Instead of writing about today’s events, I’d rather tell you how the trees have forgotten that it’s almost the middle of November and the only way we get golden trees in Phoenix is by looking at stunning artwork like this.

Painted by Vietnemese artist, Dao Hai Phong, this is one of my favorites.  You can see more of his colorful pieces here.  Dan likes this particular piece because it’s sold to someone other than his credit card-brandishing wife.

These are the feet of Bryson Evan.

When they get large enough,

They’ll wriggle out from the wrappings of their blanket and learn

About the coolness of tile and the tickliness of grass.

They’ll stand and hold the weight of a boy.

They’ll work their way around the edges of a wooden coffee table

All the while marking their path with toothmarks and boo boos.

They’ll walk.  Heel, toe.  Heel, toe.  They’ll run.

In the evening they’ll get scrubbed clean in the bath before padding down the hallway

In slippers and jammies for stories and just another glass of water,

And please, please just one more story and I’m still thirsty.

When they’re large enough, they’ll step up into a yellow bus

And ride to the school two miles from home.

They’ll outrun the bully and shuffle through math and history.

They’ll learn to dance.

One day they’ll find how the gas pedal in a car makes distance

Between what is mom and dad … and what is out there.

And they’ll go to college and they’ll get married and they’ll

Walk behind a mower, flinging the pungency of grass

Across the yard of their newly-mortgaged home.

And then one day, not really very far from now,

They’ll hurry down a hospital corridor so they don’t miss

The moment when another baby boy

Feels the first cool draft of air on his

Pink and trembling feet.

I was up early yesterday morning, while it was still dark.  Early? you ask.  I’m not generally known for bounding out of bed in the wee small hours of morning.   I’m more the type to drag myself to my feet, feeling about for my coffee cup and screaming about the sun melting the retinas from my eyes.  But there was an occasion yesterday.  Something delicious for which to rise from my bed-o-slumber and drag on my clothes.

My daughter was giving birth to a beautiful boy!

At some point during the process of the morning, I watched an amazing sunrise.  Rather than their normal whispyness and flat bottoms, the clouds had shape and texture.  A bumpiness to them not normally seen in the types of clouds we get across Phoenix.  Usually, we’re either looking at streaks of bare gossimer or we’re bullied by giant thunderheads rising high above the desert floor.  As the sun touched yesterday morning’s rounded clouds, they looked like benevolent faces shining on the earth.  Seriously.  Faces looking down on us.  By the time I thought to get my camera, the faces had turned away.  But for a moment … just a mere instant … everything seemed good and right with the world and the economy.  Battlefields were empty and green with new grass — and sooty skies now contained nothing but the faces of angels shining upon the world, welcoming a new child to its family.

Dan:  What do you want to do tonight?

Me:  I don’t care.  What do you want to do?

Dan:  I don’t care.

Me:  Pick something.

Dan:  You pick.

Me:  It’s your turn.

Dan:  Nuh huh.

Me:  Yuh huh.

Dan:  Okay.  We’ll watch football.

Me:  Oh.  I was thinking of something good.

Dan:  But it’s Notre Dame against someone.

Me:  That’s good, dear.  Pass the cyanide, please.

Dan:  Shhh.  Notre Dame’s got the ball.

P.S.  Wilson received his intermediate obedience certificate today.  I think that means he’s not supposed to bite stuff now.

If you do nothing else today, go Here and read the beautiful prose of the amazing poet, Drew Myron.  She describes where I grew up and recently contemplated returning to.  Her words are stunning.  Like balm.

Then pour a cup of coffee and sit down with your childhood memories.  Remember where you were raised and how morning smelled.  Think of socks.  Recall the sky.  Taste the tart rhubarb your mother planted along the driveway.  Feel the warm air that curled around your legs on a winter morning as you stood over the floor heating grate.  Remember tea with milk.

I swear it will do something for your writing.

This morning, people across this country shared breakfast and hopefulness.  Yesterday we elected our first African American president.  Soon he will live in a house that was built in part by slaves.

Last night people cried under the words of a simple man.  Healing began.  A nation embraced the common purpose of being a rising tide.  We shall lift all boats.  We shall be greater than we think we are.  We are a shared sacrifice that can move this world toward greatness.

We are a happy ending and we shall capture everyone into that common purpose.  There may be disappointment from some.  There may be angry tears.  But this is America and we are one people.

Barack Obama is a President for all.  We are one day away from defining people by the color of their skin.  Whether you wanted him or not, because of what we did on this day … in this defining moment, we shall be a changed people.

We shall be humble.

Don’t forget to vote.

Vote!

Have you voted yet?

How about now?

Go vote.  Vote your heart.  Vote for your future.  VOTE! 

I have now a thingy called an Aircast that wraps around my ankle and up each side of my left leg, giving my wobbly parts some stability.  It gives me the ability to walk with more freedom than the former cumberson “walking” boot I had.  That boot absolutely HAD to get the boot.

Now with the Aircast, I can get around much better.  The only problem is a shoe thing.  The plastic material won’t fit inside my shoes … BUT … ta da! my husband has nice big feet and the Aircast fits inside his much wider shoe. 

This is great! 

I can walk again as long as I wear the aircast and Dan’s shoes — that means day and night.

So I go to bed now with a little prayer that we won’t have to call out the fire department in the middle of the night.  I’d sure have a hard time explaining why I wear clown shoes to bed.

Phoenix is either dusty brown or muted green — rarely any other color.  Even today, with the temperature still at 94 degrees, it’s hard to find another color … unless you remember to look at the sun now and then as it makes its way down the sky.

So I search for pictures like this to remind my eyes about seasons and the drama that happens inside of trees.  

I’ve never seen an ice storm in Phoenix.  Frost, certainly.  But never an ice storm.  Not like this.

Maybe cactus spines aren’t long enough for icicles to grab hold of.  Maybe storms filled with ice and vengance simply go where they can hang from trees like pointed reminders of whatever irks you.

But in Phoenix?  Naw.  We just get scorpions in our shoes.