babies should come with iPods

My iPod saved my life.

No, it didn't stop a deadly bullet or buy off a would-be attacker. It wasn't quite as immediate as that.

But it was equally as dire: my iPod Touch saved my sanity.

You see, I stay at home with my three young children. This is a job that simultaneously fulfills and frustrates me. You've heard about it, I'm sure: there are the sunny days, the smiles, the ice cream dripping off sticky chins. And then there are those days, filled with
rip-your-hair-out-swallow-your-screams-I-haven't-even-showered-yet frustration.

That kind of stuff was in the job description, though – I read the fine print. Deep breathing carries me through a lot of those days. That, and sneaking hits off a chocolate bar.

But what I didn't expect was the isolation, the alienation. That in a house often so loud, so filled with activity, I can feel so alone.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. And that traditionally and in other cultures, child care rarely rested in one or two sets of hands – extended families lived and worked together, spreading the stress around, supporting each other, knitting themselves into a cozy community.

But here and now, many of us surround our nuclear families by moats of hundreds of miles or maybe just too-busy lives that separate us from our extended families. And so we raise our children in personal microcosms.

Of course, technology connects us. Around here, our parents are always just a phone call away. We can see our siblings on weekends with little advance planning and car time. And the internet connects all of us in seconds as we share pictures and stories via email.

But what about when I paced the floor with a crying newborn, ears full, skin crawling? Or in the middle of night when I'm up for the umpteenth time to nurse the baby and the house is quiet and my mind is bursting out of my skull? When I only have one hand or one second but really need a connection?

That's when the iPod saves me.

It saves me when I email my sister in the middle of the night: Up.Every.Hour. And a message back: Me, too. Solidarity. Connection.

It saves me when I check Facebook while changing a diaper and ignoring a tantrum and see that Laura from high school is having a similarly trying day. Solidarity. Connection.

It saves me when I'm supervising lunch [Please eat your food. Please eat your food. PLEASE eat your FOOD] and read the blog post from a woman I've never met in another state whose this-is-real-life-mothering experience makes me laugh out loud and lighten my mood. Solidarity. Connection.

It saves me every day when I exchange quick messages with my husband at work. I share the news from the nursery – which kid is crabby, which kid wouldn't eat lunch, which kid threw an hour-long fit—and I don't feel quite so alone in whatever moment I'm wading through. Solidarity. Connection.

It saves me when I read comments on this blog from YOU, letting me know that you heard my voice and felt my words. Solidarity. Connection. [It turns out I need your comments – not the reassurance, but the connection]

They say babies should come with instruction manuals. I disagree – I can figure out a baby. But I can't navigate this life alone. I need a circle that's wider than this house, that extends my reach and connects me to family, friends, and the great, big outside world.

Babies shouldn't come with instruction manuals. They should come with iPods.

doing it in public

I don't always have the best memory.

Images, voices, and emotions mix in my mind – scenes are kneaded by time until the individual ingredients meld into one.

Sometimes, my mind blocks out specific unpleasantries. [Perhaps this is why much of the 9^th grade is lost to me?]

So I don't remember exactly how it all went that evening, but I can still cup embarrassment in my hands, hot cheeks between cold, sweaty palms.

Our good friends were getting married and we were honored to stand up with them. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner. Claire was three months old. [Read: I was just barely making it.]

I was comfortable enough with breastfeeding that I could finally do it clothed and not loose my groove in the folds of my shirt. But I certainly couldn't gracefully unsnap and refasten all the moving parts on my nursing bra. I hadn't even heard of nursing pads. And a blanket over my shoulder? That was a symphony I knew I couldn't conduct.

Needless to say, I had never nursed in public.

But she had to come along: it was a Friday night and we had to leave right after John got home from work. We were driving from Madison to Milwaukee and there wasn't time to stop at Grandma's.

Everyone at the dinner smiled at my big-eyed baby. She was held and bounced and nothing but a joy.

But then she got hungry.

And I got frantic.

We were eating in a private room, but there were still a lot of people. They would all be staring. No way was I going to whip it out right there.

My heart hammered in my ears. I could feel sweat spots spreading under my arms.

My eyes roved the room for a safe spot – there, around the corner, a hallway to the kitchen. A waitress walked by.

Can I drag over a chair and feed my baby here?

This is where my memory skips. Somehow, through some tripped-over speech I explained that I meant breast –no, not bottle, not spoon. The waitress seemed confused, out of her element, put on the spot – I don't remember what she said exactly, but there were flames in my cheeks as I marched my baby to the bathroom – maybe I could do it there.

Again, my memory trips as I try to recreate the indignation John and our friends expressed when they learned what happened. Somehow, someone explained to whoever asked that the waitress was just concerned that the hallway was too trafficked with hot food—what if someone spilled something on the baby?

