Sometimes I forget
that you're not a teenager, when you stomp down the hall
with steps that sound louder than your size one feet.
When you shout not fair or stand
like a statue over some stubborn ground.
Sometimes I forget
that you're not an adult, when you wait
with your tank full of patience, while your sisters
completely lose it.
Or when you speak some bit of wisdom
about kindness or friendship or
not making someone else feel bad,
truths it takes most people
a lifetime
to learn.
Sometimes I forget
that you're a child.
Until I sit completely still for twenty straight minutes
watching your face as you sing with expression
unselfconsciously
through a book of poems, rhymes you learned at school.
Until I feel your mittened had slip into mine
as we walk to the bus. Still small.
Until I watch your bright face through the bus window
as it pulls away
and you're waving
like you mean it.
Then I remember
that you're stepping every day
into bigger and bigger shoes.
And that the sunrise tomorrow will look
mostly the same as the one I saw this morning,
only subtly different because of the tilt of the earth.
And I might not notice until you're coming up
from a completely different direction
that you've changed
into a teenager
and then an adult.
So I'm trying to memorize your face
your voice
the feel of your hand
So I won't ever forget
when you were a Child.
today.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
draining
Back when Middlest was still the littlest, she was terrified of the open bathtub drain. You couldn't let the water out until she and all her toys had been lifted ashore, safe on dry land. There could be no compromising about this. No hurrying. Though we explained and even showed her that objects and people are much too large to pass through, she remained skeptical. She feared the deep and the darkness and the unidentified, never-ending space that exists on the other side of that shiny drain cover. She could see a tiny bit of it in the crack that let the water out, and Down There must have been so vast in her mind. It had to hold all that water, didn't it?
Eventually, she grew most of the way out of this fear, but she still never lingers in the tub once the drain has been opened. She still doesn't like any of her toys floating unattended while the water goes down. But she isn't nearly as frantic about it. She seems to trust, beyond her fear, that she'll stay here, even after the water is gone.
***
I've been sneaking in tiny yoga practices a couple times a week, 20 minutes in the morning when the kids are playing or maybe watching a little TV. {It's been lovely. Day-altering, really.} I usually conclude with the legs up the wall version of savasana (meaning, I lie on the floor with my legs up the wall, literally).
I was in this place yesterday morning, breathing deep and visualizing the blood flowing out of my legs and saturating my brain. I imagined that my worries and doubts were flowing that direction, too, but not pooling in my head. No, all that stuff would enter the Earth where it supported me and drain drain drain away. Out of me and into something much bigger that could hold all that and not feel heavier. God? Maybe. Sure. I don't know. I can't even call It anything with words but I can say thank you. When I'm sitting upright again, palms together. I press my thumbs into the bony outline of my eyes and say it more than once. Thank you. For absorbing everything I simply cannot carry.
Because I could hold onto all of that, afraid to let it drain, afraid to let it go, afraid of the bigness of Whatever it is that supports me here and keeps me from disappearing through the floor.
And sometimes, I am afraid. Sometimes, I still hold on at least somewhat, watching warily as all the things that bother me and overwhelm me and make me sweat float around in my mental tub.
But I think I think I think I think I may have grown out of that fear, mostly. I've heard about it and seen it and really really really felt it, how light and full of light my whole being can feel when I've let go.
But it takes trust, I think, to release and surrender. Trust that even after the last of the water has drained out, there's still something left. I'm still here.
Eventually, she grew most of the way out of this fear, but she still never lingers in the tub once the drain has been opened. She still doesn't like any of her toys floating unattended while the water goes down. But she isn't nearly as frantic about it. She seems to trust, beyond her fear, that she'll stay here, even after the water is gone.
***
I've been sneaking in tiny yoga practices a couple times a week, 20 minutes in the morning when the kids are playing or maybe watching a little TV. {It's been lovely. Day-altering, really.} I usually conclude with the legs up the wall version of savasana (meaning, I lie on the floor with my legs up the wall, literally).
I was in this place yesterday morning, breathing deep and visualizing the blood flowing out of my legs and saturating my brain. I imagined that my worries and doubts were flowing that direction, too, but not pooling in my head. No, all that stuff would enter the Earth where it supported me and drain drain drain away. Out of me and into something much bigger that could hold all that and not feel heavier. God? Maybe. Sure. I don't know. I can't even call It anything with words but I can say thank you. When I'm sitting upright again, palms together. I press my thumbs into the bony outline of my eyes and say it more than once. Thank you. For absorbing everything I simply cannot carry.
Because I could hold onto all of that, afraid to let it drain, afraid to let it go, afraid of the bigness of Whatever it is that supports me here and keeps me from disappearing through the floor.
And sometimes, I am afraid. Sometimes, I still hold on at least somewhat, watching warily as all the things that bother me and overwhelm me and make me sweat float around in my mental tub.
But I think I think I think I think I may have grown out of that fear, mostly. I've heard about it and seen it and really really really felt it, how light and full of light my whole being can feel when I've let go.
But it takes trust, I think, to release and surrender. Trust that even after the last of the water has drained out, there's still something left. I'm still here.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
with love from my muse
So you're waiting for inspiration? You think stories will just come to you and characters will whisper in your ear? That's very nice. Good luck with that.
I hate to be the one to break it to you, but no one is going to come knocking. There will be no story waiting on your step when you open the door, ready for you to unwrap. It never happens like that. Well, maybe it does. But I'll tell you right now you are on no one's mailing list. So sorry.
Maybe you've heard? Inspiration is a myth. All that you'll find is this: work. What? You don't have time for that? You need to learn more about writing fiction before you can actually write it? You have no ideas? Nothing to write about?
The ink in your pen is all dried up because you never use it. You're not trying.
Consider this. You are surrounded by ideas. Something like 6 billion of them. They walk past you every day. You see them. You hear about them. They talk to you. Listen. Watch. You will find ideas peeking out from under every rock if you just turn them over.
Forget about anything as grand as plot for now. You're not ready for that. You need to learn how to enter someone's head. Breathe life into the dead. And follow their paths and their reasons for being in the light and in the dark with no one noticing you are there.
Do that, and then we'll talk. We'll see.
***
Okay, I heard you. Point taken. No more whining. No more putting it off. No more waiting for the gift that isn't going to come. Time to write. About you. And you. And you. And maybe a little bit of me.
So if you tell me about your day, I'm warning you. You might end up in my notebook.
But don't worry, I'm just practicing.
I hate to be the one to break it to you, but no one is going to come knocking. There will be no story waiting on your step when you open the door, ready for you to unwrap. It never happens like that. Well, maybe it does. But I'll tell you right now you are on no one's mailing list. So sorry.
Maybe you've heard? Inspiration is a myth. All that you'll find is this: work. What? You don't have time for that? You need to learn more about writing fiction before you can actually write it? You have no ideas? Nothing to write about?
The ink in your pen is all dried up because you never use it. You're not trying.
Consider this. You are surrounded by ideas. Something like 6 billion of them. They walk past you every day. You see them. You hear about them. They talk to you. Listen. Watch. You will find ideas peeking out from under every rock if you just turn them over.
Forget about anything as grand as plot for now. You're not ready for that. You need to learn how to enter someone's head. Breathe life into the dead. And follow their paths and their reasons for being in the light and in the dark with no one noticing you are there.
Do that, and then we'll talk. We'll see.
***
Okay, I heard you. Point taken. No more whining. No more putting it off. No more waiting for the gift that isn't going to come. Time to write. About you. And you. And you. And maybe a little bit of me.
