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. 

rising again

By 9 a.m., the house looked clean – bathroom, kitchen floor, general clutter. By 9:30, a fine layer of dog hair had resettled on every surface. Leaves and wet grass tracked through the entryway. Crumbs littered the floor. And the toys were seeping out from every hidden place.

After lunch, all the dishes dripped dry next to the sink. By evening, a new pile awaited sudsy water.

I just folded laundry, but already the hamper overflowed. I concocted an elaborate dinner last night but have no idea what to cook today. I swear I just paid the bills but new due dates stare me down.

The night undoes every day's work.

Yet all of us wake up and face the day again. And again. No matter what our respective jobs throw at us.

Why do we bother? Why don't we give in to the despair induced by the inevitable repetition and monotony of daily living?

Because we believe.

We believe that between the cracks of duty and responsibility, there's something sparkly and valuable and worth trying to find.
We believe that just around that corner exists something beautiful. And we believe that we will find it.

I think we call this thing hope. Hope in possibility. Hope in dreams. Hope in the fresh, crisp air that rode in on last night's thunderstorms. Hope in the knowledge that though every night brings the death of this day, the sun will rise on tomorrow and gift us another chance.

Sure, for me, it's another chance to wade through dishes and discipline and dinner [and more dishes]. But it's also another chance to dance with the kids. To laugh at my mistakes and their hilarious antics. To discover new ways to buoy my soul against whatever winds threaten to carry me away.

And it's another chance to love and get better at the art of loving. Because at the end of this life, on that day that doesn't dawn here for me but in whatever place awaits me on the other side, I want to know that I took care of what was mine to care for, loved what was mine to love, and found beauty wherever it hid. That even though every night undid my daily work, I rose again each day and lived.

 

our daily bread

Idea to reality, the whole thing took 15 minutes. I paid a negligible $2.99.

And dinner was served.

But something was missing. Or maybe, I was missing something – wishing for it.

Usually, I bake bread on Mondays – a favorite recipe called Featherpuff Bread that includes whole wheat flour, milk, eggs, and cottage cheese. It's an exceptionally light and high loaf that contains a lot of protein for my carb-loving kids.

But this week, heat and humidity pressed upon us, making us feel like we had been transported from late May to mid-August. We don't have an outdoor brick oven [but I'm dreaming…], so I cancelled Baking Day and tried to think of something other than our usual Monday Sandwich Day for dinner. Nothing inspired me. So I reluctantly headed to the grocery store to buy a loaf of bread.

It was the fresh baked, pre-sliced variety from the store's bakery. The slices were crusty and studded with nuts. The packaged bragged: No Preservatives! All natural! Still, I was skeptical.

But it tasted pretty good. And the kids actually ate it.

So why bake bread? It's unarguably easier to buy and probably cheaper, too.

A lot goes into our homemade bread. There are the fresh ingredients, of course, which I'm constantly restocking. And then there's the time – baking bread is a commitment. I like to mix and knead the bread before the kids get up because those are the most demanding steps [20 minutes of vigorous kneading works up quite a sweat]. But kneading in meditative silence is the rare ideal – more often, Ruthie watches from her high chair and the girls twirl around me. They understand [on some days better than others] that when my hands are wrist deep in dough, I'm not able to zip dress-up clothes. [Usually] they're fine with that. And sometimes they like to stand and watch or even help.

The rising and shaping and baking organize the rest of the day, too. We can't hop in the car for any unpremeditated park outings or errand trips – I've got to take care of the dough at very specific time intervals. But the kids are happy to just play in the yard and rarely protest when I leave their games or pause my swing-pushing duties to deflate the dough.

And when the bread is finally in the oven, they always ask for me to turn on the inner light so they can watch the loaves spring. They like to point out which loaf rose higher and they breathe deeply to take in the thick scent of baking bread. As soon as the loaves are on the cooling rack, both kids request samples, though they know they have to wait until it cools or the loaves will squish.

At dinner, they both eat multiple slices [crusts off, please] and the rest goes in the freezer to feed us lunch all the days of the week.

So it's a whole day. And a lot goes into those loaves. But we get a lot out of them, too. More than just caloric sustenance.

It's a process that requires us all to participate. Sure, I'm the one mixing and kneading and tending to the dough, but I need the kids as witnesses. Their interest and observations validate the process. Yes, I love it for my own sake, but I think that when getting our food involves their respect and consideration, they gain more than just full bellies.

Their minds are filled, too: with the understanding that our most basic staple comes from here – not from an anonymous crinkly bag we grabbed last minute from the bakery shelf. Our bread comes from raw ingredients, yes, and it's a product of our time. But I think they see that it's puffed high with more than just air – there's love in there, too.

Yesterday, storms moved through our area, breaking through the humidity and tempering the heat. Today, we're opening up the house. And we're baking bread.