Oh, right, that explains it.

My cheeks did cool off eventually—when we finally walked out into the December night air. And we enjoyed a beautiful wedding the next day – I distinctly remember the smiles on our friends' faces as they spoke their vows.

Today, five years and five kids later (three ours, two theirs), we met those same friends at the Milwaukee Public Museum.

It was one of those days I'll file in the good times folder.

We walked around for several hours, and Ruthie graciously napped in the carrier. Eventually, she needed to nurse.

I looked around for a quiet spot to sit down.

All the benches seemed situated under spotlights in otherwise dimly lit rooms. People streamed by.

Oh well.

I chose the next empty sitting place and fed my baby.

Soon, a woman walked near, newborn babe in arms, eyes roving.

Can I join you?

I scooted my backpack over and smiled.

We exchanged some small talk as we fed our babies.

Yes, my nursing cover sure is handy—a friend made it for me. I know, the bathroom just isn't where I want to nurse, either. Yep, those are my other two kids. Ha, I guess you could say that – I'm experienced.

Ruthie didn't nurse very long [7 month olds are so distractible] and shortly I got up to leave.

I will remember this moment, this brief connection.

My cheeks were cool. My hands were warm.

I hope hers were, too.

worry is a spider

Worry creeps in, unseen, and suddenly its there, a spider on the wall. I can see it even with the bedroom dark, a black, motionless blob.

It keeps me awake, inspiring irrational thinking.

I worry in abstraction: the future, unknowns, illusions, stability, failures, guilt.

I worry in specifics: Will the other kids tease Claire in school? She's such a Hermionie Granger. And she has my skinny, skinny legs. Does Eliza have an addictive personality? She still needs her nuk to settle down when her emotions get tangled and she careens into a tantrum. What will she need as an adult? Will Ruthie have anger management problems? Loudly yelling, round face reddening, she INDICATES that she's upset. We'll all have to learn duck and roll maneuvers when she learns to throw stuff.

When dawn touches the walls, the spider scuttles into the shadows – hidden, but not forgotten.

Other nights, those long legs pry into my mind and spin thin, see-through dreams. I dream that I forget Claire's birthday. I dream about the wind lifting Eliza off the ground, out of my reach. I dream that Ruthie grows fangs. I dream about strangers and threats and death.

My mother worried over her young brood, too. Okay, she still worries [right, Mom?].

She tells me about a nightmare that haunted her as a young parent. It made me laugh before I had kids, but I get it now. The worry.

Apparently, I had a bit of a sassy streak as a young child [this is not something I remember]. In her dream, I wore a black leather jacket over my four-year-old frame, displaying cigarettes wedged between each finger. I imagine her waking up in a sweat, compelled to peek into my bedroom to verify that I was sleeping rather than roaming the ally behind our house. [Though that might not have been so off the wall – I was a sleepwalker with a history of at least one housebreak, walking down 88^th street with my stuffed dog tucked under my arm.]

As it turned out, I never smoked a cigarette in my life. [As a high school runner, it never made sense to me to inhale something that might inhibit my breathing.] Luck or providence protected me from many of the peer pressures that plague teens. [Read: I was a square]. [Okay, I still am.]

So that particular worry never manifested into reality. I turned out just fine [for the most part, right?].

Many of our worries burn holes in our minds unnecessarily. So why do we worry? Why do we make room for spiders on our walls? Why don't we just smash them?

Because there is so much that might happen and a lot that really will.

I can't turn off worry, but I try to simply acknowledge it. Hold it in my hands. Examine its edges, count its eyes and shoo it into the corners. On the periphery of my consciousness, I can watch it set up its web, allowing awareness of fear and danger and threats, but keeping it off the main walls.

Then, I can cover my clean walls with smiles to start my day, reminding me of the love the lies under all worry.

all the world’s a stage

Stage is dimly lit, empty except for a sleeping woman under a blanket. An alarm clock with brightly red numerals illuminates the scene. 

Alarm rings loudly. 

Woman rises, hair extremely tussled, turns off clock and lays back down. As soon as she's settled, the alarm rings again. She stands to turn if off and lays back down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

After she turns off alarm the final time, EXIT Woman, walking slowly, dragging bare feet. 

Lights from stage floor illuminate fog filling the empty stage. 

ENTER Woman, mug in hand. She drags her feet to stage center and stands motionless, looking down. 

Silence.

ENTER twenty Children, yelling and laughing. Children run around Woman, bumping into her. She remains motionless and expressionless.

Off stage, Babies cry. The yelling and crying grow louder and louder and Woman slowly sits down, posture slumped, hands over ears.

Voice [off stage]: YOU'RE DOING THIS TO YOURSELF, YOU KNOW.

Woman lifts head with sudden movement and looks around.

EXIT Children. Cue all stage lights. 

Silence.