So if you tell me about your day, I'm warning you. You might end up in my notebook.
But don't worry, I'm just practicing.
Monday, October 31, 2011
scrapped
Driving home from preschool drop-off, Littlest fell asleep. (She doesn't nap anymore -- this is a general rule she set up for herself). I saw her in the rear-view mirror dozing off in stop-starting stages, until the stairs eventually slid out from under her and she tumbled into the sort of sleep that's complete with gentle snoring. Never in her life has she transferred from carseat to crib and stayed asleep, so I drove to the state park up the street and parked.
I found a scrap of paper -- the back side of a reminder sent home from school -- and a pen buried under old receipts and wrappers. And I wrote. It was silent (except for the snoring). For a full thirty minutes, I sat in a slice of blue sky on a very grey day.
When she woke up, I folded up my scrap and we drove back home. We picked up and dropped off and picked up and dropped off and ate dinner and went trick or treating. And when the day was done, entirely done, I unfolded the paper and sat down to type it up. To finish my last blog post of the NaBloWriMo challenge.
I typed for awhile, squinting at my scrawl and transposing the words from scrap to screen. But then I looked at it. Really looked at it. And I selected all and hit delete. I refolded the paper and slipped it into the recycle bin. It wasn't what I wanted to say at all. It didn't come out right. The words weren't worth re-reading.
But that wasn't a wasted half hour. Not at all. I don't have any words to show for the time I stole for writing while Littlest napped. But the feeling of it -- the unexpected quiet, the pen in my hand, nothing else to do and nowhere else to be but here -- was worth more than a whole month of blog posts.
And that has always been the point of this.
I found a scrap of paper -- the back side of a reminder sent home from school -- and a pen buried under old receipts and wrappers. And I wrote. It was silent (except for the snoring). For a full thirty minutes, I sat in a slice of blue sky on a very grey day.
When she woke up, I folded up my scrap and we drove back home. We picked up and dropped off and picked up and dropped off and ate dinner and went trick or treating. And when the day was done, entirely done, I unfolded the paper and sat down to type it up. To finish my last blog post of the NaBloWriMo challenge.
I typed for awhile, squinting at my scrawl and transposing the words from scrap to screen. But then I looked at it. Really looked at it. And I selected all and hit delete. I refolded the paper and slipped it into the recycle bin. It wasn't what I wanted to say at all. It didn't come out right. The words weren't worth re-reading.
But that wasn't a wasted half hour. Not at all. I don't have any words to show for the time I stole for writing while Littlest napped. But the feeling of it -- the unexpected quiet, the pen in my hand, nothing else to do and nowhere else to be but here -- was worth more than a whole month of blog posts.
And that has always been the point of this.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
something
There's something in my mouth.
It feels like something alive. Squirming at the base of my tongue, right there at the precipice of my throat.
I'm afraid to part my lips at all. To speak. To take a deep breath. Because I am sure the thing will leap out and I'm not sure what it will do. All I know is this: I will be ugly.
So I clench my teeth and swallow and swallow and swallow. But the kids are fighting and no one is listening to me and its too loud and I think I think I think I was a person designed to live alone.
This is the other thing I think I know: I can't do this.
So I lock the door of the bathroom and sit on the floor with my head between my knees and the shaking clawing thing seeps through the cracks of my scrunched up face and drips onto the floor while one child tantrums on and on and is now crying come back, mama.
And I do. I go back. When I'm calm and even and capable after siphoning off some of what sat in my throat all morning. But it's still there. I know it will well up later. And it does.
She crawls into my lap saying web web. She hands me The Very Busy Spider and commands that I read read. And there it is in my throat again for no reason but I have to open my mouth so I shove everything down, packing it into my esophagus. The words come out all wavy anyway and in someone else's voice. I baa and meow in this strange pitch but by the time the owl hoots at the end I'm normal. She's too little to notice that I wasn't. I'm glad about that.
I drink some tea and I think this washes everything down. I can talk for the rest of the day, at least. But I'm a little worried about what's sitting in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps by tomorrow, it will be digested. Whatever it is. Broken down and assimilated while I sleep so I feel whole when I wake up.
I hope so.
It feels like something alive. Squirming at the base of my tongue, right there at the precipice of my throat.
I'm afraid to part my lips at all. To speak. To take a deep breath. Because I am sure the thing will leap out and I'm not sure what it will do. All I know is this: I will be ugly.
So I clench my teeth and swallow and swallow and swallow. But the kids are fighting and no one is listening to me and its too loud and I think I think I think I was a person designed to live alone.
This is the other thing I think I know: I can't do this.
So I lock the door of the bathroom and sit on the floor with my head between my knees and the shaking clawing thing seeps through the cracks of my scrunched up face and drips onto the floor while one child tantrums on and on and is now crying come back, mama.
And I do. I go back. When I'm calm and even and capable after siphoning off some of what sat in my throat all morning. But it's still there. I know it will well up later. And it does.
She crawls into my lap saying web web. She hands me The Very Busy Spider and commands that I read read. And there it is in my throat again for no reason but I have to open my mouth so I shove everything down, packing it into my esophagus. The words come out all wavy anyway and in someone else's voice. I baa and meow in this strange pitch but by the time the owl hoots at the end I'm normal. She's too little to notice that I wasn't. I'm glad about that.
I drink some tea and I think this washes everything down. I can talk for the rest of the day, at least. But I'm a little worried about what's sitting in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps by tomorrow, it will be digested. Whatever it is. Broken down and assimilated while I sleep so I feel whole when I wake up.
I hope so.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
learning to get there
Every time, its like this:
You put one foot down and then the other. You go lower, step by step. Slow sometimes. Or maybe you take the stairs two at a time. But eventually -- after a couple meters or maybe it takes a whole mile -- a switch somewhere flips and the stairs go flat and your feet go out from under you and you slide down the rest of the way. Into sleep. Into unconsciousness.
It feels good. It refuels.
But when you meditate, that's not where you want to go. And that's not how you want to get there.
So you stay off those stairs and instead walk in careful, concentric circles. You're trying to spiral toward something still and sacred and solely. solely. solely the self. But before you know it you've gone off course, taken some tangent in a straight line away from your center. Maybe you realize it right away. Or maybe you walk until a blister forms and then you feel it how far you've come.
You could forget it right then. Leave that path behind for good. It's not worth it. It's too hard. But instead you turn slowly, curving inward again, until your path follows a new spiral toward the same center.
And you keep going like this, following tangents and finding the spiral, until finally you're not moving at all.You're still. And then the switch flips but its not the stairs shooting out from under your feet. It's the light. You found it. And it illuminates you.
You put one foot down and then the other. You go lower, step by step. Slow sometimes. Or maybe you take the stairs two at a time. But eventually -- after a couple meters or maybe it takes a whole mile -- a switch somewhere flips and the stairs go flat and your feet go out from under you and you slide down the rest of the way. Into sleep. Into unconsciousness.
It feels good. It refuels.
But when you meditate, that's not where you want to go. And that's not how you want to get there.
So you stay off those stairs and instead walk in careful, concentric circles. You're trying to spiral toward something still and sacred and solely. solely. solely the self. But before you know it you've gone off course, taken some tangent in a straight line away from your center. Maybe you realize it right away. Or maybe you walk until a blister forms and then you feel it how far you've come.
You could forget it right then. Leave that path behind for good. It's not worth it. It's too hard. But instead you turn slowly, curving inward again, until your path follows a new spiral toward the same center.
