Hello, I used to blog here

I thought I’d be able to jump right back. All purposeful and action-y and bouncy. Armed with newly reset passwords and sleeves rolled up. I thought I’d just throw open the curtains, and light would enter and gulps of fresh air and with one full breath I would set dust bunnies all in a tizz. I thought I just would. One day. Some day. Which day. How many times.

I hadn’t planned to fall down this way, down this vortex. Unannounced, Safety belt denied , all by myself. It sits so heavily on my shoulders, there are times I can walk only in circles. Maybe talk in circles too. A sadness that pitches low and constant and is barely perceptible but in the blink of an eye rises to the surface with the rawest of howls.

A ripple effect that extends far and wide. Even as I scrub the kitchen floor and find another snack for the little ones. Even as another day passed with me thinking all day about painting and then not.

I found the dust bunnies all clumped together, heaving up and down in gentle snores, oblivious like. My google account stretched languidly on a sofa, comfortable in the certainty that even spammers go away if one is quiet long enough. I tried one day, some day, a promised day, by Saturday. I couldn’t .

And then today. I am trying yet again. That is my intent, to try.  Painting, stuck fast into my soul, these six months I have only been watching it slip by. I realize how destructive it has been for me. So, I am just making a conscious decision to paint again. And it only seems right to type it down.

To try to paint. Maybe dust bunnies won’t really mind so much.



One seamless day

For oft I look at the clock to find

it tick tick ticking another time,

Luncheon dishes sitting statuesque

And half an hour before we dine?


This day, another, the one before

stitched, sewed,stretched into one seamless day.



Roll roll rolling like baby’s fabric ball

Not much bounce and few escapades

‘be it a surprise then

to find folded laundry found

For yet another washing round?


Climb into bed and climb right out

An hour thin, a minute stout

Sportingly I say , ” I ‘d sleep with shoes on today”

Time does bend, I’ll make do and mend

Wonder then

How many things I start with

And never finish anyth?



For oft I look at the clock to find

This moment that is now

turn threadbare, antique

Edges distressed





Hungry games

Dot- dot -DOT, dot -a-dot-dot

The raindrops knock persistently on the window as if complaining of being too wet. I hear a slight affected cough , a whoosh of the comforter as a pair of little legs scuffle their way out and land on it with a thump. I don’t want to get up but I do and reason with a momentarily unreasonable child who after a drink of water, a kiss on his nose and lots of assurance later agrees to go back to sleep.


Murmuring under their breath, fall the raindrops as if in resignation to wetness being their natural state but not without a sporadic plink-a-plonk on the window as if in indignation. I try to remember a raindrop I once knew. Suspiciously stubborn, it stayed up long after the others had flown down in streams to meet the little puddle on the sill. I remember waiting (not so patiently) and then with my finger giving it a nudge ,causing it to splish, leaving behind a muddy cloud. I hear the child stir again, he wakes faster than my thought. He talks a lengthy length about his dream, gets promised a toy the next time we are at the shops. He sleeps. Through the rest of the night, maybe but probably not.


It is morning, the rain has stopped. I notice a profusion of tiny muddy impact craters on my kitchen window. I wonder how many of the raindrops had cloudy outlooks, the marks they left suggest confusion. I like confused company. I am only just starting to count how many and everyone in the house seems to wake up. I make some quick noises with the dishes and the spoons and the pots to remind myself I am in the kitchen. The naughty child is cranky. It is understandable. The naughty child has been up all night. The not so naughty child is cranky . It is understandable. Sleeping through a long rainy night wakes one ravenously hungry.


I rush with the cooking, the little ones eat bananas and go bananas while breakfast gets ready. In the few minutes I take to scramble eggs ,toast bread  warm apple muffins and make a mean hot chocolate the children have expressed so many overly expressive emotions . Every emotion, from silly piggy happiness complete with oinks and grunts to the one with a tear peeping out the corner of an eye, the one I like to call the look of exquisite suffering. Hungry games are food for thought.


It is a holiday. Daddy is at home too. We just got up, had breakfast and are back in bed, regardless. For a few minutes we are silly and lazy. We hear thunder and the children clap. This summer is gone, the lightening flashes in my mind. My heart goes pitter patter. I feel very much like a raindrop.




The revenge of Mrs E.