Woman combs her hair with her hands, still looking around, now standing.

Lights go down, stage resets.

Lights up. New scene. Two Children sit at a small table, coloring quietly.

ENTER Woman, carrying Baby.

Woman [cradling phone to shoulder]: Hi! Good! How are you?

Lights go down.

hunting rabbits

At age 9, I fancied myself a rabbit hunter.

My hunting buddy, Brian, lived next door. His parents cultivated a huge garden and we were doing our part to keep critters out. It was a great game. We did a lot of scheming – weapons, strategies. And whenever we saw a rabbit nibbling nearby grass, we'd tear after it, shrieking, no doubt turning its fur just a little big grayer.

Of course, we never even got within throwing distance of anything. But such discouragements never dampened our drive.

One summer evening, we decided a night hunt was in order. We convinced our parents to let us out after dark and crept around our yards with flashlights and sticks, two intrepid hunters.

I went to bed that night with my stuffed bunny, exhilarated and still scheming, convinced we were closer than ever to success. But I awoke with a sweaty start to images of flashing eyes and blood on my hands. A bad dream. I hadn't thought about the blood before. That we were trying to kill something.

Here was where we took up a new game – playing Egyptians, I think. Something that felt a little less real.

***

Last weekend, I auditioned for what is sure to be a spectacular event – Listen to Your Mother – a Mother's Day show that will feature some amazing writers.

I wanted to stand among them. I went into the audition excited and confident – I love reading aloud, and I'm proud of my writing. After my fit of despondency early last week, I felt tentative but new and brave. Intrepid, even.

Though my knees shook, the audition went well and the director seemed to like my piece.

But I didn't make the cast list.

I could have really used affirmation – from someone outside my beloved circle of family and friends, all you wonderful people who tirelessly pat me on the back – that what I'm unwrapping around here is something more than nothing.

But I think I needed the rejection even more.

A gentle splash in the face. A cup of cold water reminding me that this soul spelling will involve a measure of blood spilling if it's going to be real. 

And I have to be okay with that.

Okay with hard work and humility and rejection and watching sweet bunnies die if they have to.

***

Oh, and I turned the comments back on around here. I feel a little more stable this week and a bit silly for being so dramatic. Thanks for putting up with me.

bugs in the house

Feet bare, moments stolen, I'm about to step into the shower. But right at the threshold wiggles something with many, many legs. Millipede? Centipede? Whatever. It's gross. And very alive. I swallow a shriek and smash that sucker. But now I'm slightly undone – where there's one, there's more, right? Coming up the drain? Nestled in my towel? I can't enjoy this shower. I'm out of here much faster than usual. And now I'm having a bad hair day.

I'm making dinner now, rice on the floor, compost bowl overflowing. The baby is crying and I'm trying to do this fast. Eliza heads to the bathroom – she can do it all on her own now, I'm hands free, unobliged. I hear her singing in there, audible over this clank-sizzle-cook. Suddenly, a scream. I roll my eyes – what now – and charge in.

THERE'S A BUG IN HEEEEEEEEERRRRRRREEEEEEEE!!!

[Quick context: bugs terrify – I mean TER.I.FY – this child. Yet she'd like a pet snake. Go figure.]

I'm annoyed. This bug thing has been getting out of control. She needs to learn to deal. Every fly and ladybug sends her screaming indoors. You're going to be inside all summer if bugs are going to bother you this much. That's my mantra lately. Claire is sick of hearing it.

I help Eliza off the toilet. Forcewash her hands. She's shaking. I'm still rolling my eyes. I don't even see a bug.

Suddenly, fresh screams. She hobble-bolts out of the bathroom, hands wet, pants around her ankles. She slams her bedroom door. I know she's in bed now, huddled under her satin-edged blanket, sucking her nuk.

I roll my eyes again.

I turn towards the window, expecting to see a Japanese beetle or some smallish thing.

But, Dear lord, I breathe. There it is.

It's huge. Like a mosquito but fifty times bigger. Long, long legs slowly creeping it across the window screen. A foot above the toilet.

And this thing flies, too.

I shudder. Repulsed.

I roll up a magazine and swat it. Flush it.

Then I go hug my child. She's still shaking, though she laughs through snot and tears when she hears about the bug's yellow, watery funeral.

She comes out of her room slowly. I'm sure she's thinking where there's one, there's more. Me, this morning.

She's back to Legos now, incident forgotten. But I don't like myself right now.

Tomorrow, I'll be better. I'll acknowledge her fear as real.

And if I have to roll my eyes, I'll close them.

small world, so big

I open the front door. Blink into the sunlight.

I want to plant both feet firmly back inside, back where the walls are painted green and there's juice on the floor and the covers are rumpled on my bed. But I move forward. Get into the car. Drive. Do. Be.