And you keep going like this, following tangents and finding the spiral, until finally you're not moving at all.You're still. And then the switch flips but its not the stairs shooting out from under your feet. It's the light. You found it. And it illuminates you.
 |
| photo credit: Rosmarie Wirz |
Friday, October 28, 2011
joy pockets
finding joy in the little things...
-- a dishwasher! installed! it works!
-- one-on-one time with Littlest
-- a pile of new-to-me sweaters
-- enough time to watch a movie
-- really lovely neighbors
-- curling up with a great read
-- finally "getting it" in meditation -- letting go of thoughts rather than fighting them
-- a little less running around
share yours with me?
-- a dishwasher! installed! it works!
-- one-on-one time with Littlest
-- a pile of new-to-me sweaters
-- enough time to watch a movie
-- really lovely neighbors
-- curling up with a great read
-- finally "getting it" in meditation -- letting go of thoughts rather than fighting them
-- a little less running around
share yours with me?
Thursday, October 27, 2011
do and undo
Today, my brother-in-law came over to help install our new-to-us dishwasher. We decided that with a fourth child on the way, having this time-saving convenience in place will likely lower the stress a notch. Keep our hands a little freer, quite literally. It's something we can do.
I watched my newborn niece and toddler nephew (and my own toddler -- Middlest and Eldest are away on an overnight with their aunt) so the work could get done. I love those kids. But, whoa. Bouncing a newborn while pushing two kids in swings (kids who were both crying about who got which swing) -- now that was a flash forward to my life in a few short months. Today didn't overwhelm me, no. It was the weight of my tomorrows that filled my head. When they left, I felt a little undone.
Lucky thing I had yoga class tonight. I emptied all those overwhelming thoughts into the earth as I folded forward. I wrung the anxiety out of my spine as I twisted one way and then the other. It was just what I needed to do to feel capable again.
And then I came home and watched a movie. Inception. Have you seen it? It will surly weave itself into the fabric of my dreams tonight. My legs still ache from holding tension for the entire duration of the film -- as a general rule, my muscles ball up against suspenseful movies. It pretty much undid the effects of my yoga practice.
But I know what to do. I'll just run the dishwasher. It's just the thing.
I watched my newborn niece and toddler nephew (and my own toddler -- Middlest and Eldest are away on an overnight with their aunt) so the work could get done. I love those kids. But, whoa. Bouncing a newborn while pushing two kids in swings (kids who were both crying about who got which swing) -- now that was a flash forward to my life in a few short months. Today didn't overwhelm me, no. It was the weight of my tomorrows that filled my head. When they left, I felt a little undone.
Lucky thing I had yoga class tonight. I emptied all those overwhelming thoughts into the earth as I folded forward. I wrung the anxiety out of my spine as I twisted one way and then the other. It was just what I needed to do to feel capable again.
And then I came home and watched a movie. Inception. Have you seen it? It will surly weave itself into the fabric of my dreams tonight. My legs still ache from holding tension for the entire duration of the film -- as a general rule, my muscles ball up against suspenseful movies. It pretty much undid the effects of my yoga practice.
But I know what to do. I'll just run the dishwasher. It's just the thing.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
the soup
Do you want to know the best part of my day?
It was this: 3 o'clock in the afternoon, an hour before preschool pickup. The perfect sliver of time to make dinner. But I was so, so cold. And so, so tired. I couldn't imagine making anything that would make anyone happy at dinner. My tank was completely empty.
So I said fuck it and curled up on the couch with a blanket. And Littlest took it upon herself to make "tea" and "soup" in her play kitchen. She poured the tea directly from the teapot to my mouth and fed me the soup with a fork. My feet were still freezing but my heart -- my heart was singing warm.
And then: home again from pickup and looking at the bare stove top. Nope, dinner didn't make itself.
But! There's homemade chicken soup in the freezer!
Talk about an ah-ha moment. So with an assortment of odds and ends that the Little People would eat, there was dinner. Already made.
The husband did the dishes (god, I love him) and I slid away from the chaos, downstairs and to the work waiting for me. And so with a full and warm belly and a full and warm heart, I finished my day.
I think there was something magic in the soup SHE made for me that turned things around.
It was this: 3 o'clock in the afternoon, an hour before preschool pickup. The perfect sliver of time to make dinner. But I was so, so cold. And so, so tired. I couldn't imagine making anything that would make anyone happy at dinner. My tank was completely empty.
So I said fuck it and curled up on the couch with a blanket. And Littlest took it upon herself to make "tea" and "soup" in her play kitchen. She poured the tea directly from the teapot to my mouth and fed me the soup with a fork. My feet were still freezing but my heart -- my heart was singing warm.
And then: home again from pickup and looking at the bare stove top. Nope, dinner didn't make itself.
But! There's homemade chicken soup in the freezer!
Talk about an ah-ha moment. So with an assortment of odds and ends that the Little People would eat, there was dinner. Already made.
The husband did the dishes (god, I love him) and I slid away from the chaos, downstairs and to the work waiting for me. And so with a full and warm belly and a full and warm heart, I finished my day.
I think there was something magic in the soup SHE made for me that turned things around.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
ask
I'm paging through my notebook, past the scrawls and story-starts, looking for a blank page and hoping for some inspiration before I get there. I don't know what to write about tonight.
And then, I see it.
It's a note written in a child's hand, tucked between pages of my writing. It sits there like a present, one I know I will be even more breathless to unwrap in those later on years I can hardly imagine right now.
She must have penned it a year or so ago, back when her only font was CAPS LOCK and she spelled words largely without the use of vowels. It reads as a single sentence, taking up several lines, starting with DER MAMA and ending with LOV C-. In between, she tells me the title of her favorite book.
It makes me smile. Of course. Then it makes me wonder:
Now that she's read so many more books, has her favorite changed? I don't even know.
Why not? Does the laundry stop up my ears? Is dinner all that fills my head? Am I always on the cusp of something, looking back at her over my shoulder, saying uh-huh even while I've got one foot over the cliff and I'm just about gone?
No, not always. But definitely sometimes.
Tomorrow, I'll ask her.
Maybe at breakfast, if I sit down across from her for a second instead of scurrying to pack her lunch. Or maybe when we're walking to the bus stop, if she doesn't bound ahead before I get the chance. If not then, I'll try after school before she starts homework and we start the spiral of dinner and bedtime and work for me.
But I better ask tomorrow. Not wait another day.
Because next time I blink she'll be 15. And I'm not sure that she'll be leaving me secret notes anymore.
And then, I see it.
It's a note written in a child's hand, tucked between pages of my writing. It sits there like a present, one I know I will be even more breathless to unwrap in those later on years I can hardly imagine right now.
She must have penned it a year or so ago, back when her only font was CAPS LOCK and she spelled words largely without the use of vowels. It reads as a single sentence, taking up several lines, starting with DER MAMA and ending with LOV C-. In between, she tells me the title of her favorite book.
It makes me smile. Of course. Then it makes me wonder:
Now that she's read so many more books, has her favorite changed? I don't even know.
Why not? Does the laundry stop up my ears? Is dinner all that fills my head? Am I always on the cusp of something, looking back at her over my shoulder, saying uh-huh even while I've got one foot over the cliff and I'm just about gone?
No, not always. But definitely sometimes.
Tomorrow, I'll ask her.
