re-reading the book these past weeks has been a deep pleasure. Though I now find myself at the point of a deadline. By Monday I should have a workable minimum of 20 pages on Levis and I’m off to a slow start.

On the other side? Elie is excited to head to Arizona in a couple weeks. River is crawling and generally being my absolute favorite part about this world. The current title poem of my manuscript, The End of the Folded Map, was just accepted by Passages North. The chickens are loving their time in the garden and their eggs grow continually more delicious.

And yet.

Winters always have their lulls. I’m just glad mine includes all I mentioned above. Onward.

This year, the first in River’s life, has been a blessing. We’re getting by on almost no income due to the enormous generosity of my folks and a couple writing grants, but we’ve been able to do so much. We’ve been savoring River’s constant changes together, watching him open to the details of the world. He’s beginning to scoot and crawl and will walk all over the house if we hold his hands. He laughs a lot and likes to tell jokes in his own way.

Of course I have other obligations, but it’s been a great pleasure to toss certain tasks to the wayside, if only momentarily, so I might just indulge my love of spending time with the boy. Thesis-smeshis. Or, whatever.

Teaching children how to write is no easy task. I’m referring specifically to my role at Children’s Hospital with Seattle Arts & Lectures. In the past six weeks I have worked with a number of people ranging in age from 3 to 21. I have had days full of wonderful writing and connection. And I have had days of continual rejection. It’s been a challenging process, learning how to interest total strangers in trying to write with you, on the spot.

The successes have far out-weighed the shortfalls and I am glad to have taken this chance at sharing something I love with others.

I have been thinking a lot about what kind of work I want to aim for. I work everyday as a writer, but writing is my vocation. What I need is a living. At times I’m drawn to a low stakes job. (Read: grocery store or building boats). At other times I think of teaching, which I consider high-stakes. Everyday other people are depending on you for their experience of the world. It requires great emotional investment.

My time at Children’s has required such an investment, one I do not regret. Last week I helped a few folks write their version of a Recipe for a Good Day—a great list poem that insists one pay attention to detail in their surroundings, and one that requires some thought to what it is, specifically, that makes something good. People bring the substance. I just help them find a shape.

I think being a dad somehow helps in all of this. It asks that you care about more than yourself.

Here’s a poem of mine from the current issue of The Journal.

Lupa

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Our mother was a wolf she was
drinking from the river the water
flowing into her as if she were
ocean her eyes up from the silver
always watching ears tipped back

which was how she found us
caught by the roots
of a fig tree she plucked us
from the river my brother
in her mouth first
then me not crying not knowing

any reason for fear
only the rough question of her tongue
looking for answers
she became our mother then
and we grew and grew

to be men bigger than most
standing atop two different hills
a hundred black daggers slicing the sky
above me the birds circling above me
they signaled the place to build

and I killed my brother I had to
and only wish I hadn’t washed my hands
in the river the water
remembers so long.

I’ve been taking the new year in slowly, savoring the potential of new and reinforced goals, dwelling a bit longer in reflection. (That’s my excuse for not posting more.  What d’ya think?). The chickens have settled in and are producing some lovely little eggs with rich, deep yellow yolks. We’ve been able to give them a bit of free ranging in the dormant garden and watched them long enough to assess their potential for naming.

Here’s the line up: Godiva, coming in chocolate, boasting lead role as alpha hen, puffing her breast feathers and taking what she wants, when she wants. Bernadette, coming second in the pecking order, not quite as dark as Godiva with some creamy hues in her tail’s fan. And certainly not least, though last in pecking order, Maple coming in warm lighter tones reminiscent of coffee swirling with cream.

They seem happy, which makes us happy and the eggs delicious. There is something so marvelous about the taste of a food produced minutes earlier, acquired directly by the chef and consumed immediately. The complexities linger on the palate of the mind.

‡‡‡

After a fairly rough week returning to classes and work at Children’s Hospital I was ready for some time with River. He’ll be seven months old on Tuesday and is changing so much. Very discerning and delightful.

We took our usual two-ravine walk today just as the sky was breaking open to show some blue. The creek was high and everything had the lush damp smell of springing back from the rain. In the second ravine we paused under a cedar to regard a small waterfall. The sun poked over the lip of the ravine and lit the valley golden. Everything was dripping. Sun glinting off the creek. And the mist began to rise and turn to fog, splitting the sun into shafts of light.

We had to pause. Slow down. Linger at the edge of the moment. “This,” I said to River “is what a fairy tale looks like.” He sighed. Burbled like the creek in agreement I suppose. And we did the only thing one can do in the presence of overwhelming beauty. We took one last look, locked the image away, and turned toward home.

We rang in the new year rather quietly, putting River to bed and playing Boggle for a bit before drifting off just around midnight. The day wasn’t so important as the general feeling that things were coming together. The wide open door of a new decade.

We welcomed three beautiful Red Star hens to their new luxury condo coop just today and the lovely ladies already laid two light brown eggs! These chickens have been a long time coming and we’re so glad they’re finally here.

In other areas of procrastination, I finally mixed up a sourdough starter and hope to be experimenting with new bread recipes in the coming weeks. The writing shack is becoming even cosier—which is good because I have A LOT to do there in the next few months.

The thesis is looming as are new classes and continued work at Children’s Hospital. I’m still delinquent on a few obligations, but I’m feeling really good about the start of this new year.

River is really changing a lot right now—discerning what he likes and what he does not like and he has just started to become a little fearful of new faces. Seriously, I fall more in love with that boy each day.

Resolutions: I’ve got ‘em, but I’m not going to lay them all out here. Mostly, I’m thankful for such a wonderful family and the chance to make this year even better than the last. I’m looking forward to sharing more stories here as they unfold. Best of luck to all.