I come to a traffic stop and see fifteen cars lined up to head to fifteen different destinations, dragging behind them fears and joys and vices and pains and anticipations. I look in my rearview mirror – mine are hanging out there too. I glance at the driver next to me, an older woman. Maybe she's going to get her hair cut. Maybe to visit her husband in hospice. Two car doors and six billion people stand between us. She doesn't look up. The light turns green.

At the store, in the line. The checker moves through the motions – the smile, the bag choice, the change. She's young. Her eyes are outlined with makeup. I wonder what's behind them. Her fingertips brush my palm as I take my receipt. I walk through the door that opens automatically for me. I'm on the other side.

Overhead, an airplane. My toes curl in my shoes.

I'm driving again. Behind a school bus. It stops, red signs unfurling and I wait. Two children get off, streaking towards the sidewalk and home and what. Where they're disappointed or supported or shaped or distrusted. And tomorrow they're taller.

At home I'm chopping onions, eyes brimming. John walks in, speaks hello. I know his voice.

this woman’s work

It's Saturday night. The kids are abed. The house is quiet.

I brew a cup of tea. Turn on some mellow music. Light a candle for ambiance.

And then I iron my way through a wrinkly pile of John's shirts.

This isn't exactly a dance party [I can't dance] or even a romantic evening [John is not home tonight]. I usually hate the tedium and time consumed by ironing. But tonight, oddly, I'm enjoying myself. The quiet calm. The repetitive motion. The steam, my breath, the space to think.

I know week's end will pile these same shirts in front of me again. And I know this isn't a very post feminism thing to do – I mean, John can pick up an iron too, can't he?

Hissing through creases, I imagine that I'm searing something of myself into each fiber. Something he will wear across his back, down his arms, and pressed against his chest – close to his heart, over his soul.

But I don't have to imagine that he notices.

That's the thing about this life. I'm home, doing a lot of traditional woman's work. Enjoying it some days, running from it -- shrieking at it -- other days. But never [okay, sometimes, but only for a minute] weighted down. Four hands dig deep into the muck of this life. Four hands raise these children. And whatever  two hands do alone is held up -- honored.

undeleted.

There was actually a lump in my throat as my cursor hovered, hesitated over the delete button.

But I clicked it anyway.

I'm done whining, seeking reassurance, waving my tiny flag hoping someone will notice.

I felt clean. Relieved. Lighter.

But then the smoke crept in around the edges: You just deleted a part of yourself, you know.

No I didn't. That's stupid. Shut up.

And I proceeded to wallow: Look at this life. What am I? A mother, yes. And that is a big deal. But what else? Not a writer. Not much. Nothing.

And then Claire, a child – like all children, without a learned filter – woke up with a blunt tongue. Saying what was on her mind in one moment.

You know your look, Mama? And your voice? They get annoying because I have to see them Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday.

She flitted away without intending her words to stay behind, weighing me down.

Ooof.

A slow motion sock to the stomach.

Right where I had already socked myself.

Then John, home with a flower bouquet – because you had a bad day.

It wasn't bad.

But he knew. He always knows.

A discussion later, once the kid chaos quieted for the night. I didn't think you were going to actually delete it.

Well, I did.

Me tapping, shuffling cards, averting my eyes. I can't stand to talk about my feelings.

But he has these eyes, so soft and kind, that I can trust. (He gave these eyes to our children – striking.)

The blog is back up but I'm feeling a little shaky. Not sure why I'm doing what I'm doing. Not wanting to whine or fish for compliments or reassurance.
But wanting to wave my flag – tiny as it may be – because it makes me feel alive.

balance

The wind moves through the tree, touching every needle. Branches wave. Even the trunk gently sways, creaking. The whole shape undulates.

But even standing in the relentless current of strong gusts, the tree does not topple. It is balanced: below to above. A crisscrossing network of hidden roots anchors trunk to earth.

And roots don't just stabilize: they nourish. Stable and quenched, the tree reaches for the sun, plucking energy from the sky.

Depth balances height. Stability grants life. Height yields strength.

***

I always wake before the kids. Before Ruthie was born, I used this time to practice yoga. Start the day out right.

But during Ruthie's newborn days, I began using my morning time to work – I just couldn't sit down at the computer after a day of bouncing a crying baby. At 9 or 10 pm, when she was finally asleep for the night, I needed to unwind and crash. This pattern stuck, and when she began developing an earlier, more predictable bedtime, I used those unwinding hours to write, practice yoga, or hang out with John.

But recently, I've found it a great struggle to rise early and work at my computer.

I get up, stumble toward my coffee, and eat breakfast. After wasting time surfing the internet, I start my work…but inevitably I complete little before the kids awaken. I wake up early "for nothing," it often seems. So I arrive at the end of the day with depleted energy and no motivation. I can only find fulfillment curling up on the couch.

