artists @ work...

Woody had to work today so we had to enjoy our Saturday without him. This use to be so daunting when OM were younger, the idea of spending another day without Woody's help. But now that they're older and can say, paint, while I pull weeds it's no big whoop. We did involve him somewhat by bringing him lunch (from Burgerville: if you live in the Pacific  NW I highly recommend the rosemary shoestring french fries...y-u-m-m-y!) and playing Hide-and-go-seek in his office. 

After naps we spent some time in the sol:

Maya called her painting, 'mommy running.'

Owen's is called, 'wolverine.'

We admired our flowers:

And they did some sprints...

Back to painting...this is another 'wolverine' (see his claws?) by Owen.

Maya decided to play with moon sand in the garage-play-area.

Owen is pointing to what will soon be the most beeeeautiful flower ever (although I'm also partial to pink tulips, hydrangea, orchids, crocus and daffodils):

Peonies! Can't wait.

And I love this poem by Mary Oliver about peonies (and life)...

Peonies by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises, 
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open ---
pools of lace, 
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them, 

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls, 
craving the sweet sap, 
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind, 
as in a dance to the great wedding, 

the flowers bend their bright bodies, 
and tip their fragrance to the air, 
and rise, 
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness 
gladly and lightly, 
and there it is again --- 
beauty the brave, the exemplary, 

blazing open. 
Do you love this world? 
Do you cherish your humble and silky life? 
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? 

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, 
and softly, 
and exclaiming of their dearness, 
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, 

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, 
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?