meeting the edge

I sink low, hips to the floor. I breathe but I'm having trouble finding softness here – my muscles remain wrapped tightly around my bones. They're stubborn, and staying here requires more will than I was prepared to bring to my mat today. 

That's enough.

I rise out of this deep hip opener and adjust my stance to work the other side. I meet the same tightness. The same resistance. But this time I stay longer, breathing deeper. I don't find comfort but I try harder to embrace my edge rather than backing off so quickly.

It's small, but I feel some space on this side, and into that extra room walks a yogic adage I've heard more than once: The pose begins when you want to leave it.

And how quickly I usually leave.

Whenever there's work to be done – muscles to soften, hearts to open, minds to quiet and fill with peace – we will meet resistance. But overcoming that resistance my not be as hard as the first step – the real step: acknowledging the edge, the limit, the resistance, the tightness, the pain that we've found and committing to stay with it. Not run from it.

Each day presents edges.

I'm sure you know all about mine. I go on about them enough here.

The big, glaring one, the one that pulses red and oozes an unpleasant pus – is my frustration. It usually surfaces when I'm trying to navigate one storm and another crops up: Eliza careens into a tantrum while I'm dealing with a Ruthie who won't nap or Claire starts talking back while I'm trying to get us out the door or the kids start fighting in the car while traffic is bad or I'm trying to make dinner and John is held up at work and Ruthie is crawling towards the dog food and the top of the stairs and there's just too much noise in the house. Suddenly my voice is up a notch and my words snap and sting and all my grace and composure leaks out in the steam pouring from my ears.

Later, I'm disgusted with myself. I vow to slam the door in Frustration's face next time.

Next time comes and I might shove the door mostly shut but Frustration usually comes in anyway, seeping through the cracks.

It's too hard. It's the way I am. That's enough.

I throw up my hands and walk away.

But what if next time Frustration knocks, I open the door wide and let him in? Greet him politely? What if I invite him for tea and let him use my favorite cup? What if I let myself feel the frustration but work to look it in the eye, acknowledge it for what it is, name it, hold it…and stay with it until it somehow softens?

No one has an easy life. Whether you work or stay at home, whether you're a man or a woman, whether you're battling something or just trying to make it through the day, you meet your own edges. And compared to so many, I have nothing to complain about. But I don't think my fuse was meant to be this short. I think I deserve more peace than what I'm creating for myself. So maybe I'm spouting a bunch of idealistic, too-optimistic crap here. But I believe the truth in that yogic adage and that whatever moment I'm in really begins when I want to be done with it.

So come on in Frustration. I'll meet you differently this time.

[Do you have an edge, dear reader? Tell me, how do you meet it?]

i can read

Last night, you handed me The Fire Engine Book to read as your bedtime story. You turned the last page right before I sat down – you already read it yourself but you wanted to listen again. 

My voice traced the words, old grooves in my memory from reading this one hundreds of times to a much younger you. I smiled inwardly as I read the line, the one you always completed on cue with your mispronunciations. You don't react to this page now – you've long forgotten that simple anticipation – though I wouldn't be surprised if the memory is plastered somewhere in your mind, a hazy picture but still up on your wall. You remember everything.

Here's something I'll remember:

Yesterday, we went to the park. You brought along your book. Your chapter book. Not one of those I Can Read books meant for kids your age, but the 80 page mini-novel you had been burning through all day. You couldn't put it down so you curled up in the crawl-through tunnel at the top of the play structure, completely untempted by your sister's games. You finally turned the last page on our drive home and couldn't wait to start the next book in the series.

I thought of myself as a child, toting books to family gatherings, reading instead of doing chores, staying up too late following my beloved Ramona or lost in Narnia or touring Charlie's Chocolate Factory. So many worlds await you, and you haven't even walked through the doors of your first Kindergarten classroom yet. I think you're going to love the school library as much as I did.

This morning, you're up earlier than your sisters. You snuggle next to me on the couch, reading another book. You don't need me to walk you through the pages – you've found the adventure all on your own and I can feel the pride and independence buzzing under your skin when you wonder aloud what's going to happen next.

I can't wait to talk Harry Potter with you. 

more...

Your voice is for so much more than crying...

 

You can get into so much more now that you crawl so fast...

You can see so much more now that you can stand...

Your circle of safe people is wider with more faces you recognize and love...

For you, there's nothing more than the present moment...

And me? I can't wait for more...

fishing

A keeper! A keeper! He caught a keeper!

All the kids rush the pier and crowd around the hero fisherman who pulled in the gigantic bass. I'm the only one who doesn't move. I can see it fine from here, and that's as close as I want to get to the silvery green body, arcing in the air, flailing against death.

I love the lake and the waves and the breeze and the boat. But I don't like fishing – grabbing monsters by the mouth and hauling them up into the light where I'd have to deal with the weight of whatever was hooked. Better to let those things swim unseen in the underwater underworld where they belong. Silent in the murky water, snaking through forests of weeds, trapped in a finite space by a see-through Pandora's lid.

Yes, I'm afraid of fish. The kids think this is funny but I explain that the way I feel in close proximity to a fish – the unpredictable flopping, the beady black eyes, the mouth that isn't used for breathing – is the same way they feel about the spiders they shriek for me to sweep away or the shadows they fear on the bedroom wall. For some people, fish are beautiful. They're food, they're sport, they're a fascinating link in the circle of life. I can agree with all that from behind aquarium glass or through the pages of a book. But dangle a fish near me or put a pole in my hands or throw me in the lake to swim – and watch me squirm. Maybe even scream.