I'm neglecting my thirst-quenching, stabilizing depths. And though I'm not withered or toppled yet, I can predict my own fall. I know this about myself: I seek – I crave – I love – I require balance. And I know what happens without it.

So I'm flipping my day on end.

I'm returning to a morning yoga practice to feed my roots so that when life gusts, I feel affected but standing.

This is preventative medicine.


 
Are you balanced? If not, can you rearrange something in your day so that you're feeding your depths?

Okay here’s some fiction – a very short story

Title: She Always Said

Feed the desem.

That's it. That's all it says.

In her familiar, scrawling hand like a voice from beyond the veil.

My inheritance. I have no idea.

Dad and Jimmy empty her house. I don't go. Boxes stand where the sofa should; pictures off the walls. It would be just like the wake – visiting an empty shell, saying goodbye.

Tonight Dad shakes my shoulder when he gets home. I found something you should keep. He holds it out to me. Blue pottery. Heavy in my hands.

The Rising Bowl.

It's midnight when I flip the switch in Marmie's kitchen. The owl faceplate stares at me with unblinking eyes. Welcome home. They barely started on the kitchen – a few boxes filled, the last push before they gave in to night and sleep and grief.

I open all the cupboards. Let them stand open. Cream of Wheat. The potato ricer. Corningware. Old friends, witnesses.

I pile necessities on the table. Flour and salt. Measuring things. The Raising Bowl.

You have to work she always said, pressing into the dough with her long fingers. Kneading brought color to her cheeks. She never needed makeup.

It's delicate she always said, covering the dough ball with a towel, tucking it in safe for the rise.

Now we play she always said, bringing out cards and marbles and paper dolls.

Don't ever punch she always said. No violence around here. Gentle it down. Her cool hand over mine, slowly sinking in.

Now watch she always said. The shaping was hers alone. I was too hasty, too rough, she said. Press into a circle. Fold so it smiles. Bring in the sides. Press flat, now roll up – a loaf.

I always greased the pan, butter in all the corners, licking my fingers.

Into the pan, final rise. She washed the dishes, handing them over to me to dry. The giant Rising Bowl. Mine now. A chip in the rim from when I almost dropped it once. Marmie's cheek against my tears.

Into the oven. She always flicked the light on and we'd watch. Inevitably, I'd skip away. Distracted.

Annie! It sprung! she'd always say. I'd race back into the kitchen, skating in my socks to peer through the oven glass.

Ohhh I'd always breathe. The high arc just turning golden. And the magic A slashed into the crust – she never forgot.

But I'm forgetting something.

All those years on the west coast. The sun will fry your brain she always said. When I visited at Christmas there was never time to bake bread.

Now I'm here in Marmie's kitchen, without her, up all night, wasting flour trying to resuscitate a dead recipe, grasping straws and sticky dough. It doesn't rise.

I open the fridge looking for a beer – habit, of course. I know Marmie hated the stuff.

The shelves aren't totally bare: a quarter gallon of milk post-date by now, strawberry jam, cottage cheese. She was on her way to the grocery store when it happened. Her car. A tree. Dead at the scene.

And there on the top shelf a clear glass mason jar. A carefully shrouded lump resting inside. A scotch-taped label: Desem.

I sit on the cold tile floor. Unscrew the cap. A sour, fermenting smell hits me in the face. Overpowering. But familiar. And still alive.

Desem.

Daaay-zum she always said. It sounds different than it looks.

The starter.

The bread rises this time.

writing about writing (or rather, not writing)

Okay I haven't started my book yet. I haven't lifted a finger to it since I threw my intentions into the winds of the universe.

I think this is because I'm deeply afraid of it. Of the writing of it.

Well that and the cracks in my day that sometimes facilitate thinking and writing have been shifting around a lot lately. Predictability satisfies me. Shiftiness does not.

But the real problem lies in the fact that I've never written fiction before. Never. Oh wait, except for The Pencil Who Wanted a Name Back in the 5^th grade. And if my current fiction skills hold a candle to that attempt, I'm not going to get very far.

So far, my writing has been essay-style, personal. About myself and my experiences. Which is fine and fulfilling and me.

But I have this potential story in my head, which I think I've nailed down into a rough plot that might actually work, but I'm afraid that when I start writing the first page, or maybe after I've written a bunch of pages, I'll discover that my story is really a dead end and my fiction just plain sucks.

Yes, it's the old fear of failure bubbling up again. When I was a child, I would reaffix the sticker on my test to cover up the grade if it was anything less than perfect. I've been fearing non-perfection for a long time. My whole life, basically. So I'm experienced in the nuances of this particular fear. But not really with how to overcome it.