Maybe at breakfast, if I sit down across from her for a second instead of scurrying to pack her lunch. Or maybe when we're walking to the bus stop, if she doesn't bound ahead before I get the chance. If not then, I'll try after school before she starts homework and we start the spiral of dinner and bedtime and work for me.
But I better ask tomorrow. Not wait another day.
Because next time I blink she'll be 15. And I'm not sure that she'll be leaving me secret notes anymore.
Monday, October 24, 2011
twenty minutes
The day has kind of started. I already made breakfasts and let the dog out and walked one girl to the bus. I put the dishes in the sink and changed a diaper and brushed my teeth. There's coffee in my veins and I washed the sleep out of my eyes. But I'm not ready to get all the way ready. Yet.
I need something, first.
Twenty minutes. That's what I need.
I can take that, and not feel guilty about it. They can handle that, and not really need anything, if I set it up right. Maybe.
So I explain that I'm going to do some yoga and I find something for The Littles to do. Coloring, I call it. Baby school, the Middlest calls it. She will be the teacher, of course. She likes being in charge when Eldest is away.
It's not silent. Of course it's not. I have to step out of Triangle Pose for a moment so I can check out the progress on a picture. Someone steps over me several times while I'm lying in Savasana. And I know the dog is standing right in front of me, staring me down, even though my eyes are closed while I'm trying to meditate.
But I take it. Twenty minutes. It feels so good.
Then I take on the day. And even though there's so much here and there and back and forth and this and that, it's a good one.
I need something, first.
Twenty minutes. That's what I need.
I can take that, and not feel guilty about it. They can handle that, and not really need anything, if I set it up right. Maybe.
So I explain that I'm going to do some yoga and I find something for The Littles to do. Coloring, I call it. Baby school, the Middlest calls it. She will be the teacher, of course. She likes being in charge when Eldest is away.
It's not silent. Of course it's not. I have to step out of Triangle Pose for a moment so I can check out the progress on a picture. Someone steps over me several times while I'm lying in Savasana. And I know the dog is standing right in front of me, staring me down, even though my eyes are closed while I'm trying to meditate.
But I take it. Twenty minutes. It feels so good.
Then I take on the day. And even though there's so much here and there and back and forth and this and that, it's a good one.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
uphill
I went for a run this morning. It's been my Sunday ritual recently. I like it better than church.
I follow the same route: a path through the nature conservancy near our house. It's wooded and quiet and brimming with birds even though right in town: it's my favorite place. I usually take the dog. She bucks and and bounds at first, burning off all her pent up energy and eventually settling into something of a rhythm. She refuses to match my pace, though, preferring instead to run ahead, stop to sniff something, then race like mad to catch up and pass me again.
The hill always gets her, though.
It gets me, too. I usually walk.
But today I felt good enough to take it at a run. The incline forced me to lean forward, to exaggerate my running form. I told myself I not to look at the top of the hill, not to think about the top of the hill. What hill?
My mind flopped about in my skull in the fractured way I think when I'm running. I inhaled images and exhaled ideas. One thing that popped into my head was something I learned in the running/yoga course I attended a few months back.
The instructor showed us how proper running form involved leaning forward, with the action of the legs behind your torso rather than in front. We did some resistance running to practice (you attach a belt to your waist and another person holds the end of this strong rubber band type thing to create resistance while you move forward). We felt proper form. And the instructor said if you ever forget this feeling, just find a hill. You have no choice but to lean forward when you're running up a hill.
And that got me to thinking (this is what happens when I'm oxygen deprived) -- isn't life like that? You work hard to live well. You practice kindness and patience and tolerance and generosity where you can. But sometimes you forget how to do it. You fall into sloppy habits that end up causing injury. But it seems like it isn't long before you find a hill to remind yourself. Some hard thing that you have to hurdle. And then maybe someone extends a kindness to you. Or maybe you fall into instinctual generosity. But in whatever way it plays out, you find your form again. You breathe however hard you have to. You stop if you need to. But you learn again, in another way, how to live well.
***
As I ran up the hill today, I stopped once, torso pitched forward, hands braced on my knees. Panting. But then I kept going. I made it to the top. And when I got there, the morning sun was slanting all magical and sideways across the scene. Three sandhill cranes stood there at the crest, crossing the path. They croaked their weird and beautiful calls to each other and walked in their regal way into the tall grass before taking flight. I couldn't look away.
There, at the top of the hill, I was already winded. Quite fully winded.
But then? Watching those cranes lift off? I felt breathless.
I follow the same route: a path through the nature conservancy near our house. It's wooded and quiet and brimming with birds even though right in town: it's my favorite place. I usually take the dog. She bucks and and bounds at first, burning off all her pent up energy and eventually settling into something of a rhythm. She refuses to match my pace, though, preferring instead to run ahead, stop to sniff something, then race like mad to catch up and pass me again.
The hill always gets her, though.
It gets me, too. I usually walk.
But today I felt good enough to take it at a run. The incline forced me to lean forward, to exaggerate my running form. I told myself I not to look at the top of the hill, not to think about the top of the hill. What hill?
My mind flopped about in my skull in the fractured way I think when I'm running. I inhaled images and exhaled ideas. One thing that popped into my head was something I learned in the running/yoga course I attended a few months back.
The instructor showed us how proper running form involved leaning forward, with the action of the legs behind your torso rather than in front. We did some resistance running to practice (you attach a belt to your waist and another person holds the end of this strong rubber band type thing to create resistance while you move forward). We felt proper form. And the instructor said if you ever forget this feeling, just find a hill. You have no choice but to lean forward when you're running up a hill.
And that got me to thinking (this is what happens when I'm oxygen deprived) -- isn't life like that? You work hard to live well. You practice kindness and patience and tolerance and generosity where you can. But sometimes you forget how to do it. You fall into sloppy habits that end up causing injury. But it seems like it isn't long before you find a hill to remind yourself. Some hard thing that you have to hurdle. And then maybe someone extends a kindness to you. Or maybe you fall into instinctual generosity. But in whatever way it plays out, you find your form again. You breathe however hard you have to. You stop if you need to. But you learn again, in another way, how to live well.
***
As I ran up the hill today, I stopped once, torso pitched forward, hands braced on my knees. Panting. But then I kept going. I made it to the top. And when I got there, the morning sun was slanting all magical and sideways across the scene. Three sandhill cranes stood there at the crest, crossing the path. They croaked their weird and beautiful calls to each other and walked in their regal way into the tall grass before taking flight. I couldn't look away.
There, at the top of the hill, I was already winded. Quite fully winded.
But then? Watching those cranes lift off? I felt breathless.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
the talker and the talked-to
I've chatted with her before. She owns the farm that sets up a few spaces down and across the way from the market stand I sell for. But our conversations in the past were just small talk in passing -- not memorable. Nothing like today's.
She dropped off some produce at our stand for some of her customers to pick up, as she wouldn't be there when they stopped by. I asked her the normal questions -- what each customer should get, what to do with the produce if they didn't come. And somehow she migrated from those topics to telling me about some dramas amongst her farm workers. About the politics of selling to various wholesale venders. About her marketing philosophies and how she is a person, not a business strategy. I kept looking over my shoulder, assessing the busy-ness of our stand and making sure my partner was able to handle all the customers. We weren't particularly busy, but there was a steady stream of people at our stand, and though I was interested in what she was telling me, I had a job to do. But it didn't feel possible for me to break away from this woman's field of energy. I felt trapped. She talked on until finally someone interrupted her to ask me a question. I seized my out. She eventually left.