Like the time I plunged into the ocean wearing a snorkel mask, convinced I could breathe through my fear and find some bravery. I was with my Americorps team in the Florida Keys, and when would I be back there again? I followed my teammates off the ladder and treaded water for a minute to get my bearings. Then I submerged my face and what I saw nearly drowned me. Fish. Everywhere. Bright colored and beautiful – but only a body's length below me. I forgot how to breathe and what the snorkel was for. Sputtering, gasping, I lifted my face and floated on fear. I only lasted a few more minutes before I retreated to the boat. Everyone else was disappointed by the cloudy water quality, but the few fish I saw were experience enough for me. When the group went out again on a clearer day, I opted to canoe in the mangroves instead. A good choice because they could talk of nothing but the five barracudas they saw…

It's a silly, irrational fear. I know. But harmless enough. As far as phobias go, this one isn't debilitating or even particularly limiting.

But fishing presents an interesting parallel, a metaphor I must unwrap.

Let's talk about surfaces and depths and dragging things into the light that we don't want to see. Things that we'd rather leave alone, let swim in the deeps where they're unseen and easily forgotten. Moments we're not proud of. Thoughts that bubble up no matter how firmly we push them down. Ugly faces we parade in front of the people we love.

When I cast my line into the deep parts of myself, there are a number of big ones I could reel in. Monsters that have been growing hungrily my whole life and could stand to be pulled out and clubbed over the head.

Like the way I'm sorry always sticks in my throat, caught and choking on being right. The way I respond to criticism like it's a full blown, spear thrown attack. The way I wear my bad moods like a rain cloud, drenching and growling at those in my closest circle. The way I let my self confidence drain out with the bath water and sit there naked and shivering. The way I cradle self pity. The way I judge.

There are others, I'm sure. Ones I can't even see clearly enough to name.

But they're not all ugly. There are some brilliant colors down there, too. Like creativity and kindness and crystal clear intentions. Grace and gratitude and gifts I've yet to give. And love. Love pulsing through everything. There are angelfish swimming alongside my muskies.

And here's the really cool part of this metaphor: I'm not just looking at these fish – all these dark and light parts of myself – swimming around in some glass bowl. No, they exist in the unique ecosystem that is me and stuff is evolving all the time. So when I cast into myself – you know, do a little soul searching – I always catch and release. I toss the pretty ones back to grow more and populate my waters. And the scary ones? I'm figuring out ways to scrape off some of the gross scales and replace them with bits of iridescent blues and brilliant pinks, hoping to transform my ugliest faults into breathtaking creatures of the deeps.

bike lesson

Spin – click. Spin – click. Spin – click. 

What the hell?
 
I dismount my bike and look closely at chain, wheel, pedals. Is something catching? Out of alignment? I can't tell and the deer flies have already found me. They're ruthless and equipped with flesh-seeking fangs, so with a quick leg up, I'm spinning again on this ribbon of pavement curling through the woods. 

Spin – click. Spin – click. Spin – click. 

It's there with every pedal stroke. It distracts me. Annoys me. But like it or not it's coming with me and I'll just have to deal. So I focus on the hill ahead and pulling up not just pushing down and the sound of my breath in my ears. I remind myself to melt my shoulder blades down my back and to draw in my core and fully fill my lungs.


The clicking fades to my periphery, diluted as I open to all the scenery and sensations waiting to be noticed.
Five minutes elapse and suddenly the sound is at center stage again, shooting right through me. But I shove it into the wings as I scan the woods and take a drink and lengthen my neck and blow some snot.

The clicking continues to bubble to the top of my consciousness at random intervals, but I get so good at shifting my awareness that it takes nothing from my ride.

This letting go takes practice, I find. I lack the natural ability to easily refocus my attention once it's gotten snagged and reeled in by some menial irritation. And there are a million little things that can do it, that can seep through my floorboards, flood my mind, and fill me with unnecessary frustration: The particular timbre of whiney voices. Giggling in the bathroom while the baby naps on the other side of that thin wall. Toys on the kitchen table. Car keys misplaced when one foot's already out the door. Can I have more before I've even lifted my fork. Chaos when I'm craving calm. Mouth-open chewing and guzzle-slurp drinking. A rough night punctuated by a premature dawn. Insistent persistence when I've already said no. A slow, slow pace when the endpoint is so near. Tattling. Crabbing and commotion while I'm trying to cook dinner. Kids who still need something after goodnight.

I tune into these insignificant clickings and they sound so loud in my ears. So distracting. So annoying. And suddenly I'm not enjoying right now at all because all my spotlights are trained on the one thing I'm cupping in my palm and the heat is burning my skin. I hate my frustration and fairly short fuse. It's not something I want to model to my children.

So I'm taking this lesson straight off the bike. I'll acknowledge the day's clickings and admit my irritation. But I'll widen my gaze and notice all the other details that make up that moment:

The scent of garlic still on my fingers. Weeds carefully saved in a table-top drinking glass. Somewhere Over the Rainbow sung unselfconsciously off key. A burst of soapy mint when I wash my hands. Big eyes watching me. Sunlight dripping down the wall. Cold kitchen tile under too-warm feet. Onesies flapping on the laundry line. The same breeze fingering the curtains. The moon, visible in the daytime sky. Lungs thick with breath, veins fat with blood.