Where to begin? Some stories are difficult to tell . They are living and moving and are yet undecided which way they will go. They started out of the ordinary like stories do , once upon a time, and are now struggling to rise above the commonplace . Fretting over how uninteresting they might be getting, if they are to someday meet their happily ever after , secretly hoping that there will be no such end.


Yet , this story has a conclusive title. For the little nondescript heroine, Mrs Bear (as she likes to be endearingly called) has been struck. Startled into losing her sleep. Mrs. E (as she likes to be intimidatingly and mysteriously called) has had her revenge.


It so happened, and not by chance either that as Mrs Bear was clearing away the table after a breakfast of Eggplant Bruschetta heavily scented with basil and a berry banana super smoothie she was very proud of having fed her family that she had to hold her head in its place and sit herself down. Panic  kept her together , this would be the third migraine in three weeks. Mostly blended into the background,her pulse made sure she heard its grating throb.


” Mrs Bear , close your eyes and sleep.” So said Mr. Bear. So warned Mrs. E.

So ignored Mrs Bear. She lay awake listening to the dismal prospects of impending rain.Bored, she befriended the google monster.He made her feel smart, after a long day of nursery rhymes and squabbles. Too hot too cold, complained she to the coverlet , taking turns to embrace and kick it. Scared to sleep , scared to not. She got out of the bed with the sun and painted feverishly.

She tries desperately to make everyday unlike everyday. Quite so, quite so. She fails. Everywhere are chores.Babies wail. They swallow the day as a whole.


“Mrs Bear, let be ” So says Big Bear. So alerts and guffaws a gritty laughter Mrs E.

Mrs Bear she gets full of guilt if she let be. In the early morning she grows a shadow of afternoon three.

Mrs E of calculating eyes, of ill short temper, chortles with her thin lips , ” you had been warned, now must suffer!!”

Poor Mrs bear has slept hardly much , her headache hasn’t left. She forgets. It’s been a month.

Now, of course she thinks she will do better. Feed herself better, and make sleeping important. For her story still has a long long way to go. Mrs E ‘s nasty revenge shall remind her.


Mrs. E , INTIMIDATINGLY and MYSTERIOUSLY so called, is exhaustion. A steep rise, a deep ravine. Don’t let her get YOU.


The elephant in the room.

I CAN’T ignore it.  It is too BIG.  Too distracting.


It follows my mind, sneers at me, makes me shorter than I am. Comes after, goes behind. With its appearance (decidedly handsome ) and its manners (truly appalling) , it puts me down.

mirror-mirror1 My toddler doesn’t trouble me as much as the ELEPHANT in the room. Cool as the summer sea, it smirks as it watches my tea get cold. It humphs a cold, demure ,”No” as I catch myself in the mirror. It makes me give up , tells me ” let go.”

Does it sleep? I think not. Does it eat? A LOT! I feed it. I have fed it for years now. I can’t remember when we met but we did and it has never since left my side.

I remember though , the day when a teacher read aloud to the class a story I wrote while I looked down at a dancing sunbeam. I remember the chill. It was there, worthlessness. I had brought it to school. From home, in my bag, in my heart. For a little girl, that is big weight but I did alright.  Kind teachers always did spot me from behind other tall girls , pushed me on stage, worked on me, gave me lead roles, put me on the debate team with boys whose newly gruff voices scared me greatly. Gravelly voices coming from headless shoulders for I couldn’t look up beyond.


I kept running away from any applause, collapsing with every word of kindness spoken to me. Undone with every little ‘thank you ‘, I felt apologetic for my very existence. All the while feeding the Elephant in the room. I thought my daddy would save me but I think he forgot.

Now, An Elephant is big. An Elephantine thought even bigger . I am learning to say ” excuse me ” to the Elephant in the room just like my children find their way around me even when I say no. I want to set it free. And I am failing. Too big. Too distracting. I am working on annoying it so much , it would get anngry at me and LEAVE.




Simple Bear necessities


Four bears at home

with all their bear stuffs

warm and fuzzy

the little ones especially

a snuggle sure enough

is a simple bear necessity.


On a rainy day

with muddy towels and tippy-toes

plays one baby bear

and cries the other, out of sheer perplexity

to grow together yet not entwined

is a simple bear necessity.


When wandering uphill

and not carefree

with burdened dusty shoes

In face of too much complexity

for the sake of longevity


is a simple bear necessity.


