Foos admiring a terrarium by my personal succulent whisperer, Stephanie, of Sunshine Succulents. Can you spot the Bigfoot hanging out in there? Unfortunately these will not stay with me forever, they are center pieces for her upcoming wedding. Our apartment is basically a box with a million widows = we make good foster parents for her succulent babies. These terrariums test my impulse to want to water the shit out of all of my plants daily, so having them around is almost meditative. Plans to go see Kubo and the Two Strings were aborted, so I’m off to making calzones with pizza dough well past its sell by date, and to bake the obligatory pumpkin muffins, because, autumn (these!).
We had a great weekend! Sleepovers, good weather, the springs! Happy our home is one the kids & their friends like to spend time in, and grateful I get to spend my days with these people. These are things I need to better at remembering.
Foos is feeling better, life is humming, our children are dreamboats. I have recently reconnected with my maternal family, many miles, half-siblings, and borders away. It has given me a lot to think about, and on the whole, made me happier/gloomier than usual. But my life, my day to day, remains the same. There is a disconnect between the world in my head, and the world which I touch with my hands. We have a wall of windows in the dining room, and every plant in that room, thrives, grows, multiplies. I want to be that wall.
This weekend we piled everyone in the car, including the dog, and drove south to Sarasota, to see Grandma, Pepaw, and the gulf. Seth and I snuck away for a date to the Selby Botanical Gardens, which were excellent and merit a second visit. The kids spent most of the time at the pool, where any trace of Foos’ paternal wasp roots were overcome by a conspiracy between the sun and her mother’s caribbean melanin. I loved it. We took a backwoods way back home, which made me nervous. For reasons I cannot explain, I feel ill at ease in America’s open spaces. The barns and depressed towns don’t conjure up any feeling of nostalgia or even beauty, only of mild panic and fear. Seeing a Trump sign for the first time displayed proudly on somebody’s lawn, didn’t make it any better. It may as well have said “I hate gays, women, and people of color.” But we made it back to our nest safely, and I’m sure the only memories which will remain of the visit are of family and love.