All this is here, too. All the time. Treefruits mine for the taking. Golden apples bound to sweeten my mood.
And with practice, perhaps I can retrain my mind to hear but not fixate upon whatever it is that's clicking.

[And though I'm grateful for this lesson, I'm still going to ask John to fix whatever is out of whack on my bike…] 

at the pier

I'm standing at the end of the pier. It feels new, even though we've been here nearly a week. 

I used to stand here a lot, in years past. Before kids. Before so many kids. 

I'd watch the water, thinking about nothing and noticing everything – the curious optical illusion created over a mostly still lake, where slight waves moved toward shore and away at the same time. I could search for the divide forever. Or I'd listen to hissing rain strike the surface like so many small silver bells. Or track the loon's progress across the bay. 

Sometimes I'd sit here and read a book, lost in a story for hours. 

I'd even roll out my yoga mat here, saluting the sun as it set, all pink and gold and purple, sliding out of the sky and into my heart. 

But this year I've only come to pier's end a couple times – to check out a kid's fishing catch or help someone into the boat. I could have made more time to just be here. But I guess I kind of forgot. 

Forgot how big the lake feels when I'm out over it without trees or shoreline telling the corners of my eyes that I'm on solid ground. Forgot how silent the world feels with only the sound of the wind whistling over my ears and the water slapping the sides of the fishing boat and the frogs gulping from the other side of the lake. 

I can't believe how busy I've allowed myself to feel. Here, where our whole point is to do nothing. 

My mind hasn't been still yet. Its been turning dutifully around worries and ideas, pushing hard against the fog of too-little sleep and scrambling with spinning wheels against resulting low moods.

And for a bit there, I couldn't stop thinking about my hair. 

My thoughts were tangled in my own tresses, highlighted and growing out. I twisted my doubts around my fingers, stuck on right thing and brave enough.
 
But right now, I'm standing here at the end of the pier, that decision behind me. It's 10pm and really quiet with no kids shouting their joy to the world. A neighboring cabin-goer pulls into the drive, car headlights momentarily illuminating the lake. The scene looks like a photograph negative, all opposites. I can see stuff I shouldn't. My mind drifts over what I said. 

Kim, I know you're not self conscious about your hair, but if it was me, I'd want one of my sisters to do this.
 
I took off my hat. Nervous that she'd be offended or weirded out or take it the wrong way. 

But her hug told me she understood my point. That I'm saying I love you and I support you and you're beautiful and brave and I want to teach that to my children the way you're teaching yours and all the rest of us. 

 
[I'm on the left. Hard to recognize?] 

I'm so glad we have another week here. Another week to rest and watch the kids run and realize again that this place is home and therapy and heaven and common ground and a thread that ties us all together.

And this week, I'm promising myself to let go. Unknit my brows. Quiet my mind.  

And stand here at the end of the pier. Even if it only happens at 10pm. 

wildfire.

Middle one. Handful. Emotions fill you to the brim, quivering at the lip of your cup. They spill over and I try to mop up the mess but you're like an open tap. 

Mama, can you build me this Lego house? You've been asking all morning. 

Sure, I can, now that Ruthie is napping.
 
I sit on the floor and look at the instruction booklet, open to a heavily creased page. Your heart is set, anticipating. But it's just a picture – no step-by-step for this one. And lunch is looming and dishes are waiting and I have neither time nor head space to improv this design. To be honest, I've never been good at building.

I can't do it, sweetie. I'm sorry. I explain all the strikes against me. But the edge creeps into your voice.

I try to bargain. A different house? The one on that page, the one with instructions?

No. You're up another notch.

I try to reason, explaining that if you want lunch sometime soon, I have to make it now.

No.

I know where this is going. I'm grasping at a rock wall that's shedding pebbles and threatening an avalanche. I try one last ditch effort, tossing a bucket dripping with hope at your smoldering fire.

Maybe Daddy can try when he gets home?

No!!! [Exclamation points are not sufficient here – is there punctuation mark that exudes whining and anger and disappointment and demands?]

I knew it wouldn't work. Your eyes are too fixated on your desires and you can't see me at the end of the tunnel, cupping points of light in my outstretched hands – reason, compromise, patience. The darkness of no crushes you, a freight train only you can feel.

You ignite.

And the tantrum lasts though lunch until you finally burn out and your silly, laughing, scheming self peeks out from under the wreckage of puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

In the space of time between here and your next breath, you forget all about that Lego house and the fit and the fire that raged through the hour. But I can't. I'm charred to a crisp, burned down and burned out from walking through the flames with you.

My stomach is stuffed full of hot coals, smoldering over what I should have said or done differently, how I could have reached out with the right strain of compassion to pull you away from your disappointment and hurt.

I'm bothered all day. Feeling kind of mad at you but mostly at myself for what I lack in patience and the steel skin to let this roll off of me. But I know that this is just you being three and middle and owner of all the spit and fire and wild emotions that make you you.

***

The day is done. You're in bed, nestled between blankets and stuffed snakes, eyes half masted and so near sleep. I say goodnight and you mumble I love you and we've both let whatever weighed us down before melt away into this soft darkness. Tomorrow will dawn quiet and spacious and we'll fill the new day up with different bricks and noises, immersed in the business and beauty of being. 

quiet.