After the market ended, she stopped by again to make sure her customers had picked up their produce. She asked me about myself -- what else do I do aside from the market job? I told her about being home with my girls and another on the way. And before I knew it, she was telling me everything from the story of her daughter's birth 30 years ago and why she doesn't advocate home birth even though she loves everything that's natural to how and why she and her husband started their farm. Again, I was interested in what she had to say -- she has an unusual and inspiring story.
But I was tired. My knees hurt from standing. And I really had to pee. All the other vendors had cleared out and gone home, and we were the only ones left in the lot. I was ready to call it a day. I shifted from foot to foot. Shielded my eyes from the sun. Still she talked on.
Finally, I picked up my bags in the middle of a stream of her consciousness and started to wade through it toward my car. It felt awkward, but she had shifted from telling me about how her father came to approve of her farming lifestyle to the story of a cut she had on her finger from a staple that was sticking out of a crate. It felt like a good time to wiggle out of her energetic web.
As I drove home, I didn't feel solitude even though I was alone in the car. Something of her came with me. Not in a negative way -- I didn't feel weighted down -- but I felt more full of her than of me. She was the giver. I was the receiver. I heard a good portion of her life story, while I think I said about four sentences during our entire interaction. I marveled at her ability to talk and completely miss social cues. And I wondered at my passivity and my inability to send those cues more directly.
Did anything of me go home with her? I doubt it. But perhaps she felt lighter, more alive, after giving me some of her "stuff."
She would talk all day. To anyone, I think. How completely opposite from me. I would listen all day. To anyone, I think.
And perhaps this -- our completely opposite natures -- was the reason I felt so stuck to this woman while she was speaking. She held me in place. Not maliciously, no. It was just what her energy did to mine. I'm not sure I've ever experienced anything like it. And I'm not sure I want to again.
She dropped off some produce at our stand for some of her customers to pick up, as she wouldn't be there when they stopped by. I asked her the normal questions -- what each customer should get, what to do with the produce if they didn't come. And somehow she migrated from those topics to telling me about some dramas amongst her farm workers. About the politics of selling to various wholesale venders. About her marketing philosophies and how she is a person, not a business strategy. I kept looking over my shoulder, assessing the busy-ness of our stand and making sure my partner was able to handle all the customers. We weren't particularly busy, but there was a steady stream of people at our stand, and though I was interested in what she was telling me, I had a job to do. But it didn't feel possible for me to break away from this woman's field of energy. I felt trapped. She talked on until finally someone interrupted her to ask me a question. I seized my out. She eventually left.
After the market ended, she stopped by again to make sure her customers had picked up their produce. She asked me about myself -- what else do I do aside from the market job? I told her about being home with my girls and another on the way. And before I knew it, she was telling me everything from the story of her daughter's birth 30 years ago and why she doesn't advocate home birth even though she loves everything that's natural to how and why she and her husband started their farm. Again, I was interested in what she had to say -- she has an unusual and inspiring story.
But I was tired. My knees hurt from standing. And I really had to pee. All the other vendors had cleared out and gone home, and we were the only ones left in the lot. I was ready to call it a day. I shifted from foot to foot. Shielded my eyes from the sun. Still she talked on.
Finally, I picked up my bags in the middle of a stream of her consciousness and started to wade through it toward my car. It felt awkward, but she had shifted from telling me about how her father came to approve of her farming lifestyle to the story of a cut she had on her finger from a staple that was sticking out of a crate. It felt like a good time to wiggle out of her energetic web.
As I drove home, I didn't feel solitude even though I was alone in the car. Something of her came with me. Not in a negative way -- I didn't feel weighted down -- but I felt more full of her than of me. She was the giver. I was the receiver. I heard a good portion of her life story, while I think I said about four sentences during our entire interaction. I marveled at her ability to talk and completely miss social cues. And I wondered at my passivity and my inability to send those cues more directly.
Did anything of me go home with her? I doubt it. But perhaps she felt lighter, more alive, after giving me some of her "stuff."
She would talk all day. To anyone, I think. How completely opposite from me. I would listen all day. To anyone, I think.
And perhaps this -- our completely opposite natures -- was the reason I felt so stuck to this woman while she was speaking. She held me in place. Not maliciously, no. It was just what her energy did to mine. I'm not sure I've ever experienced anything like it. And I'm not sure I want to again.
Friday, October 21, 2011
a dream, a discovery, an awakening
I've never been a very vivid dreamer. And if I do retain something
from wherever my mind goes when it's asleep, it's usually vague feelings
of disquiet: the sense of being chased, of falling, of losing
something. So when I had an unusually powerful dream a couple months
ago, the feelings and images that remained with me sparkled like bits of
light breaking in from another world.
This is how it went.
In the dream, our newest baby had been born. A girl. And there was a deep darkness all over the scene, a feeling of disappointment and dread and total let down. Because of the girlness of this baby. I sat on a set of stairs, curled up and crying.
And then my grandma approached me. (She passed away about 6 years ago). And the hug she gave me was very like her earthly hugs -- strong, meaningful, lasting more than just a moment. She spoke into my hair, saying, "She's healthy, and that's all that matters." I felt a sense of release at that moment that remained with me when I opened my eyes that day.
Gender wasn't something that I had been worrying about at all -- I mean, a boy might be fun, but we always say we'll take healthy either way -- but the baby's wholeness has been on my mind since this pregnancy news first started sinking in. I have always felt an abnormal foreboding about this baby for no reason that I can place, and this dream -- this message -- felt real and reassuring.
Today, we had the routine 20-week ultrasound. For a couple weeks now, I have been thinking of this baby as a boy. For no other reason that it just has to be, right?
But when the tech told us it looks like another girl! I felt this totally unexpected twinge of let down. I really don't even know why. I truly like raising little girls, and I think a boy in the family would throw us all for a loop. But in a good way, of course.
All the organs and growth and everything they check for in a routine ultrasound like this look normal. As far as they can tell, we have a healthy girl growing in there. That was the news I needed to hear. But still, I felt this pinch of disappointment. Nothing overwhelming. Something like a pebble in my shoe. But I hated it. It shouldn't be there at all. Here I am with the happiest of news, the most sacred of blessings, and I want something else? Ridiculous. But I couldn't shake it out.
And then my mind wandered back to that dream. To my grandma's words and mostly, to her hug. I shook my head and that pebble right out of my shoe. Of course she's so right. And of course THIS is so right. This girl. My girl. Naturally, there will be drama in the teenage years and maybe a little too much estrogen around here at times. Maybe having a boy would have off-set some of that somehow. But truly, this girl will even us out. Complete our circle. She'll be one of four daughters. Four beautiful sisters. And if the way the three we have now love one another is any indication, she will never feel anything but warm. And that, above all, is what I want for any child of ours. To know they are loved, no matter what they look like or who they are or where they go. Loved.
thanks, grandma...love to you today and always.
This is how it went.
In the dream, our newest baby had been born. A girl. And there was a deep darkness all over the scene, a feeling of disappointment and dread and total let down. Because of the girlness of this baby. I sat on a set of stairs, curled up and crying.
And then my grandma approached me. (She passed away about 6 years ago). And the hug she gave me was very like her earthly hugs -- strong, meaningful, lasting more than just a moment. She spoke into my hair, saying, "She's healthy, and that's all that matters." I felt a sense of release at that moment that remained with me when I opened my eyes that day.
Gender wasn't something that I had been worrying about at all -- I mean, a boy might be fun, but we always say we'll take healthy either way -- but the baby's wholeness has been on my mind since this pregnancy news first started sinking in. I have always felt an abnormal foreboding about this baby for no reason that I can place, and this dream -- this message -- felt real and reassuring.