I am also astonishingly good at comparing myself to others. So I read a great novel or poke around in the blog world and I start to think: wait a minute—I'm not one of them. I'm just me. Very small me. I can't call myself a writer. I can't call myself a thinker. I can't possibly be so egotistical to think that anything I write will be worth reading. I'm just a girl (ack, turning into a MATURE WOMAN, almost 30, almost old, still not started) with a passion for words and their construction and artful expression. I have three kids circling me at all times like cartoon birds that pop up when the character hits her head. So I write stagnantedly, stop-startingly, excruciatingly slowly, if at all. Then I stare at my meager words skipping across the screen like stepping stones strewn across a river and wonder—is there a point here? Where am I going with this? Is there even something on the other side?

I don't need reassurance. I don't need hand-holding. I just need to buck up and write. Breathe through the labor pains and deliver that fear. Hold it, look it in the eyes, claim it as my own, pour my milk down its throat and watch it grow into something else, something not scary at all but independent and productive and pulsating with life.

I just need to write. 

Before the winds of the universe blow this one away.

But first I have to shower, round up breakfast, let the dog out, nurse the baby, wash the dishes, watch my head spin on my shoulders, make lunch, change diapers, start laundry, quell spats, drive to preschool, etc, etc, etc. 


[Hm, maybe I should start with a short story?]

untitled emotions

Mama, can you hold me?

After I finish changing Ruthie's diaper, Eliza.

Mama, can you hoooooold me?

Just hang on, please.

Maaaamaaaaaa? Can you hooooold meeeeee?

Okay, yes. Now.

My nerves are hanging out of my ears and eyes and skin, and now you're sitting on them.

But I'm holding you.

***

Mama, can you tell a story about me and Eliza?

Inwardly, I sigh. I recoil slightly. Anything else, please.

But I muster my enthusiasm and try to awaken my sluggish imagination.

One day very soon, Claire, you'll attend school all day.

And I'll want to tell you stories.

***

A cry in the night.

Ruthie, you can't be up again.

I pick you up and you bury your face in my neck. Tired. Needy.

In my arms nursing, you cash out, back to blissful oblivion. I wish I could tag along.

But your fuzzy hair and warm body and soft sighs belong to me alone.

In this moment.

***

I've been out of college for almost six years. What have I accomplished since then?

Scraps of my heart strewn all over the place, quietly beating in time with the hearts of the three people who can crawl most scratchingly under my skin.

I welcome you in.

Scratch away.

I may not let you out.

the same old post, just a new metaphor

I am an autocentricist.

I cannot deny that the earth revolves around the sun.

But I envision a universe that revolves around the Self. For each of us.

My universe revolves around me. And my thoughts affect my reality.

Perhaps this is an egotistical view, but to me it explains a lot.

It explains why I can pour my intentions into an uncovered Bowl on the sunny front step, knowing they will evaporate into the atmosphere and pool in clouds above my head. It explains why then, sometimes unexpectedly, these evaporated intentions solidify into something very real and rain down upon my head.

Each day hands me a pile of sugar and a pile of clay. Everything goes into the Bowl.

Positive thoughts are like grains of sugar – light, sweet, easy to dissolve.

Childhood is magic. Spring renews me. Writing fills my heart. Every breath cleanses my soul. Love lives in this house.

But negativity manifests as lumps of clay – tough, grey, heavy.

I have no time. I'm too tired. Children and animals follow me everywhere. Noise assaults my mind. I have no predicable space of my own.

I have to stir vigorously and practically boil the water to dissolve the clay. And I do. All the time. Then, that grey sediment muddies the water, obscuring the delicate grains of sugar.

But the sugar – the sugar melts easily with gentle swirlings. And the clay cannot be moved by that.

So each day I have a choice: I can invest energy into negativity, or I can let that clay settle to the bottom of my awareness. I can create a rain that pelts me in the face with its mire, coats my outlook with a heavy mood, and knits my brow against the world. Or I can soak under a sweet mist, lapping lightness from my cupped hands.

Last night I went to bed with that lump of clay under my pillow. Today, I'm letting it sink to the bottom.

What will you choose?

changing the pace

I read carnivorously.

I grasp a plot in my teeth, gnashing through it until I extract the juice and swallow whole fibrous lump. Insatiable, I search for more.

I've always read this way.

I reach the ends of books well fed and hungover.

I revel in each feast.

But though good reads singe important emotional reactions into my psyche, I've forgotten entire books this way, retaining only wisps of the plot.

In typical carnivore fashion, I just slopped through Barbara Kingsolver's new novel, The Lacuna. I inhaled her words, racing through the plot. I turned the last page in awe of a story well crafted, words beautifully arranged. A symphonic novel.

But in an atypical change of pace, I'm moved to reread this one. Now that I'm fat off the plot's hearty meat, I can chew more slowly this time to fully taste the poetry of words, to fully digest the weight of themes. And remember this one.

***

I practice yoga fluidly.