The house is silent. They're finally asleep.

I step outside to retrieve a few rogue items from the laundry line before it rains – still-damp swimming suits that shiver sand when I shake them, towels slung up without clothespins. There's a pair of shoes in the grass.

It's darker than a usual 8:30 because the clouds cover the sun's final salutations. The wind is kicking up, rifling through my hair but I don't know how it can possibly press through all this humidity.

A kickball jostles in the grass, threatening to roll down the driveway when the storm says hello. The cartoon characters printed on the ball's face smile at me plasticly and those huge, unseeing eyes somehow sear through my skin. I pick up the ball and tuck it close to the house. Safe. Though I'm certain neither of the girls would miss it if it ran away.

Inside the house, I gather up the remains of the day – bedtime books left on the couch, a stuffed animal on the kitchen table, baby toys trailing like tell-tale crumbs around the house. And a doll lying facedown on the living room carpet. She breaks my heart for some reason, positioned like that. I reorient her gently in the toy basket, face up. On top. So she can breathe? I'm not sure why.

Everything is cleaned up, set up for a new day.

The silence – such a unicorn during the day I sometimes want to scream – suddenly presses on my throat, heavy with a far away sadness that I can't quite name.

I sit on the cleared-off couch and close my eyes for a second. There's nothing I have to do. It feels weird.

The baby's sleep-heavy cry startles me – she's so loud, instantly. I go into her room. She's sitting up in her crib and rubbing her eyes. I gather her up and she fits snugly in the crook of my arm. Her eyes flutter closed. She absently strokes my arm as sleep washes over her again.

It's so quiet.

And then it begins to rain.

Dear John,

To say I was a nonchalant bride-to-be would understate reality. I'm sure you remember that.

It's not that I wasn't excited about the day – I had been dreaming about it with increasing degrees of certainty since we were 17 years old.

It's just that I didn't particularly care about the details. I mean, I wanted nice flowers and good food and a flattering dress – you know, one that stayed put during vows, dinner, and dancing.

And the dress had fit in the store, perfectly. So no need for alternations, no need to try it on again. But then on Big Day Morning, I put it on before church just to be sure and – oh no – there was something seriously amiss. Had my boobs shrunk? [Was that even possible?] But no matter what we stuffed in it or which fancy bra I put on, it was clear that this strapless dress would slowly shimmy downward unless I stood still through everything. I mean, I was looking forward to taking it off and all, but I needed to get through the day first. Clothed.

Some freaking out commenced.

And then Becky's mom came over and she did something magical with a needle and thread and – poof! – everything was as it should be.

So I got dressed at the church, and when everything was cinched up tight, all the ladies left my dressing room and I waited for you. My heart pounded unexpectedly – why was I so nervous? And then you walked in the room and I don't remember what we said but I can still touch that feeling of home that washed over me.
The chaos and giddy stress of the morning melted right then and we walked through the day floating on all the promises of love and new life.

***

It's nearly seven years later.

Dinner sizzles on the stovetop and I'm alternating between chopping onions and rushing to save the baby from certain death. I told you earlier I didn't want to do this part of the day alone. I'm tired. Really tired. But its almost five o'clock and you're still not home. And I'm past my edge. Angry at you.

You walk in, finally. Helmet unhooked, sweat glistening, exhilaration still clinging to your skin. Something curt and heavy passes between my lips – not even a hello.

I'm sorry. I went farther than I meant to.

I turn back to the duties of dinner, holding my grudge between clenched teeth.

But you cut up the watermelon and refill the milk glasses and make the kids laugh and wash the dishes and glide over my bad mood like it doesn't have tentacles and hooks that are trying to drag you down. 

I can't stay mad, even though I try. Eventually, I soften.

***

Today I go out for a bike ride of my own on the route you recommend. I'm staring up at the hills you promised would meet me here. Mountains, I mutter. But I like the challenge. And it's nothing me and my granny gear can't handle. I creak slowly up the incline and my bike even sounds kind of arthritic until I make it to the top – kidding! – where the road just flattens and then goes up even more.

At the top – for real this time – I celebrate inwardly as I anticipate the fast decent. I tuck in my elbows and glance down – 36mph. You'd be going faster, but I know you'd wait for me at the bottom, coasting while I'd pedal to catch up.

But you're home with the kids while I'm out here alone. I think about you the whole time. And my bliss meets yours on these roads where I find speed and exertion and sun and silence and beautiful scenery.

And then I'm back and I walk through the door and you know exactly where I've been and what I saw and how I felt because you've been there too and wanted to wrap it all up and give it to me. And all I can say is thank you and offer you this in return and put my hand in yours and say here's to seven times seven more years. 

And then you go out for your ride and come back a little bit late but this time I don't really mind.

Happy Anniversary, John. I love you. 

Strong One

I didn't realize I had walked through it until I felt it on my arm. The thin, sticky, hair-like strand stretched and finally surrendered like a finish line ribbon around the winner's waist. I turned just in time to see a smallish spider reeling herself back into the web, her night's work undone by my forward motion. But I know who she is, this eight-legged spinstress – she'll get that web restrung.

***

Sometimes shit walks right through our lives and blasts a rocket-sized hole in all that fragile stuff we wish was permanent. And then what? What do we do? Stare at the hole and watch everything slackening around it, eyes filled up and brimming with why me and fuck this and I give up? Let those emotions sap and stun and paralyze?