Today, we had the routine 20-week ultrasound. For a couple weeks now, I have been thinking of this baby as a boy. For no other reason that it just has to be, right?
But when the tech told us it looks like another girl! I felt this totally unexpected twinge of let down. I really don't even know why. I truly like raising little girls, and I think a boy in the family would throw us all for a loop. But in a good way, of course.
All the organs and growth and everything they check for in a routine ultrasound like this look normal. As far as they can tell, we have a healthy girl growing in there. That was the news I needed to hear. But still, I felt this pinch of disappointment. Nothing overwhelming. Something like a pebble in my shoe. But I hated it. It shouldn't be there at all. Here I am with the happiest of news, the most sacred of blessings, and I want something else? Ridiculous. But I couldn't shake it out.
And then my mind wandered back to that dream. To my grandma's words and mostly, to her hug. I shook my head and that pebble right out of my shoe. Of course she's so right. And of course THIS is so right. This girl. My girl. Naturally, there will be drama in the teenage years and maybe a little too much estrogen around here at times. Maybe having a boy would have off-set some of that somehow. But truly, this girl will even us out. Complete our circle. She'll be one of four daughters. Four beautiful sisters. And if the way the three we have now love one another is any indication, she will never feel anything but warm. And that, above all, is what I want for any child of ours. To know they are loved, no matter what they look like or who they are or where they go. Loved.
thanks, grandma...love to you today and always.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
still life
a gust of wind. a single oak leaf. final threads shook and broken, it floats to the ground.
and then it's on the pavement, brown on grey, shunted into the gutter by the wake of a passing car. and now it's undistinguishable. just another leaf in the pile.
but did you watch it fall? did you see how it rocks laterally, turns over and over itself, even sometimes gaining altitude for just a single frame of vision on some unseen up-current? it descends, for sure, but gently, in stages. now plummeting, now drifting. cradled by the same air that draws color into my cheeks.
It got its 15 seconds of fame, that leaf. Not when it was a brighter hue, up there in the neighborhood canopy. It was just part of the general autumn glow. Not now, as a dry and crumbling cast off, a ghost of summer scratching around on the pavement. But then -- when it danced on it's way to the ground. Then, when I watched it fall. Then, when it imprinted in my memory and stays there still. In motion.
and then it's on the pavement, brown on grey, shunted into the gutter by the wake of a passing car. and now it's undistinguishable. just another leaf in the pile.
but did you watch it fall? did you see how it rocks laterally, turns over and over itself, even sometimes gaining altitude for just a single frame of vision on some unseen up-current? it descends, for sure, but gently, in stages. now plummeting, now drifting. cradled by the same air that draws color into my cheeks.
It got its 15 seconds of fame, that leaf. Not when it was a brighter hue, up there in the neighborhood canopy. It was just part of the general autumn glow. Not now, as a dry and crumbling cast off, a ghost of summer scratching around on the pavement. But then -- when it danced on it's way to the ground. Then, when I watched it fall. Then, when it imprinted in my memory and stays there still. In motion.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
almost empty, an end-of-day haiku
i've scraped the bottom
of my last nutella jar
and the writing well.
of my last nutella jar
and the writing well.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
here is the end
this is a story. i started it last week. i pulled it out of my ass. it was fun.
parts 1 and 2
part 3
part 4
here is the end.
***
You're all done? Mom calls from the kitchen.
Yah, I lie. I never finished shoveling the walkway but I'm not willing to explain why so I don't go there.
The house smells like chicken soup. I linger in the hallway, putting my things away deliberately, neat for once, while I wait for my heart rate to slow and my breath to even out.
Then I take on the kitchen.
I grab a bowl, fill it up from the pot on the stove, and sit across from Mom. She's looking at the newspaper. Dad will eat on the road. I take a bite.
Mmmm, good bread would have been perfect with this. I'm putting my toe in the water.
She nods, distracted. I should have picked some up. Next time.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Have you ever tried making it yourself?
Bread? No, it's never been my thing. She looks back down at the newspaper. This is a dead end so I decide to throw the door wide open.
Has Annie ever made bread for you?
She doesn't look up. A long time ago. That's all she gives me. I know how it is. Normally I'd just leave it alone. But I need this. So I keep going.
Did you get what you needed, then?
I'm half expecting that she won't answer. So she surprises me by looking up with a sort of smile on her face. Yah, she says. I got you.
Well that's sure not what I expected her to say. But it makes sense. I could ask a million more questions but I let it be. It's enough. She's done with her soup anyway, folding up the newspaper and standing to push in her chair.
She washes the dishes and asks about my day. I talk, like this is normal. It's not.
---
It's 1a.m. when I come out of my room. Dad has been home for a couple hours and has finally gone to bed. There is no way I can sleep.
So I open the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook binder Mom keeps next to the microwave. I find the bread section and pick out the first and simplest recipe. I've never done this before.
The flour I find easily. Salt, sugar, water, butter. No problem. I have to hunt a bit for the yeast, but Mom keeps an old meatloaf pan of various packets of things -- you know, taco seasoning, gravy starter, stuff like that for just in case. There's a three-pack of active-dry yeast in the back of this makeshift file. We sometimes make pizza dough. Actual bread can't be too much different.
Actually, it's pretty much the same. I'm surprised we've never made this one before. I don't use the electric mixer and it's handy dough hook for the kneading, though. I have to use my hands. That's the whole point.
I sprinkle flour on one section of the table and plop down the blob of dough. I look at it for a good minute, wondering exactly what I'm supposed to do. And then I just dig in, pressing and folding because that's what feels right.
Knead my name into it. That's what she said. So I start thinking Annie's name in my head. Not the word, really, but...the...imprint. The way it feels in my mouth when I say it. The way I felt when she spoke to me. The bare walls in her house and her see-through hair and penetrating eyes. The dough warms in my hands. My arm muscles feel the unfamiliar exertion but something else too. Something that starts like a few then a million little needles pressing through my skin, through my tissue, right into my bones. It's bad and good but mostly good. I want it to stop. But mostly I don't.
I knead far longer than the 8-10 recommended minutes. The dough changes under my palms from somewhat sticky to completely smooth and even elastic. When I can see my heartbeat in my vision -- strange pulsating dark spots -- I decide it's enough. I let it rest.
I doze off while it rises and bakes. I take it to my room to cool and sleep the hour before dawn with a loaf of bread on my desk. I leave it on her doorstep in the morning, wrapped in foil. I ring the doorbell but don't wait for her to answer it. I'm late for school .
When I get home in the afternoon, I'm not surprised to see the commotion across the street. The lights, the people, the in and out.
Annie is dead.
parts 1 and 2
part 3
part 4
here is the end.
***
You're all done? Mom calls from the kitchen.
Yah, I lie. I never finished shoveling the walkway but I'm not willing to explain why so I don't go there.
The house smells like chicken soup. I linger in the hallway, putting my things away deliberately, neat for once, while I wait for my heart rate to slow and my breath to even out.
Then I take on the kitchen.
I grab a bowl, fill it up from the pot on the stove, and sit across from Mom. She's looking at the newspaper. Dad will eat on the road. I take a bite.
Mmmm, good bread would have been perfect with this. I'm putting my toe in the water.
She nods, distracted. I should have picked some up. Next time.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Have you ever tried making it yourself?