Fighting Mrs. Bennet

I thought centuries and realities firmly divided us. But lately, I've been meeting her more often. It's usually in the morning. In my kitchen. And it goes something like this:

One kid mixes her Ovaltine, metal spoon striking glass cup, clinking against my very soul. The other kid chews her bagel, lips open, with a smack smack smacking that punctures my threadbare skin. The baby shouts her highchair cacophony and my brain slides in splatters down the walls between my assaulted ears.

Inwardly I moan. You have no compassion of my poor nerves!

And with these words, I've conjured her. Mrs. Bennet stands in my slippers, threatening hysterics and a week in bed on account of being so cruelly used.

I quickly gulp my coffee, hoping to scald her into silence before she start prattling about husbands and situations. [Though, a daughter at Netherfield might not be so bad…]

She shuts up and I can successfully speak in my normal voice through the breakfast banter. But if the girls start fighting or the baby howls when I detach her from my hip for a second – just ONE second – to pee, the back of my hand involuntarily flutters to my forehead and dramatic sighs puff my cheeks.

If I can make it to the shower before any tantrums are thrown or dishes dropped, the steam and sort-of-solitude soothe my nerves and finally send her home. [Thank goodness, because you know you just can't BREATHE in a corset].

But why must she show up in the first place? Why are my nerves so raw? I've always felt that I'm a fairly even-keeled person, not quite as prone to the wild swings in mood that can sometimes possess persons of my sex. [John, are you shaking your head right now? I SEE YOU.] But Ruthie has been cutting teeth these past few weeks [or for her whole life?] and her deteriorating sleep habits have been sloughing off my protective layers, night by night, exposing my nerves so that normal sounds and situations sent me to some perceived edge. It's a mirage, I know that, but still I stand there shouting.

But I wrap myself in yoga and fiction and John and the bits of spider silk I see glinting in the sunshine from across the yard. Buffered so, I can still function. But I long to nestle into thick blankets of deep, uninterrupted sleep.

It will come. I know that. Some day [soon? Please?] I'll wake only to shuffle myself barefoot to the bathroom, take care of business, and be back to blissful slumber in moments.

But for now, I'm up all night. And I'm fighting Mrs. Bennet.

just what i wanted to do

Click. Click. Click.

The computer's backlight is starting to feel oppressive, tunnel visioning all my attention into this brightest thing in the darkening room. But I click on.

I've looked forward to evening [and its promise of silence and stillness] all through the animated hours of this living day. But now here I sit, wasting dusk and done with knit brows and a wrinkled nose, surfing through blogs and comments that leave me shaking my head.

I drag my eyes across the room, focusing finally on the tall, wide living room windows. Through that glass, blue clings to its space between the tree branches, cooling into a more subtle hue as the sun bows out of this day.

But in here, the refrigerator hums. The dog snores. The computer fan goes on.

I drain the last of my lukewarm tea and open the front door.

I bring my notebook.

A spider keeps silent watch over the front porch, still and alert in the center of a web strung between wrought-iron curlicues. The cardinal nesting near the house corner scolds her goodnights. A bat darts overhead. I pull my hood over my chilly ears and sit, breathing in lilac scents and traffic sounds.

I write until I can't quite make out the words dripping from my pen.

This is just what I wanted to do.

But then my butt starts getting cold and I remember that I didn't bring the baby monitor outside. I'm kind of hungry anyway. I open the door, go inside, turn on the lamp. And I see the words marching across my page – neat and regular at first, then progressively larger and spaced further apart as the light ran out. The last sentence is merely a series of indentations pressed into the paper – my pen had run out, too.

I trace my fingers over the page. There's no ink. But I can still feel the words.

the bad mother

Not every day – but often – making breakfast for the kids feels like the biggest chore.

I think it's because the coffee hasn't made it from bloodstream to brain yet. That, and I usually feel interrupted when the kids wake up – yanked out of my personal quiet space and bombarded by the demands of the day.

I want oats! I want cereal! You didn't get my milk! Can I mix the Ovaltine! Can I type the microwave numbers!

Like many children, these kids have one volume: ON. And they're ON from the moment their eyes snap open. [I love them dearly, you know, but oh the noise, noise, NOISE, NOISE!]

So Mother's Day started out just right with me still in bed and John graciously tending to the early-morning circus.

It was the beginning of a lovely day, one that I had been looking forward to for quite awhile – a "day off" with few expectations and the promise of a couple hours out of the house indulging in pedicures and chocolate with my sister.

John washed the dishes and cleaned up the dog poop in the yard and took the kids to Home Depot with him. I attended yoga class and enjoyed a quiet shower – no crying baby in the exersaucer just outside the shower door, no tattling children barging in, expressions muted by the beveled glass between us, protests amplified in the echo-prone space.