I probably would.

But not Kim.

She's staring down cancer treatment for the third time, this beloved sister in-law of mine (scratch in-law – I love her so much she's blood). But she's not letting this thing walk all over her.

No.

She's got on her ass-kicking boots – black, heavy-duty, steel toed. Maybe her hands are shaking a little as she laces them up, but her fight is fueled strong by her faith and her will and her passion and her kids and her husband and parents and brothers (and sisters!) and friends.

She's taking ugly, good-for-nothing Cancer firmly by the ears and evicting it from her body and her life. And then she'll artfully knit over the torn places, colorful and beautiful and new.

You can do it, Kim.

We're all praying for you.

I love you.

sunday ride

His top is down and his gray hair blows in the wind. I really like his car.

My hair is blowing too, but I'm going 15 in a 55. He passes me like I'm standing still, giving me a ridiculously wide berth like he doesn't trust my commitment to this straight line.

Maybe he's right to be so cautious – there's a wind coming out of the east that's trying hard as Hades to knock me off my bike. But I'm holding my own, moving forward, making my own breeze that rushes like an ocean in my ears.

I watch his car shrink and I squint after him, narrowing my eyes because the sun is so bright – for once not because sleep weighs heavy on my lids. Maybe I'm spending this extra energy with heady ambition – my tank will be so empty when I get home – but it feels good to move this fast. The mottled pavement beneath my front wheel blurs by in a dizzying pattern. My feet trace rapid circles and my lungs move like bellows to extend breath and life to all my edges.

I'm sure Convertible Guy is enjoying his Sunday drive, out here where 10 minutes replaces rows of houses with rows of corn and sings silence if you slow to a stop. But I smile the grimace of the grind off my face and inwardly brag that I'm enjoying mine even more: earning imagined merit badges for this stream of sweat and consciousness, for baking the winter white off my skin, for cresting these hills –heaving heavily but Here. Here. Here.

leashed

The rabbit darts across the path, a streak of gray, practically right under her nose. 

She lunges to follow but the leash ends right then and the tension snaps her into a stumble-roll-stand maneuver that shakes the scent from her nose. 

We continue walking, rabbit behind us and maybe forgotten. 

Moments later a patch of grass distracts her and she stops. What stood here? Peed here? Where is it now? She roots with her nose while I continue walking, pace unbroken. The leash unravels until it pulls taut and she gets the message that I'm not going to stop. She trots ahead again as far as the leash will let her, adjusting her pace to match mine. 

Our dog lives a purpose driven life – she exists to walk and she spends her days hoping for, begging for, and anticipating her next walk. If she could talk, I think she'd ask to go without the leash, though – Can I run ahead, Mom? Please? I'll be good! I won't get lost! I'll stay close! Puuhhleeaaaase? As much as I know she'd love to run free, it would only take one squirrel before she'd dart off: out of sight, out of reach, and out of our lives. 

And though the leash is what holds her back, keeps her from chasing all of her dreams, it is the object of all her desires. She checks on her leash multiple times a day, verifying that it's still on the hook but hoping that it's in someone's hand. When someone does take it down, she runs in circles, whining and yipping in excitement. The leash limits her, but it lets her out of the house.
***
I'm going to be honest here – some days, I feel tied up and held back, too. Like there are rabbits darting under my nose but I can't chase them. Stifled. Stymied. Stuck. And in my least shining moments, I wax ungrateful and start blaming this life. 

The kids woke up too early and interrupted my yoga time. The baby wouldn't go to bed last night and I had to start work when my eyes were ready to close. Multiple midnight wakings left me too tired to write. Tantrums and talking back tied up my muse and sapped her into silence. I want to run and bike but the time just isn't there. This life is too busy, too loud, too chaotic. If only kids would sleep a little later and a little better, if only we had a little more money and I could work a little less, if only we lived a little closer to family and I could rely on their help to create a little structured writing time, if only if only if only…just a little different…just a little… 

But I know a different lake always looks bluer from afar – altered circumstances would be far from freeing. There's a leash in everyone's life. We're held back by money and health and a million other things. [Right?] 

And you must know I love my life. I love my kids. Deeply. Even if sometimes they feel like a leash. [And maybe, sometimes, you feel this way about your life, too?] 

So lately, I'm practicing that stumble-roll-stand maneuver I learned from the dog: when I bolt after something but reality jerks me back, when I stop to sniff something really interesting but the day drags me ever forward, I'm working to shake it off and adjust my pace and my expectations. And I'm working to honor my limits as the actual vehicles of my freedom – without the kids, I'm not sure I would have ever needed the quiet space in my life for yoga. Without a 9-5 job and career goals to pursue, I don't think I would have started searching for my voice and my identity through writing. 

I belong here. In this life. I am linked body and soul to all my limits and freedoms. I can either embrace everything and run excited circles around every piece of it, or I can pull so hard against it all that I break in half. The choice is mine. Every day. 

all over the place

This week, I went for a run for the first time in probably three years. I also took my road bike for a spin – its tires hadn't kissed the road since before I was pregnant with Ruthie.

I met up with some sensations and muscles that I had forgotten all about. It felt good to move. It also felt good to stop.

Then, I started thinking seriously about whether and when I might attend Yoga Teacher Training. The prospect makes my soul quiver and dance. I want to start right now, but does it fit?