I move through a series of postures dynamically, saluting the sun, meeting vinyasas. I synchronize movement with breath, flowing though my practice with purpose and perceived grace.

I've only known yoga this way.

I reach the end of my practice with a meditative mind – calmed, clear, at peace.

I honor this practice.

But though my body retains an imprint of each posture, I know that I overlook the subterranean intimacy found through deeper exploration and extended holdings of single poses.

In the new class I'm attending, the instructor explores the nuances of only a few poses – thigh bone press together, shin bones press apart, pelvic rim lifts. Lift the heel, find breadth in the shoulders. The first time I encountered this style, I resisted: what's the point of this? Where's my meditative space? But through this instructor, I'm approaching yoga from a different angle – standing still in a river's current, netting brightly colored fish.

***

I write slowly, in gasps.

I dig deep, mining words from my soul one at a time. I sift through, collecting the sparkling bits and discarding dingy bits of dirt. I commit words to paper. I revise. Edit. Rearrange. Erase. Start over. It takes a lot of time and energy for me to write anything.

I've always written this way.

I compose short works, agonizing over construction, rhythm, meaning.

I take pride in the end result.

Though this style of writing is my way, I ache to breathe more evenly and find the endurance to dig even deeper.

So in my journal writing, I simply barf words onto the page. I don't think twice about nuances or poetry. I just write. My pen scratches carnivorously, continuously.

By changing the pace, I'm exercising new muscles, building endurance, eyeing a much bigger goal: I want to have a first draft of my novel written by the time I'm 30.

11 months left.

warrior of the wait

It's March.

Spring hasn't quite sprung.

But it's not really winter anymore, either.

We're in between seasons. I still wear my gloves, but they're the fingerless kind. I still crunch through snow on my way to the mailbox, but mud claims more and more of the yard with each sunny or rainy day. I exhale and still see my breath, but I don't inhale icicles. I still smell fireplace wood smoke – that cozy, wintery scent— but it meets my senses wafted on moist, thawing air.

This is a time of transition.

One foot steps forward but the other hangs back, hesitating.

My heart races in anticipation: I can't wait until we go outside without jackets! And spend mornings at the park! And sit in the grass! And dig in the garden! And open the windows! And bring out the road bikes! And watch everything green up and bloom!

But despite the suspense, there is something balancing about such a straddled stance.

My fingertips stretch forward, just brushing the future; the heel of my back foot presses against the past. A wave of reflection washes through me; my body conducts the heat. I stand quite still, all motion paused, weight evenly distributed across this space, breathing into the very center of all things.

The change of seasons brings on an obvious time of transition. But we don't have to wait for an equinox – we are always on the cusp of change.

I find it every day in the hour just after dawn –no longer night but not fully day. And then again at dusk, when the day melts into darkness. I find stillness in the quality of this light – a visual pause that can bring inner balance to a disheveled morning or chaotic evening.

And I find it in every breath as I tune into the pause at the top of my inhalation. I retain that breath for a moment, holding the space in my lungs, balancing before moving forward.

Perhaps by becoming more aware of these physical times of transition and tapping into the balance found in the changing season, the quality of light, or the movements of breath, I can learn to find more peace during periods of waiting in my life. Right now, my heart races with anxiety – and even dread – when my mind sniffs and searches, wandering out of the present to wonder about the future. That page is blank in my imagination, and the unknowns fill me with fear. No light can illuminate the corners of that void, so it makes more sense to find balance – and thus, inner peace – where I currently stand.

My back foot presses against where I've been and who I was: I can still touch the uncertainty of new motherhood and all the overwhelming emotions that occupied that space.

I'm not in that place anymore. But I draw upon lessons learned, pipetting the energy of experience into today's emotional equation.

My fingertips stretch forward, lightly brushing the edges of new experience.

I'm not able to grasp anything concrete yet. But I can tap into the energy of potential and siphon inspiration into the present.

This is a time of transition. I wait in Warrior Pose: strong, stable, still.

And I might stand straddled in this way for awhile yet, so I better get comfortable right where I am. A Warrior of the Wait. 

the breakup

Sigh.

I have the break-up blues.

No, no, John and I are fine. More than fine. [Seven-Year Itch? I'm talking about Seven Years' Bliss.]

I have the blues because I broke up with my yoga instructor.

[I don't think she realized we were going out, though.]

I've been with her for almost three years, following her when she moved studios, adjusting my schedule when she changed time slots.

She gave me yoga.

Her passion inspired me. Her knowledge fed me. Her instruction taught me to focus on the breath and explore my edges.

From her practice I built mine, and today I could give up yoga as easily as I could give up breathing.

But I had to give her up.