Heaven.

Later, with my sister and her family on the way, I changed from knee-holed jeans into a skirt. I walked from the bedroom to the bathroom to put on a little makeup [a rare event, indeed]. Ruthie watched me from the middle of my bed, playing with some non-toy that seemed to occupy her moving parts.

[You must see where this is going.]

Then – a THUMP and a cry.

Ruthie had rolled off the bed.

In the instant I ran to scoop her up and check her for blood or brokenness, my mind raced.

Oh, bad mother bad mother look what you did! Please be okay little one.

But at the same time as my mama-instincts chastised my inattention and worried over my sweet baby, the true bad mother within shouted angrily, selfishly.

Ugh. This better not mean I have to miss my afternoon out. I better not be running to the ER with this kid when I'm supposed to be having my feet rubbed. Ugh. Damnit. You better be okay, baby.

After a moment of nursing, Ruthie seemed to forget all about the red mark blooming on her cheek. Her eyes were alert and her tears were abated. She was fine.

But you know what? I'm really not ashamed of that bad mother within me. She's the one that says In a minute to the crying baby and hungry kids while she finishes a blog post. She's the one that covers her ears during a tantrum. She's the one that throws tantrums sometimes herself. She's the one that reads books while pushing kids on swings and absently says uh huh to all their questions. She's the one that won't let the kids play games on the iPod right now because she wants to check her email.

She's not really bad. Just interested in self preservation. She is the champion of my sanity. She fights to keep me separate and whole.

I kind of like her.

And her toenails are painted red.

what i want to be

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be…a little boy.

I chose short hairstyles and preferred He-Man to Barbie. I liked remote control cars and pretended to be the Karate Kid. Once, I tried to pee standing up.

The doctor told my concerned mother not to make a big deal out of it. He was right. It was a phase that passed – I wore a dress to prom and years later married the man I danced with and birthed babies the way women must.

But between then and now, I've tried on identity after identity like so many pairs of pants in the fitting room, searching for the perfect pair that fit like a glove.

In high school, I was a runner. I tied that label onto the soles of my feet and let it carry me through those four years and beyond. When the balance between pride and pain tipped too steeply onto punishment's court, though, I stepped out of those shoes and left that identity to soak in its puddle of sweat.

In college, I wanted to be an engineer. I thought it was what all the smart kids did. But as I began to walk to required track, I found nothing that interested me in the scenery. I saw only miles and miles of numbers and logic and I felt no passion. So I derailed.

And then there was Maggie, a girl I met during my year away from college as an Americorps volunteer. Deep down, I loved her. I wanted to be her.

Actually, deep down isn't right. I wore it all over my face as I watched her animated beauty with wide eyes. She must have noticed. But she put up with me. Perhaps she sensed how fragile I was back then. That I was still in my shell with soft, vulnerable skin.

She knitted. She ate no meat. She bowed her head before meals but attended no church – hers was a god found in the trees and cupped between her hands. She didn't always wear underwear. She saw beauty everywhere and netted it onto white edged photographs. She cared deeply about the world.

But I couldn't wiggle into her mold. I felt weird without underwear and my knitting tied itself in knots. Too many beans in my diet gave me gas and I didn't have a good camera.

I'm not a boy. I'm not a runner. I could never be an engineer. And I'm definitely not Maggie.

But I am a mother.

This is an identity I will never grow out of or leave behind or decide against or realize just isn't me.

It IS me.

It washed over me in relentless tidal waves when I was in labor for the first time, drenching me in the kind of pain that made me want to jump out of my skin and leave it writhing on the floor for someone else to deal with. But I couldn't. I had to hold on and hang in there and breathe breathe breathe. And I did.

When that baby was born she was mine. And I was hers.

I found myself in her eyes and later in her sisters' eyes. And I lost myself in them, too. Sometimes I strain to see my own toes wiggling in the often white-capped, often muddy, often whirlpooling waters of loving them. But I'm finding that if I lie back and let mothering close over my head, I can still see and breathe and be.

I can be a writer and a baker and a lover and a sun-catcher and a watcher and a sponge and a believer and a think-deeper and a critic and a grower and a student and a storyteller and a connoisseur and a giver and a take-backer and a champion and a seeker and relentless and poignant and focused and strong.

I am a mother. I am me.

focus

I've been writing more. Working more. Sleeping less.

Enjoying my days but finding that they spin rather fast and the resulting centrifugal force has been scraping a few things off my plate. Narrowing my focus.

1. Baking Day – at its inception, a chaotic day of dishes piled to the ceiling and flour suspended mid-air where I'd churn out bread and muffins and cookies and a headache – has retreated into simply Bread Day. It's filling us, though – with a warm and well-loved daily staple. And I've been finding time to squeeze it in more than once a week – its getting easier, and doesn't need its own "day," as I'm finding ways to weave it into the flow of regular life.
   