I've also been thinking more about my book and when it might materialize. I need to nail down and pin up some specific writing goals.

So I'm looking at some decisions: what do I want to focus on? Where do I want to invest my time? Maybe I should just figure out a way to sleep for a week.

So in an effort to distract myself and make no progress whatsoever, I decided to write a story. I have trouble falling asleep anyway, and fiction is such a lovely escape. You'll read it, won't you? Come away with me.

 

At the Water

Lena dropped her carry-on bag heavily on the hardwood floor of the new bedroom. The echoy thunk slapped her ears like a door slam—audible regret. Shoot, I hope I didn't just break my iPod. She scanned the empty room quickly. The pink paint would have to go, of course, but she had to admit she liked the sloped ceiling and the alcove around the window. She could easily imagine her bed against that wall and just the right antiquey desk under the window. I can do this, she thought.

She dug in her bag for her keys. Dad had driven her car down here last month when he came to close on the house while Lena stayed back to finish the school year. He had already been working at the new clinic for a couple weeks by the time she arrived. His dress shirts hung crisply in his closet, which was half the size of the one at their old house. Mom wouldn't have approved.

This will be good for us, Dad had insisted the night he left. A fresh start. Lena nodded and put up her smile like the white flag she was so used to flying. He drove straight through the night. I'd rather see Chicago at midnight than at any other time, he had joked as he poured a tall thermos of coffee.

So he was gone when Lena had padded down the moss-covered steps built into the side of the hill that led to the pier. He was too far away to see the glinting bit of gold she carried in her half-curled palm. Lena had stood on the pier a moment, feeling the slats bend as she shifted her weight from heels to toes, hesitating before she drew back her arm and pitched the ring far out into the lake. The tiny sploosh had surprised her – it had been such a dead weight hanging from her mind that she half expected it to kick up a tidal wave.

But the concentric circles spreading from that tiny ground zero faded quickly and that was it. The ring was gone. For a second, Lena thought she might dive in after it. But a single look at the lake's algae-covered surface sealed the deal in her heart. She hadn't yet decided if she had given her mother's high school class ring to the lake as an offering or as a bribe, but it certainly finalized things. She would move on. Depression and suicide are not contagious. Lena knew that above all else.

She relied on friends to ferry her to school and finally the airport. It wasn't very hard to say goodbye – her inner hedges had grown tall in the past year, fertilized by the tragedy that had eclipsed her so completely. Only her ragged edges could be touched by anyone.

The house had sold in an instant—it was valuable lakefront property, located just a day's drive from the Illinois-Wisconsin border. The new owners would just vacation here in the summer. They wouldn't know the scenery of sadness that winter could bring on and they would never see the white bathtub streaked with a watery red in their dreams. She hoped their kitchen table would be round rather than rectangular – that room had seen too many sharp corners and dividing edges.

From outside, the new house looked like it was either half awake or half asleep – Lena couldn't decide which. Its two bedrooms featured street-facing gabled windows that stared down at her with raised eyebrows and heavy lids as she sidled up to her car, keys in hand. She squinted in the sun and wondered if she would ever get used to the smell. She fingered her long ponytail and absently brushed it under her nose, half expecting that the blond strands had already absorbed the smell of low tide. The lake seemed to occupy another universe – a place where evergreens created perpetual yard shade and only the stillest afternoons smelled mildly dank and fishy. It was hard to inhale completely here.

Lena sat in the driver's seat and typed her destination into the GPS. It wasn't too far – 15 minutes and she'd be at the water. She felt guarded, though – the Atlantic seemed too big to offer anything more than anonymity. She didn't expect to call the South Carolina coast home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

When she got off the highway, Lena parked on a residential street, a block from a public access point. She stopped at the corner board shop for some sunglasses and the screened windows all stood open to the ocean breeze. She could breathe better here.

She crossed the empty street and strode across the boardwalk and down the steps to the beach, focusing on her feet and the countless divots in the sand. So many others had walked here first. She didn't look up. She didn't want to see the horizon and know that the ocean went on practically forever until it finally touched the sky. It was too much.

She kicked off her shoes in the dry sand so she could feel the wet, compact shoreline under her bare feet. She looked back and felt comforted by the footprints trailing behind her – they marched forward confidently and without a trace of hesitation, and it was impossible to identify exactly where they began. Her eyes swept the sand, fiddling over the shells and stones that piqued her gaze – and then – the sun reflected sharply off an object on the ground and burned a transitory spot into her vision. Probably just a bottle top. People never think twice about throwing trash at the water, like it will just dissolve.

But wait – no – Lena picked up the object and held it in her palm. Waves crashed in her ears. It was a solid band of silver: smooth, unmarked, unadorned. She wiggled it over the knuckle of her left thumb. Snug, still hot from the sun.

A few more steps and the waves could lick her toes. Lena knelt and submerged her hands in the water. The water crawled up her arms – a cooling touch. The ring caught the sunlight again and she raised her face to the horizon.

Suddenly Lena felt like she was stiffly shaking hands with a dear friend. She stood, and without thinking about clothes or keys, she plunged into the water and danced in the waves, buoyed and light.

 

bad mood

I'm standing outside when it hits. 

Its not like I don't see it coming. All the signs are there – the blackening sky, the increasingly insistent wind, the head-under-water humidity, the sky that's starting to speak. But I just watch. Passive. Waiting. 

