Go Me. Yo kids is growin' out de clothes, Go sew! - It's late, can you tell?

It's a quarter 'til midnight. I just finished making one of two holiday skirts - Magnolia's to be exact. I'm sacked, but I still have clean-up from the last few hours of sewing.

Yes, I was sewing on the floor. I think it should qualify as a new yoga pose. "And now we're moving into 'Sewing on the floor.'" Let me just tell you, I rocked the crocodile at yoga today. My hair is letting me know it's time for bed. Over and out.

PS: I'll post pictures of the skirts when they're on the girls. You'll fail to notice my imperfections then. ;)

A poem

I picked up the Gazette on Thursday at the Bethany library. The cover story was about the Oklahoma Modern Family. I have yet to get to that article, but I read something (Jake initially read it to me) on page 6 that has left me with a deep down sense of renewal. A sigh of relief. An affirmation that I'm okay. If you hadn't noticed yet, social issues are a passion of mine. Many of them, not just a cause or two. And politics is a natural interest that goes along with it because so much of what I feel in regard to social issues is put into make or break situations at the hands of political ideology.

Thank you, Lauren Zuniga, for reminding me about Clara Luper, Kate Barnard, Woody Guthrie, and so many others who made big strides [that seemed small at the time] toward progress. Right here. In Oklahoma.

A poem to progressives plotting mass exodus

There is a sick pit in your stomach.
A plantation in your front yard.
The static flicker of black and white.
An absurd talking picture,
where sepia skin is now villain.
You are not sure who to trust anymore.
Everyone walks backward in your neighborhood.
You are surrounded by billboards with hate-sized font.
You are looking for a secret handshake.
A fish with feet drawn in the sand.
Blue paint on the door frame.
You resent even the dirt for being so damn red.
At night you are a furious search engine.
Screaming down the track toward
some kind of Shangri-La.
Portland has no jobs.
Canada doesn’t want you.
You hear property is cheap in Costa Rica.
Even Cuba seems safer than your next PTA meeting.
Anywhere is better than here.
But here is your home.
Here is where you chose to raise your kids
because the people are so friendly.
Do not let them drive you away.
Here is where you are needed the most.
Here is where the sunset stretches its arms wide as forgiveness across stolen plains.
Here is where Clara Luper sat down at the Katz lunch counter and asked to be served.
Here is where black and white soldiers fought alongside each other for the first time.
Where Kate Barnard was elected before she could even vote.
Where hippies squatted in Paseo until it became an art district.
Here is where Charlie Christian learned guitar.
Where Wayne Coyne keeps the bubble.
Where Woodrow Wilson Guthrie played the harmonica for sandwiches.
Here is where the healing has to take place.
Tell them you are not moving.
Oklahoma is worth the wait.
Sometimes evolution feels like
the stinging cramp in the back of your knees when you grow too fast for your outdated bones.
Sometimes it feels like a house in the city
with three goats, 10 chickens and 12 wild kids.
Tear up the sidewalk.
Plant a garden.
Bake a squash casserole and invite
all your terrified neighbors over.
Say “As-Salamu alaykum” to everyone you meet.
Fill out all government forms in Español.
Check all the boxes for your race.
Ride your bike to work. Make art in the streets.
Feed people without a license.
Go to city council meetings.
Sit in at the state House and Senate.
Wear a purple boa. Don’t apologize for your presence.
Write love letters to mothers and fathers in prison.
To the wardens, the police officers, the judges.
Write love letters to queer kids and their bullies.
Tell them you are staying here for THEM.
Kiss a Republican on the cheek.
Show them how to love someone you don’t understand.
DO SOMETHING with that tight fist.
That broken heart.
That liberal mouth.
Progress is a series
of small bold moves.
Don’t leave.
Here is where
we need you.

—Lauren Zuniga
Oklahoma City

Oklahoma Gazette


N. Scott Momaday said that instead of time passing by us, we are passing through it.

I've been looking through pictures on facebook tonight. Everything changes so quickly.

Want to see the night that Jake and I first met? That'd be photo 267.
(He was 18, I was 17. Can you tell we were going to get married 8.5 months later? I could...minus the exact time frame of course.)
(He was 19, I was 18.)

Or when size 0 pants were a little roomy? Picture 213.

My favorite hair picture? 326.

The night we told everyone we were pregnant for the first time? 239.
(Thanksgiving 2006)

(1. Our apartment, 2. Church, 3. Obama's house, 4. Jake's school - and what I didn't know at the time: how absolutely in love with this neighborhood I would be. I would number every little thing I loved the most, but there wouldn't be room. We're talking minute details.)

The moment sisters met.

One of the last times sisters will see one another.

Dog Owners for three days.

A place where a big part of my insides felt right.

My fuzzy headed baby.
(Oh how I miss that little head some times.)

It goes on and on and on.

I find peace in Momaday's interpretation of time passing, though either way our existence cannot stand still. My little babies are growing up. I wonder what sentiment I will feel about this very day when I reflect back on it in the future.


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