Bread? No, it's never been my thing. She looks back down at the newspaper. This is a dead end so I decide to throw the door wide open.
Has Annie ever made bread for you?
She doesn't look up. A long time ago. That's all she gives me. I know how it is. Normally I'd just leave it alone. But I need this. So I keep going.
Did you get what you needed, then?
I'm half expecting that she won't answer. So she surprises me by looking up with a sort of smile on her face. Yah, she says. I got you.
Well that's sure not what I expected her to say. But it makes sense. I could ask a million more questions but I let it be. It's enough. She's done with her soup anyway, folding up the newspaper and standing to push in her chair.
She washes the dishes and asks about my day. I talk, like this is normal. It's not.
---
It's 1a.m. when I come out of my room. Dad has been home for a couple hours and has finally gone to bed. There is no way I can sleep.
So I open the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook binder Mom keeps next to the microwave. I find the bread section and pick out the first and simplest recipe. I've never done this before.
The flour I find easily. Salt, sugar, water, butter. No problem. I have to hunt a bit for the yeast, but Mom keeps an old meatloaf pan of various packets of things -- you know, taco seasoning, gravy starter, stuff like that for just in case. There's a three-pack of active-dry yeast in the back of this makeshift file. We sometimes make pizza dough. Actual bread can't be too much different.
Actually, it's pretty much the same. I'm surprised we've never made this one before. I don't use the electric mixer and it's handy dough hook for the kneading, though. I have to use my hands. That's the whole point.
I sprinkle flour on one section of the table and plop down the blob of dough. I look at it for a good minute, wondering exactly what I'm supposed to do. And then I just dig in, pressing and folding because that's what feels right.
Knead my name into it. That's what she said. So I start thinking Annie's name in my head. Not the word, really, but...the...imprint. The way it feels in my mouth when I say it. The way I felt when she spoke to me. The bare walls in her house and her see-through hair and penetrating eyes. The dough warms in my hands. My arm muscles feel the unfamiliar exertion but something else too. Something that starts like a few then a million little needles pressing through my skin, through my tissue, right into my bones. It's bad and good but mostly good. I want it to stop. But mostly I don't.
I knead far longer than the 8-10 recommended minutes. The dough changes under my palms from somewhat sticky to completely smooth and even elastic. When I can see my heartbeat in my vision -- strange pulsating dark spots -- I decide it's enough. I let it rest.
I doze off while it rises and bakes. I take it to my room to cool and sleep the hour before dawn with a loaf of bread on my desk. I leave it on her doorstep in the morning, wrapped in foil. I ring the doorbell but don't wait for her to answer it. I'm late for school .
When I get home in the afternoon, I'm not surprised to see the commotion across the street. The lights, the people, the in and out.
Annie is dead.
Monday, October 17, 2011
good enough
I found this quote from another lovely blogger, and it sums up why I write here just about perfectly:
We write to taste life twice -- once in the moment and once in retrospection. -- Anais Nin
Today was one of those days that was busy and normal and unremarkable overall. But it was still a day lived. Still a gift to unwrap, opening in beautiful, ordinary moments that sparkled in the sun before slipping into yesterday and yesterday and yesterday, buried until perhaps forgotten.
Unless I write them down.
::It is still dark when I wake up. Of course it is. But nothing pulls me out of bed other than my own desire to be up -- no alarm, no child -- and it isn't even a terribly early hour. A very regular time. When Normal People start their days. This makes me smile -- Normal? -- eyes crinkling against the sleep still stuck in the corners of my eyes. I take the one remaining muffin all to myself and fill my mug with coffee. In silence. And I watch the sun rise for a few minutes, fire behind the dark sentinel shapes of the trees, before anyone needs me for anything. Namaste, I whisper to the newborn light. Namaste.
::We walk in the door after a windy, chilly park outing. I take off my jacket and am cold in my thin cotton shirt. Cold in my socks on the bare floor. Cold cold cold to my core. So I put on a sweatshirt and a vest and slippers and heat some tea. I sit down and listen to the Littles play. Watch the sun turn off and on as the clouds pass through on their way to Somewhere. And slowly, slowly, the fire spreads from my middle to my toes, from my chest to my fingers, until I'm warm. Rekindled.
::We're driving home from dance class. Eldest is a talker. Always has been. A constant stream of narration and reminiscence and speculation and sometimes even passionate remonstrance. There's a fair bit of repitition but I'm working hard to stay here and hear everything she says. Sometimes I have to work against rolling my eyes. Other times she knocks my socks off with some stained glass shard she seems to just find in the gravel. Today it is this: we're talking about her homework reading, and I remind her that the teacher said she can read silently if she wants, rather than aloud to a parent. She remembers the time she threw a huge fit about reading to me. Then wonders aloud why she got so upset about something like that. I remind her that it was very upsetting and important to her at the time. Still, she says, it seems silly to scream about. She grows and moves on and can even look back with clear hindsight. She's learning more than how sentences fit together to form a story, it seems.
::It's the end of the day. I'm done working and my eyes are crossing. I wish my contacts were already out and my teeth already brushed. That I already went to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas. And especially, that I already wrote a Really Great blog post. Because right now, I have nothing to say. I try to continue my story, but it comes out uninspired at best. I close my notebook. Then notice the quote I posted next to the computer. The one about why I write. And so I forget about Really Great and just write. And what comes out is good enough. For me.
We write to taste life twice -- once in the moment and once in retrospection. -- Anais Nin
Today was one of those days that was busy and normal and unremarkable overall. But it was still a day lived. Still a gift to unwrap, opening in beautiful, ordinary moments that sparkled in the sun before slipping into yesterday and yesterday and yesterday, buried until perhaps forgotten.
Unless I write them down.
::It is still dark when I wake up. Of course it is. But nothing pulls me out of bed other than my own desire to be up -- no alarm, no child -- and it isn't even a terribly early hour. A very regular time. When Normal People start their days. This makes me smile -- Normal? -- eyes crinkling against the sleep still stuck in the corners of my eyes. I take the one remaining muffin all to myself and fill my mug with coffee. In silence. And I watch the sun rise for a few minutes, fire behind the dark sentinel shapes of the trees, before anyone needs me for anything. Namaste, I whisper to the newborn light. Namaste.
::We walk in the door after a windy, chilly park outing. I take off my jacket and am cold in my thin cotton shirt. Cold in my socks on the bare floor. Cold cold cold to my core. So I put on a sweatshirt and a vest and slippers and heat some tea. I sit down and listen to the Littles play. Watch the sun turn off and on as the clouds pass through on their way to Somewhere. And slowly, slowly, the fire spreads from my middle to my toes, from my chest to my fingers, until I'm warm. Rekindled.
::We're driving home from dance class. Eldest is a talker. Always has been. A constant stream of narration and reminiscence and speculation and sometimes even passionate remonstrance. There's a fair bit of repitition but I'm working hard to stay here and hear everything she says. Sometimes I have to work against rolling my eyes. Other times she knocks my socks off with some stained glass shard she seems to just find in the gravel. Today it is this: we're talking about her homework reading, and I remind her that the teacher said she can read silently if she wants, rather than aloud to a parent. She remembers the time she threw a huge fit about reading to me. Then wonders aloud why she got so upset about something like that. I remind her that it was very upsetting and important to her at the time. Still, she says, it seems silly to scream about. She grows and moves on and can even look back with clear hindsight. She's learning more than how sentences fit together to form a story, it seems.