On days of winter sunshine

light and gold

to seek solitude

and question their notorious brevity

to sulk when the world says happy

to give in to vain vanity

is a simple bear necessity.


For days that do not end

and those that do

in a huff, a puff , a blink

there is no tested remedy

but warm food and a thought to think

for to march on bear paws steadily

is the absolute simple bear necessity.









The pursuit of laziness

leads to happiness, for one thing.

Sometimes, nah, often I get rather cross at Big Bear for being too lazy. Every Monday , to tell the truth. The one day he is home, poor guy and all he really wants is to be in bed longer and keep me there too. He wouldn’t mind at all if there weren’t any food, we can always eat slices of cheese and dunk cookies in milk.


It has reached proverbial heights (or lows) that right when I give in to his warm morning snuggles and am just about to nod off myself, one of our kids wakes up too sprightly that he must start to cry. I have to be off my feet just then , give comfort and arrange a quick snack. That starts it! My lawn mower of a brain, in defense of labor. My whipper-snipper hands ready to squeeze dry a day of all its slow pleasures. Rinse repeat.

I will go on! Proud of my little shiny happy people bouncing about, breakfast on stove and Big Bear with a childlike mouth slightly open, sleeping still on a delicious bed. From bed to kitchen without the transition of sitting on the edge while toes wait for knees to rise from slumber queers my thinking. I start to reckon what a perfect little bear , big bear is.On a holiday, he sleeps early, wakes up late , eats all that I make or don’t. What a wonderful unreal child he is.

One of my real children will make a face at whatever is there for breakfast and I will somehow force in a few spoonfuls. I will go on!  Clean up when the new book I started to read feels terribly ignored. Big Bear will call me to sit with him, relax. Lie in bed for the children are fed.  And me? I’ ll look at the trash he hasn’t taken out and think him lazy though my legs will quietly be thanking him.


I ‘d say we need a vacation,  we need to go out.  A surprised feminist tone saying” I have to do all that has to be done” ,I hear myself. Big Bear proves resistant to all my thoughts on  virtue and utility . As I look at him while he is ‘bearly’ awake trying to pursue another reverie, suddenly enlightened he tells me , ” we are here.” His laziness brings my brain respite, nourishes my perpetual poverty of rest. I wish to sip tea, stare blankly ,completely content void of all content , enlightened and still sipping. I begin to yearn to deliberately do nothing.

I shouldn’t be cross when I can learn to slow down. Some things can wait for tomorrow. Or the next day. Big Bear rescues me. Time to set time free.




Around these parts

The breeze is broom-y as I type and, for aught I know, everything will be suspiciously still in a moment as if it never did stir. It is only slowly registering that this is home. It amazes me to recall, several times a day, “this is home.”


I have been feverish , with all my muscles aching. It takes long to get familiar and what was I thinking? It will be laid back, piled pillows and rugs and flowers in vases. I have somehow missed that honeymoon period of affections and have been obsessively worrying over cleanly swept entry halls and a fully stocked kitchen.Only (thankfully) without a print gown and an apron.

The artist’s eye, as I know it, is a condition. It renders you slow. You sit staring into the depths of your new mahogany polished table , start to follow the valleys and rifts of the grain and position your cup of tea, just so you can see the flaming yellow flowers on it as if rising out of one of those crooked dales. Your kid tumbles at this moment ,with his cup of milk of course, and you have got reality to pay attention to, but a part of your mind is plagued if the contours of the cup are diffusing into the nature of wood just right. A few minutes later though , you’ll sweep the cup off the table, tea grown cold and dump it into the sink.


A house of one’s own is a difficult possession, even if it has a linen closet and flowers to match the curtains. For it to be home, it needs a lot of coaxing. For it to be laid back, it needs a  lot of sweating and wearing out.  Its contours diffusing into the nature of our spaces just right. Morning light flushing sleep  out and waking up to jarring superhero stickers on a favorite cupboard and crayon and sticky hands on the mirror glass. It must start somewhere. It is starting to.