I shiver as the first drops find me. I know what to expect now – this thing is not going to break up – but still I'm rooted to this spot. 

The distant rumblings are closer and distinct and my fibers fixate on the space between heat and vibration. Lightning and thunder. The storm moves closer. 

The fat, pregnant drops multiply in mid-air, birthing small wet clones – now covering all the dry spots on the driveway, now dotting and drenching my extremities, limbs, core. The sky is crying into my hair and the tears catch in my lashes, soaking me deeply. I am inundated, not sipping but guzzling the sadness that feeds me in ways the sunny days can't. 

The wind really whips now, but I'm committed to this spot. The sheering forces do what they want to me, trying to break me in half, but I know their strength. I've seen storms like this before and I've never lost a limb.

Then across an ocean of minutes or maybe years –what is time?—the storm slackens and stops. But there's nitrogen in my lungs and I'm starting to feel the sun and my sap is coursing in an inner river. 

I've weathered another storm – I'm still here. And my leaves feel a shade greener. 

Bad mood? Maybe. Or perhaps just an inevitability – terrible in its own way, but beautiful, too. 

build up

Lately, I've been letting myself go.

It's not that I'm lazy or lack self pride – I just don't like to shower every day.

And the reason is this: I love the extra light, audibly squeaky clean feeling of lathering up and rinsing off more than one layer of yesterday.

It's a feeling I wish I could bottle and sell but is so refreshingly easy to recreate – so I do.

Of course, I enjoy the unique perks associated with at-home work, so I live by no dress codes or real expectations of presentability. Some weeks, I do find my way to a daily shower, but somewhere in there I'll slip in an off day, just to grip my routine by the ears, shake it up a little, and really love my shower.

It's a lot like when white noise accumulates and blends into my consciousness: the refrigerator runs, computer fan spins, neighboring lawn mowers duel. Then, one by one, each noise shuts off. I reunite with silence and feel like I could roll around in it, it's that good.

Or like in our kitchen – we have a fairly small space, and our table hulks up a lot of the room. The past two weekends we've had visitors, so we kept in the extra leaf. When we finally took it out and reduced the table to its usual footprint, the kitchen felt blissfully large. I'm still noticing it every time I walk through the space.

I like conscious accumulation because the world seems so new when I finally wipe it away. [Hm…is this finally a philosophical reason to avoid cleaning the house?]

When I used to run regularly, I always said my favorite part was stopping. It's not that I disliked running. I simply relished in the bodily celebration I felt when I pushed hard and then returned to regular breathing and moving. Standing still never felt so good. By ramping up routine physical functions to a sometimes painful level, I could simply stop – turn it off – and experience I high I could create in no other way.

I miss that feeling.

I think I miss it enough to look for my running shoes this week and try them out around the block a couple times. Run – just so I can stop.

And maybe even shower.

[Side note: a million thanks to Cindy at Mitetees for creating my new header. Check out her stuff by clicking here]

proud.

It's November, 1998. I'm about to run what could be my final high school cross country race. I toe the line, wait for the gun. My heart is already hammering at race pace but I'm standing stock still, poised. The gun pops and my muscles shoot into motion. I go out hard – who cares if it's too hard – and fix my gaze on the soles of the fast girl's feet. She pulls me over those proving grounds. Somehow I hang on. And on. 

My mind goes to sleep, lulled by the white noise of my breath crashing in waves against the insides of my ears. I see only Fast Girl's feet and hear only my own breath until I round the corner into the final loop of the course. I lift my eyes up and to the right – slowly, as if my sockets are pockets of wet sand. I see my mom. She's cheering and I notice her face seems kind of stricken. Huh. I must look terrible, my lethargic brain concludes. 

Then, the finish line. It's done. Third place – good enough to advance to the State Meet. I'm almost too spent to feel proud. But I do. I really do. 

*** 

Flash forward nearly 12 years – I'm standing here with the pre-race jitters but there is no starting line. I haven't raced in years. And this isn't even my event. 

At the back of a full auditorium, I wait for my five-year-old daughter to take the stage wearing a bright pink tutu. My heart hammers like that empty stage is waiting for me. Somehow, this thing that has really nothing to do with me has me all wrapped up in knots, so nervous I could puke. And then the beat begins and Chipette voices squeak through the sound system, singing a song months of watching from the other room have grooved into my subconscious mind. 

And – there she is! My kid! Tapping a routine I was almost sure they'd all forget but pull of with classic cuteness. My grin is goofy and my eyes are starting to mist and there's a living lump in my throat. I'm not a very weepy person so this surprises me, but only for a moment. Suddenly I realize that this is how my parents must have felt, watching me run my way to the Big Meet and a million other times they told me they were proud of me. I always heard them, I thought I understood, but only now do I really get it. I feel the pride threatening to burst through my chest for this person who has belonged to me ever since she first kicked my ribs from the inside but every day proves that she really belongs to herself. Then all at once I'm imagining the many milestones left for this daughter to meet – achievements, successes, graduations, transitions – a lifetime of proud moments. I'm really almost crying now. 