::It's the end of the day. I'm done working and my eyes are crossing. I wish my contacts were already out and my teeth already brushed. That I already went to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas. And especially, that I already wrote a Really Great blog post. Because right now, I have nothing to say. I try to continue my story, but it comes out uninspired at best. I close my notebook. Then notice the quote I posted next to the computer. The one about why I write. And so I forget about Really Great and just write. And what comes out is good enough. For me.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Top Five Reasons I Will Not Wake Up Early Tomorrow
Every Sunday, I make these grand plans about what I could do with the extra time I'd earn by waking up early. Monday, I could write. Tuesday, a yoga practice. Wednesday, walk the dog. Thursday, go running. Friday, free choice! It could be wild. Who knows?
And then every Monday morning, I turn off the alarm (either when I'm up to pee at 2am or while it's sounding) and forget the whole thing. It's just not worth it.
Maybe it's because my body needs the extra sleep since I'm growing someone else's. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I go to bed too late. Maybe all of the above.
But every Monday afternoon, I get get angry with myself for ruining my own well-laid plans. Because I don't really have any other time to do the things I'd like to develop into daily habits. But beating myself up doesn't change anything. Tuesday doesn't dawn any differently.
So tonight, I'm just going to get honest with myself. Here are the top five reasons I WILL NOT WAKE UP EARLY tomorrow morning.
1. it will be cold. i will be warm under my covers.
2. it will be dark. i will want to hibernate.
3. it will be early. but not early enough. a child will wake up within minutes anyway.
4. i will not be accountable. no one is waiting for me but the dog.
5. nothing, nothing, nothing will be more meaningful or worth my time or growth-facilitating or life altering than closing my eyes for a few more minutes. the only bummer is that i'll be unconscious and won't know anything of the bliss i'm experiencing. but bliss it will be, nonetheless.
You're right. Forget it. I'm not even setting the alarm.
And then every Monday morning, I turn off the alarm (either when I'm up to pee at 2am or while it's sounding) and forget the whole thing. It's just not worth it.
Maybe it's because my body needs the extra sleep since I'm growing someone else's. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I go to bed too late. Maybe all of the above.
But every Monday afternoon, I get get angry with myself for ruining my own well-laid plans. Because I don't really have any other time to do the things I'd like to develop into daily habits. But beating myself up doesn't change anything. Tuesday doesn't dawn any differently.
So tonight, I'm just going to get honest with myself. Here are the top five reasons I WILL NOT WAKE UP EARLY tomorrow morning.
1. it will be cold. i will be warm under my covers.
2. it will be dark. i will want to hibernate.
3. it will be early. but not early enough. a child will wake up within minutes anyway.
4. i will not be accountable. no one is waiting for me but the dog.
5. nothing, nothing, nothing will be more meaningful or worth my time or growth-facilitating or life altering than closing my eyes for a few more minutes. the only bummer is that i'll be unconscious and won't know anything of the bliss i'm experiencing. but bliss it will be, nonetheless.
You're right. Forget it. I'm not even setting the alarm.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
what am I on, part 4?
The wind blew a whole lot today. I sold vegetables at the farmers market and hung onto my hat and our tent. I took home a bountiful haul of squash and turnips and mustard greens and chicken. Then I hung out with the kids and made dinner and did the dishes and gave them a bath and put them to bed.
And in between the cracks of all that, I thought about the little bit of fiction I've been playing with, and I got down a few more paragraphs. I'm loving writing it this way...a little at a time...no pressure to know exactly where it's going until I start to go there.
So, here are the first two parts, in case you missed the beginning.
Then I added some more.
And here's the continuation....
***
She never told me that.
No, she wouldn't. Her voice is soft, directed at the bare walls and not at me.
She's right. Mom isn't exactly an open book. If you want to know something, you have to ask. And you better know the right question. But I'm surprised Annie knows her well enough to hit that nail so squarely on the head.
The steam from the cup in front of me rises like a curtain between us. I decide to hold my questions. So I pick up the cup and let it warm the winter from my hands. Whatever is brewing smells spicy and sharp and deep. I hold it to my lips but its too hot to sip. I set it down again. It's something to do.
I notice the clock ticking. The furnace humming. I look into the tea. Maybe the answer is there -- is it my turn to speak? Annie seems to still be looking at the bare wall. I hope she's not falling asleep. Old people do that sometimes, right? Suddenly she speaks.
Give me your hand.
Okay, this is it. Some sort of voodoo is going to happen now. I don't cringe or draw away or hesitate. I just hold out my right hand. Whatever she's going to do, I want to know right now what it's going to be.
She takes my hand in both of hers, sliding her thumbs under my palms. Her skin feels hot to me. Not in a feverish short of way. But almost -- electric. I don't want to pull away.
She sits still as stone for a minute and my whole body starts to get warmer. I'm burning. And then she let's go.
I thought so, she says as she sits back in her chair. I leave my hand on the table. I can't stop looking at it. The clock ticks and the furnace shuts off. I'm silent for a whole minute.
And then: I felt that, I say. I hear the accusation in my voice but I don't correct it.
Then you will do it. Knead my name into some bread.
I look up and meet her eyes. They're piercing now. Beyond blue. I nod once. Then I get up, grab my things, and I'm out the door. I run down the driveway and across the street with my jacket unzipped. The cold shoots through my sweater and snakes around my stomach. I can't inhale fast enough by the time I reach my front door. I'm breathless.
***
maybe next time I'll finish it?
And in between the cracks of all that, I thought about the little bit of fiction I've been playing with, and I got down a few more paragraphs. I'm loving writing it this way...a little at a time...no pressure to know exactly where it's going until I start to go there.
So, here are the first two parts, in case you missed the beginning.
Then I added some more.
And here's the continuation....
***
She never told me that.
No, she wouldn't. Her voice is soft, directed at the bare walls and not at me.
She's right. Mom isn't exactly an open book. If you want to know something, you have to ask. And you better know the right question. But I'm surprised Annie knows her well enough to hit that nail so squarely on the head.
The steam from the cup in front of me rises like a curtain between us. I decide to hold my questions. So I pick up the cup and let it warm the winter from my hands. Whatever is brewing smells spicy and sharp and deep. I hold it to my lips but its too hot to sip. I set it down again. It's something to do.
I notice the clock ticking. The furnace humming. I look into the tea. Maybe the answer is there -- is it my turn to speak? Annie seems to still be looking at the bare wall. I hope she's not falling asleep. Old people do that sometimes, right? Suddenly she speaks.
Give me your hand.
Okay, this is it. Some sort of voodoo is going to happen now. I don't cringe or draw away or hesitate. I just hold out my right hand. Whatever she's going to do, I want to know right now what it's going to be.
She takes my hand in both of hers, sliding her thumbs under my palms. Her skin feels hot to me. Not in a feverish short of way. But almost -- electric. I don't want to pull away.
She sits still as stone for a minute and my whole body starts to get warmer. I'm burning. And then she let's go.
I thought so, she says as she sits back in her chair. I leave my hand on the table. I can't stop looking at it. The clock ticks and the furnace shuts off. I'm silent for a whole minute.
And then: I felt that, I say. I hear the accusation in my voice but I don't correct it.
Then you will do it. Knead my name into some bread.
I look up and meet her eyes. They're piercing now. Beyond blue. I nod once. Then I get up, grab my things, and I'm out the door. I run down the driveway and across the street with my jacket unzipped. The cold shoots through my sweater and snakes around my stomach. I can't inhale fast enough by the time I reach my front door. I'm breathless.
***
maybe next time I'll finish it?
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