For me, it begins with the kitchen and the bathrooms. I need the assurance of sturdy plumbing and smooth flowing drains. With that out-of-the-way, my kitchen painted all white, cabinets and tile, is a striking contrast to my rustic wooden spoons and wicker baskets. I thought I was mature enough to be minimalist but the bohemian in me rises as I dump my cold tea into the sink for the third time. I need a colorful back splash. A Turkish blue and red or plum and indigo to wake me up!I need crystals and pompoms on my window!! I have got to cope with a thousand spills a day after all. I am adding a link in here to Plumb Tile , I was asked if I would do a sponsored post for them. I took it up only because I am in the thick of making the very romantic decisions of what color, what texture , what kind right now. I found that they have a number of designs and brands , even handcrafted tiles ,which are particularly delicious to me , in one place here : Glass tile and stone.


OH! and I did land up on the fantastic idea of just changing the pulls and knobs of old furniture,  little silver baubles as pull-outs for the drawers of a distressed Manor blue painted baby cot would be precious , wouldn’t they? Knobs and pulls

And gold faucets contrasting with stone washed bathroom walls! Bathroom sinks .  A witty Norwegian touch for the times when I want to stay hidden forever.

I love it when I can recreate an expensive look that I have spent precious minutes admiring on Pinterest for much less. Making lifts me from merely eking out an existence. It is an affliction , indeed it is and I want to never be cured.

As I pursue the wistful dreams of an old brass knocker on my front door and a table beautifully laid out for luncheon, I move around with a duster in hand, which by the way stays in the right bottom cabinet of my kitchen, with toddler in tow and the eight year old aiming with my spray bottle at the vivid sunshine. I am grateful. This is home.

Only mommy


badcookHe’s here, always there

looking at me

into my nose

uncommonly interested-ly

What’s that? ,with a pat on my new zit

” Don’t worry mommy, you be fine in a bit.”

Time for tea just as I reckon

set in motion hysterics that deafen


How could you, how could you mommy?

bite into a cookie and keep it fromm-e?

You shouldn’t , you mustn’t ,it’s only propriety

now CARRY me ,ease my anxiety.

bring me juice in a glass with a straw

hurry mommy, no more of this hee -and- haw

Where are my shoes? find my shoes

No, not you daddy, it’s mommy I choose


look at me .look into my eyes

says he with a bossy guidance

throws away my book and pretends it to be good ri-d-dance.

Makes a pout-y face, “uh! ridiculous”

a nice touch, just a bit pretentious.

he is an upheaval, a strong force in the universe

the eruption of deep feelings into silly verse

” I need a hug”

” A big hug” says he

from my mommy


and then he calls me “pooh baby!”






Keeping the home


is how I spent all of last week. The sound you hear is the reverberating cacophony of doorbells and phones ringing, fragile marked cartons being thrown around as if what is fragile huh!,even relatively?

when does it start to feel like home?
when does it start to feel like home?

We moved in last week. Into our new house, and I can’t say yet , “I love it!”. Hear me out, loving is a process, both baffling and exasperating and in this time of little sleep and too much to do , all I want is to look at some familiar sights and eat a LOT of comfort food. Warming noodles in a cup sounds like punishment though the slurp and the slight fiery tang of cheap food will bring me life. Around here I feel utterly deprived of culinary amusements which is  leading to utter cooking apathy as a direct consequence.


I think deeply about how I should be planning menus and writing grocery lists when I should be sleeping instead, I am scared. I must admit to being completely stubborn , for outrageously opening all of our life packed in boxes all at once and not breathing till everything had its place. That was a most harebrained thing to do, I realize now that my mind is egregiously scattered. When you sit on a floor covered in boxes and kids who are threatening to start their meltdowns any moment now and know not where to start, it is easier to promptly ignore ,”don’t do it all at once” and just do it. If only I had come across short-term storage before, I would have lived more readily out of boxes and would be less overwhelmed. Anyway, more absurd than this is to answer the question ,” so you are all settled now?” I always do find myself saying ,”yes”. Oh! well!

Yet, I am not unhappy. A Mexican corn on the cob with feta and corn will make me happy to bits. A juicy lime on the side will make me roll on the floor, now that we have the space. I was wondering last week if we ll make it . We will, now that I have begun to use my paints and brushes, I know we will.

turkish designs in my bohemian home!

From house to home, it is a complex relationship. Imperfect, moody ,consummate even. That reminds me ,I must get dressed and meet Big Bear for lunch. I hope the kids will be nice and we can dig into a large platter of dumplings and cold beer. I know, I know we ll drink in the day. Just a little. We just shifted. We are excused. We ll take a cab back to this place we are learning to call home.