The dance is done and I'm trying to clap around the baby on my hip. I swallow the lump and try not to look stricken as I hurry to catch her off the stage and say my congratulations. She hears me, but there's no way she really knows. Not yet. 

blink

It's four o'clock. On a blanket in the yard, I'm curled like a hug around my baby. She's mouthing clothespins, pulling them one by one from the bucket like golden tickets, examining their angles and tasting their textures. An ant crawls across her knee; she practices her pincher grasp but misses the prize by a mile. I flick it off her leg. I peek-a-boo my tongue between my lips and hide it in my closed mouth. Her eyes, somehow, grow wider when I stick it out again. This game could go on and on but the laundry flaps overhead and she looks up – a whole new world.

My older girls are ten feet away, raking the sandbox like it's their job. Which, technically, it is – they're playing "maids" and requested that I dole out chores. [No, they wouldn't clean their room – believe me, I tried that. Only yardwork would work for this game.] They show me their hands, caked with wet sand – our work gloves, they explain. The corners of my eyes crinkle – I'm working on my laugh lines.

I rest my head on the blanket, pressing my forehead and nose against my baby's bare leg. A deep breath fills me to bursting. I'm exhaling slowly when she grabs a clump of my hair, squealing as she nearly scalps me. I pry open her fist to free myself but let her have another go, just to hear that laugh.

***

It's 8:30. All the kids are asleep and I leave the house with dog on leash. As dusk begins to settle, feathery and soft, I notice the season's first firefly igniting its tail briefly, then disappearing into the shadows. I wait for it – it blinks again.

I wrap my hands around this moment and press it to my chest so hard it almost hurts. They're sacred, these bits of bliss burning holes in the dark.

noteworthy

"What's new?" She asks.

I scan my living landscape.

The kitchen washcloth smells like sour milk, no matter how often I change it for a new one. I swept a cubic foot of dog hair off the floor this morning, on three separate occasions. Eliza threw an in-public tantrum that made my ears burn and skin crawl. I can't find a deodorant I like so I've been going without. I'm fairly sure that fairly soon Ruthie is going to choke on some scrap of whatever while I'm not looking. Claire spilled juice on the table today and instead of helping wipe up or saying sorry or even oops she spoke sharply to Eliza for gasping at the incident. I did manage to clean the bathroom yesterday. I'm not sure what to make for dinner. We finally got a laundry line in the yard and the sky split open on my first load.

"Nothing," I reply. "It's been raining all day."

traces

I don't see her until I walk right through her and she eddies around me in a swirl of cool, moist air. There is no sound. She smells earthy and damp and not like death at all. I stop and inhale deliberately, not scared, standing in that pocket of coolness where she haunts like humidity after sundown. Her essence settles deep into my lungs and whatever she was, all those years ago, bonds like oxygen in my bloodstream. My cheeks feel warm.

Mosquitoes will find me if I don't move on, so I continue down the gentle slope, fingers brushing the top-heavy, hip-high grasses that line the path. But she trails along in dewy bits, soaking my shoes.

She was young when the light left her eyes, I can feel that. A certain electricity hangs about youth that the old ones lack. And a measure of ignorance, too. She wasn't paying attention that day when she walked in these woods. She missed all the signs and stepped right into his sights. It was quick. Shock registered with the explosion and her last ounces of adrenaline fossilized, left here for me to trace and wonder.

A breeze kicks up and she leaves me in wisps, settling back into the low spots to rest in cool, dewy peace.

Spread my ashes here, please. I'll rest just as peacefully, haunting walkers and runners who won't hear me humming harmonies to the bird songs because their ears are plugged with those white buds that blast in and block out. They'll pass by in their throngy parades on a Sunday morning but leave me in silence at 8pm on a Friday night. I will watch the sun set alone.

But today i'm alive and breathing and thinking and here, unaccompanied and unbridled by thoughts of endurance or who is nearing their edge, of sunburns or bug bites or blisters or I'm too hot or Can you carry this. I walk through this place I consider mine but which really belongs to all the panthers and people who have passed through here, then and now. My invisible footprints trail behind me, leaving barely perceptible traces of my own storied vitality.

five going on fifteen…

Can't we go thaaat way?

Nope, we're turning right.

Whyyyyyyyy?

It's the way back to the car.

Huuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Why do you have to keep saying huuuhhhh? Enjoy the walk – we're only halfway through. Just because we're walking back to the car doesn't mean you have to get so upset.

At this, she stalked ahead. As far ahead as she could get. 

A few minutes later we caught up to her [she couldn't hold that pace]. Offhandedly, I asked: 

Is something bothering you?

No response. My first silent treatment. 

[Minutes later, she grudgingly accepted my apology for imitating her. She righted her mood, but I'm sure the incident was not forgotten but filed away in her injustices folder.]

***

Later, she admired her hair in the mirror.

I look so pretty.

We had been practicing her dance-recital bun hairdo earlier in the day. She does have a striking profile.

Eliza came into the bathroom. Her hair was tussled and windblown. Her regular style. Claire tore her eyes from her own reflection and considered her sister.

You don't look pretty, Eliza.

John sent Claire straight to her room. The door slammed. He called her back out into the hallway.

You can close the door, Claire, but you may not slam it.

She stomped away, closing the door firmly but without a sound. She cried for awhile but the storm quickly passed.

***

It's bedtime.

Goodnight, Claire. I love you. Sleep well.

I love you a million times a million, Mama. I love you more than I can say.

She may be five going on fifteen…but she's still five -- stubborn but sweet, willful but malleable, opinionated but obedient.

For now.