   
    

2. Walking the Dog – once a daily escape for me – squeezes in as part of family outings or as the occasional solitary indulgence. It's enough, though the dog does not exactly agree. And its fun to watch the girls run ahead, wind in their hair, playing some crazy made-up adventure that usually somehow revolves around The Wizard of Oz.
   

 

1. Yoga – formerly a consistent morning routine – can't seem to come home with me from class. But attending twice-weekly is sustaining me, at least for now. I found a teacher at the athletic club who teaches in a similar flow style as my previous [beloved] instructor, but she ups the intensity and the change has invigorated me.
   

 

1. Swimming – at first a light in that late-winter tunnel –occupies the dusty space in my maybe column. I'm okay with that, though, because there just isn't time. My suit has been hanging the basement for weeks now, but I know I can jump back in if I find some space and motivation.
   

 

What about you? What are you doing more? Doing less?

***

So. Writing more. Motivation and inspiration have been swirling all about me, and I feel the need to throw my kite into that wind, and soon. I guess I've been held up not only by fear, but by all the pre-writing I know I must do – plot outlines, character sketches, scene cards. But maybe that doesn't have to come first. Maybe I need to pull out the stopper and let some stuff flow out, even if its sludge at first. I can filter it later. So very soon, I think I'm going to commit to some kind of writing challenge – a page a day? a certain word count per week? Not sure how it will shape up but I know I must write out a commitment. Because writing a novel is not something that I will let fall off my plate – its cemented in.

what she’ll remember

Friday. A final goodbye. One last bear hug. A period at the end of a sentence that I know she can't really see.

Okay, you can let go of me now. Okay. OKAY.

Unbound, she waved once more to her friend as we left the classroom and walked to our car. His family is moving to the West Coast. [Best wishes, you guys!]

His mom told me that as he looked moving away in the eye, he brushed his fingers over the idea that he wouldn't finish the year with his preschool friends and said, But how will I marry Claire O?

She has a picture hanging on the wall next to her pillow – a goodbye art project he gave to her. A marker-drawn red heart next to his name.

That way, we tell her, pointing out the front window in a south-westerly direction. You can look that way and think of him.

That fact that Claire will likely never see this little boy again rests like a lump in my throat. It's silly, I know – change is inevitable and we say goodbyes all the time.

But I'm also thinking about being five and about the fact that I remember being five.

I remember climbing the slide at St. Bernadette's chanting I think I can I think I can with Andy Dirk. We ate raisins together. It might have been him who dunked someone's stuffed animal in the fish tank on Bring your Bear to School day. Maybe not, though. Those memories are brittle and yellowing around the edges.

I remember walking around the block with my older sister in bare feet after it rained. The corner—our boundary, the edge of our world. Tracing those footprints sunk in the street cement with my mind's eye – a ritual. They abruptly stopped midway across the street. Santa got in his sleigh right there— I just knew it.

I remember waking up early – before my sisters – and tasting the privilege of parents all to myself.

I remember not napping and instead helping my mom with something in the kitchen. Mixing salad dressing? Something got in my eye and I cried out in a voice that didn't sound like mine. You'll wake your sisters.

I remember swinging and jumping in leaf piles and playing percussion with sticks on metal garbage cans. I remember pillow football with dad and chicken and baked potatoes with Grandma. I remember Mr. Rodgers at lunch time and spreading liver sandwiches made by mom and the smell of our living room carpet and the shape of that room's crown molding.

There's a lot I don't remember, too – scenes and emotions that have gone dark under the weight of years and other experiences. Notably, I can't dredge up much strife or conflict. I know I threw fits and fought with my sisters and felt minute injustices and fell on scraped knees. And I know my mother must have felt a lot of the daily frustrations that I feel these days. And maybe she even showed it. But I don't remember that.

Claire is up for the day, already breakfasted and off coloring in the very-messy room she shares with Eliza. I wonder what her memory is recording right now and what will bubble to the surface in twenty years when she consciously tries to remember being five. I wonder if she'll remember hugging Ty goodbye last week. I wonder if she'll remember yesterday's out-of-control emotions when a promised evening outing couldn't deliver. I wonder if she'll remember Goodnight Moon at every bedtime or playing Little House. I wonder if the sight of a dance leotard will always make her hungry for pizza. I wonder if she'll remember begging for stories and learning to tell her own. I wonder if she'll remember helping me knead the bread. I wonder if she'll remember the frustration that some days write on my face and embed in my soundtrack.

There's a lump in my throat as I wonder what she'll remember because one day very soon being five will move away. Not all at once but little by little and I might not be able to grab a big enough handful to hug it goodbye before its gone.