With the daily chaos kicked up by the kids, driving 30 minutes each way plus the 90 minute class started to feel like a lot to ask from my family. Not that I don't deserve time away – believe me, I do – but spare time doesn't grow on trees, as it turns out. I could certainly donate that 60 minutes of car time to some worthy cause – to the dishes [oh, the never ending dishes…], to John [because he deserves time away, too], or to all-together-time [because that's scarce sometimes as well].

So when John decided to join the local athletic club [which, significantly, is within walking distance] to begin triathlon training, I opted into the membership to hook up with the free yoga classes.

While I'm leery about the quality of these classes [the verdict is still out – I'll attend my first class next week], another factor lured me in and sealed the deal – the pool.

Many years have lapsed since I last swam – who knows what happened to my last lap-appropriate swimsuit? – and my aerobic fitness is rather slack right now. [Read: I'm woefully out of shape.]

But I jumped in tonight.

I felt buoyant. I felt light. I breathed in rhythm and felt energized. I felt strong.

And then after while, I felt like a fish out of water.

You know, out of my element. At my limit. [Drowning.]

So I exited the pool.

But I found a new edge to explore.

And maybe swimming will inform my yoga practice, too, as it forces me to focus deeply on my breath and pushes me to strengthen the edges of my endurance.

I already miss my yoga instructor, but I think the breakup will be good for me.

needs. also titled: where I compare myself to the dog.

We have a needy dog.

She needs to walk. [Incidentally, so do I.]

She gets to go most days. [I should say we get to go.]

And she knows when the conditions are right for a walk – both John and I must be home. When John is gone, she knows the possibility does not exist. [She still begs, though, because –hey – just like you never know when food might fall to the floor, there is the chance that the leash might spontaneously attach to her collar.]

But on weekend mornings, because we're all home, she begs with heightened urgency. [Obnoxious? Yes.]

We walk, but by evening she seems to forget her morning romp. She demands another. [It's amazing how insistent non-verbal demands can be.]

Because she's not the only needy creature in this house, though, she never gets indulged with that second outing. There is dinner to make, games to play, dishes to wash, children to bathe. And then there's me.

I'm pretty needy, too.

I need calm. I need chocolate. I need order and a schedule and a plan. I need yoga. I need a good novel. Very acutely, I need John. I need blank notebooks and time to write in them. I need sunshine and to witness the quality of light at dawn and dusk. I need reassurance. I need something to look forward to. I need family. I need to talk it out and keep it in. I need balance. I need my bed. I need to surf the web. I need to deeply inhale the scent of my baby's skin. I need inspiration. I need direction. I need to hear my children's laughter. I need solitude.

And whenever I meet one of these needs, my soul begs for more. I'm insatiable. [Yes, somehow, just like the dog. We're all living creatures.]

Sometimes I overwhelm myself [and others?] with my cavernous need, especially because all the basics are always all covered. But as much as I need to breathe and to eat and stay warm, I need to find beauty and peace and reflection and self. I need space.

What do you need?


 

commitment

I bought another new notebook the other day.

It had to be just the right one: sturdy cover, college ruled, recycled paper.

Upon its now-blank pages I will write a story. A story about mothers and grandmothers and loss and acceptance and tolerance and pain and self-reliance and self-evolution and ethics and independence and the past and the present and moving forward.

This is not my story – it's the story. But it wants to drip out of my pen, slowly over time and between the cracks of life.

The characters are knocking down walls in my ego, constructing their own blueprints, and begging me to breathe inky life into their two dimensional lungs.

And I promised I would.

So I'm committing my intentions right here, hoping that these words will solidify and keep hope from sliding out of my heart.


 
I'm writing a novel.


 
Okay, I haven't started yet. But I will. For myself. No matter how long it takes to drag out and pin down and mock up.


You can read it if you want, but give me a couple years, okay?

Non Lenten reflections

I eat meat on Fridays – or whenever I want. I eat between meals – or at my stomach's directive. And I didn't give up anything for Lent.

I don't consider myself Christian, at least not today. But I feel profoundly connected to Something right here – Something within, above, and all around. So even though I'm not observing Lent in the ways of my spiritual past, the season prompts me to do a little inner spring cleaning.

The day still freezes my breath, but each dawn births a sun stronger than yesterday's. The Thaw promises itself in lengthening days and penetrating rays; my soul accepts Spring's Oath of Return, arching upwards to break out of iced-over ruts and rise – alive – out of the dead of winter.

I light a candle with this rebirth intention, watching the flame illuminate a soft arc of space. I say a prayer – not the Dear God, please bless my family prayer I once used – but a non-verbal offering. I gather all the energy from the corners of my body, mind, and soul into a warm center. I breathe it in: tasting it, absorbing it. Then I exhale, sending it Out, intending it to knock and be received.

So if sometime in this pre-spring season, a ball of white light hits you in the face? Hi. That's me. I'm aiming for your center, but I'm still learning how to toss.