Those old family photos

A friend of mine stopped by today with her three little children. They played with Babygirl in the back yard. It was great fun seeing them all. I wish I had more time to go and visit my friends. I've been thinking a lot about old friends lately.

My oldest girl asked for some baby pictures of herself last week and when I dug those out it, only seemed natural to update the baby books and photos. What a nightmare. In the beginning of my life as an adult, I thought I would stay on top of it and label all of my photos right away with names, dates, events, etc. and that way, many years after I die, when someone comes across a box of old pictures, they might be able to figure out the history of my family. That which I know. My part. I still have old photos of relatives I don't know, people I can't recognize. It won't be that way for my children and their children. Or so I thought. When did time get away from me? That stack of photos that was waiting to be labeled became two or three stacks, a whole shoe box full of snapshots, and I have spent my free time in the last week (I know, I should be painting) trying to remember, trying to figure out how old my girls were in many pictures, not recalling the dates. I have lost a whole year. I can't for the life of me recall 1999. Are there any photos from this time frame? How can I know? My children are changing less and less every year. Which year is which? It's out of control. But, I won't give up. I refuse to give up. I want to redo my albums in a more orderly fashion. I want to tell my story.

But what parts of my story are relevant? Does it matter what friends I had in grade school? The skater boys downtown in 1987? What about snapshots of cars I thought were cool? And the pets? How about my toys? Those were favorite subjects for many rolls of film. Should I just include family members? So, I don't know for sure. I've eliminated most of the pet pictures, nearly all of the toy portraits, most of the old boyfriends, and repetitive scenery shots of the mountains. I kept anything that gave me good memories, even tucking some extra pictures behind the ones I chose for the album. I tried to keep at least one of each important man in my life. Some I wish I had more of.

So, as I relabel the mislabeled Christmas pictures and re-travel the well-worn path down memory lane (I live in the past, and often the future too. I'm working on that whole now thing.), I'm trying to put my life in perspective. I know my children grew up too fast, and I couldn't grow up fast enough (although I grew out quite rapidly), and I find I don't hate my sister quite so much now.

What pictures do I keep? The ones that mean something and the ones that show the history of my time. The ones with the people and the places that I love.

Oh, and, I'm still searching for 1999.

For my daughters, with love 5-29-08

They don't get it.
They are far too young.
They need age and experience
Behind them
To understand.

Unfortunately
They must get burned,
Cry a thousand tears,
Wallow in a dark cave of utter despair,
And pull themselves together
Piece by piece,
Never suspecting
The end product
Would be a stranger.

The final goal
To find themselves,
Looking for lost youth
In between motherhood
And old age.
And if the universe smiles,
They might find more
In the spaces and stillness,
In the pause from adventure
When they take the time
To just breath.

-K

A moment

Still reading..."Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. Wonderful. I may be getting it, finally. I tried meditating while holding Babyboy, who was asleep. I felt a connection to something. It felt like there was an energy running through me. And I realized this "thing," be it God, or connection to our own spirit, our soul, it will be different for everyone. The awakening will fit each person. I can never expect R to see things in the same light that I do. It is impossible. I cannot force his awakening, although I can nudge him by suggesting books on that path.

I have been contemplative lately, wanting to write, but not sure what. I have been writing in my journal, remember that good old paper thing--so old fashioned. I love the feel of the pen, the look of the ink, how the white space fills up with my thoughts. Is writing like talking to spirit? Talking to self. I have used it as a form of communication with my self. Who is the reader, the writer?

I think art is a form of communication also. I certainly feel connected to something when I paint.

And we got the dining table set up. R and teenage girl worked on that together. Something about earning money for a haircut. It looks nice in our old house. I'm glad we kept it.

The birthday bbq was a success. Only family. Awkward with my mother and sister, but not too bad. Everyone got along and seemed to be content, if not happy.

We didn't get approved for a loan. No new house. Not yet. Maybe next year. But we have been working on the landscaping of or old Victorian. R has gone crazy on plants, spending a small fortune. We have been putting in a lot of xeric plants that should do well in our climate. That is the plan. The yard is looking nice. Babygirl follows me around with her shoes until I help her put them on so she can run around outside. I enjoy wandering around the yard just looking at the plants. We bought a patio table, but the squirrels are eating the cushions on the furniture. Or, they are shredding the pillows, pulling out the stuffing and running off with it to build posh squirrel nests. I'm developing a strong dislike towards the cute little woodland creatures.

Oh, times up...here's the little one now with her shoes and jacket.