"bird by bird"

I've been reading Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Life and Writing by Anne Lamott.  It's helping me have some desire to write again.  I feel so out of practice in the writing realm, and I could give a million excuses, but that would be so dull.  Well, perhaps I'll be a tad bit dull.  One excuse: I get discouraged with my lack of "free time."  And when I do have some spare moments, I usually feel too tired to pull together any coherent thoughts.  But writing on here makes me feel like I'm actually working on something and I can type much faster than I can long-handedly string sentences together.

So we'll try out a little session tonight and hope to spark some consecutive nights of writing, though I do prefer ink and paper.  I won't always type everything up on here.

Today Hattie saw a bird for the first time.  Sure, it wasn't her very first encounter with a bird, but she looked up, unblinking as the bird hopped from fence to tree.  She pointed and squawked to get me to look as well.  Her eyes shone happier than her mouth.  Those blues with an inner ring of golden yellow.  Oh, how I love those eyes.

And the boy, that Eamon boy.  These kids of mine fill up my days, and sometimes my nights, to the brim.  Laughter, impatience, smiles, frustration, hugs, wrestlings, peace.  I watch him as he falls asleep.  He turns onto his right side and puts his hands together in a prayer-like position.  I fake yawn sometimes just to hear him echo his own in response.  He picks his nose slowly and then slower and slower, and his eyes remain lightly closed.

There's some from the present.  How 'bout a little from the past.

Summertime.  We'd go to the library with mom.  We each had our own library card and we'd go down into the basement of the Provo library to get our fill.  I would check out at least 15 books and try to impress the librarian checking out my books.  I don't know how impressive Sweet Valley High or Babysitter's Club really are or were or ever have been, but I was reading.  I was a reader.  Upon arriving home, we would drag out a few of mom's huge quilts into the shade of the willow trees.  And read.  Mom always made it fun by fixing a special treat.  Popcorn, maybe?  I honestly have no recollection.  I do remember, though, the feel of the grass through the blanket on my legs and elbows.  I remember the thrill of reading for hours.  The joy and the peace that came from escaping into a place different and away.