The birds chirp sharply, even before dawn. Get going, they demand. The sun is almost up. They want us all to make hay while it shines, I guess. Hush, I tell them as I slide the window shut above my head and roll back into sleep. Not yet.
Neighborhood construction starts loud and early, too -- a truck beeps into the next-door driveway and workers crack siding off the house before I even shower. Lawn mowers duel, traffic drones, children shout in the distance. Even the leaves can be kind of loud as they laugh in the breeze. Summer vibrates with sound, miles from mute and muffled winter. Separate, even, from the stop-starting stirrings of spring. Summer is everything full blast.
But for me, so much sound actually equals some silence. Some space. Its true that with all three kids home all the time, a steady stream of voices saturates the air. But while some of this soundtrack splits me open with squawks and squalls and squabbles, the general cadence is a more gentle rise and fall of voices.
Voices laughing. Voices singing. Voices reading. Voices sillying. And much of the time -- voices pretending. Scheming and constructing the secrets and structure of their own little world, building on what was laid out yesterday, inventing the stepping stones that carry the story forward today.
Their voices float across the yard or drift up the stairs or circle around me as they spin from here to there. Sometimes I have to raise mine to referee some argument or distract the littlest from a fragile setup. But there are moments in each day -- stretches sometimes -- when I'm neither needed nor wanted as anything more than an audience. And so I am granted some loud silence. Some filled space. Yes, it's intermittent silence. Volatile space. But still -- space.
And so in this silence, I listen. Even while I'm otherwise engaged, I listen. Resting in -- wrapped up in -- the spontaneously conceived concerto of our unstructured summer.
It's quite lovely.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
waking up
I'm very, very far away. I've been traveling for hours. I'm not used to this.
This distance strips me of my sense of self and place and purpose but its a friendly fog. It embraces without weight. Without warping.
My legs and arms and eyelashes stretch long long longer and then they're gone. I become the road I'm on. The bits of sand stuck in the corners of my eyes. The endless breaths shunting through the shallows. I sparkle in the slow. I drift in the still, with grace pulled up to my chin.
I sleep. All night.
This has been a long time coming.
When my alarm calls for me {not a child's voice, not a child's cry} in the morning, I surface slow slow slowly -- not interested in breathing real air. I roll over and dive back in. Not yet, not yet.
When that voice finally does call, I meet the day with enough rest but this hint of regret tied heavy to the corners of my mouth. I missed the sunrise. The silence. A chance to salute the new day -- alone -- and siphon some of that soft pink from the corners of the sky.
I settle for a sprinkling of yoga across the morning -- downward dog while the kids are eating breakfast, chair pose while they are getting dressed. Which is something. But not, not, not enough.
I am all angles and edges and sometimes -- sometimes -- length. I lean against walls. I let my shoulders fall forward. But I'm still on my own two feet and always -- always -- touching the ground.
I look in the mirror, at one eye and then the other. I can't see them both at once. Filaments of orange dance in the green, around a dark, deep center. Its darker and deeper than I can even imagine.
My best self is in there somewhere and I know I've got to do some digging to unearth her. Below the surface and with bigger tools than just my fingernails.
So tonight I'll set my alarm again.
My soul -- it wants to wake up. We'll see if my body will play along.
This distance strips me of my sense of self and place and purpose but its a friendly fog. It embraces without weight. Without warping.
My legs and arms and eyelashes stretch long long longer and then they're gone. I become the road I'm on. The bits of sand stuck in the corners of my eyes. The endless breaths shunting through the shallows. I sparkle in the slow. I drift in the still, with grace pulled up to my chin.
I sleep. All night.
This has been a long time coming.
When my alarm calls for me {not a child's voice, not a child's cry} in the morning, I surface slow slow slowly -- not interested in breathing real air. I roll over and dive back in. Not yet, not yet.
When that voice finally does call, I meet the day with enough rest but this hint of regret tied heavy to the corners of my mouth. I missed the sunrise. The silence. A chance to salute the new day -- alone -- and siphon some of that soft pink from the corners of the sky.
I settle for a sprinkling of yoga across the morning -- downward dog while the kids are eating breakfast, chair pose while they are getting dressed. Which is something. But not, not, not enough.
I am all angles and edges and sometimes -- sometimes -- length. I lean against walls. I let my shoulders fall forward. But I'm still on my own two feet and always -- always -- touching the ground.
I look in the mirror, at one eye and then the other. I can't see them both at once. Filaments of orange dance in the green, around a dark, deep center. Its darker and deeper than I can even imagine.
My best self is in there somewhere and I know I've got to do some digging to unearth her. Below the surface and with bigger tools than just my fingernails.
So tonight I'll set my alarm again.
My soul -- it wants to wake up. We'll see if my body will play along.
Monday, June 13, 2011
handful
{one}
This one has been in the sand. One with it, really. A simple brushing-off won't do.
Time to go inside. I ask her to say goodbye to her buckets and shovels and trucks and she waves wildly, spraying my shirt with sand. Her legs dangle from my hip and her feet leave wet prints on my jeans. Halfway down my thigh these days. She's getting so long.
I turn on the kitchen tap and catch fragile quick fingers between my own and rub them clean. The sand disappears down the drain. I linger with her in the trickle partly because she likes it so much but mostly because I do. Cool warm big small over under brimming overflowing in my hands.
I had a dream, once, that she was choking. I couldn't help her. She turned blue before I could shake myself back into the quiet darkness folded around me. Her midnight waking was a relief for once.
***
{four}
Just the other morning, I tell her about a funny dream I had, something about cleaning the whole house with the toy mop.
I had a nightmare she replies. I was somewhere and I couldn't find you.
Today it comes true.
Dress rehearsal. Everyone is wearing the right tights and costumes and knows where to stand. Time to run through the final bows. A hundred dancers fidgeting in line, unspent energy raising the temperature of the air. Their noise rolls like thunder down the narrow hall. At least that's how I imagine it sounds to her.
My hands hold both of hers. She is shaking all over. She didn't know where I was.
I will find you right away this time. They have to walk across the stage again, this time with lights and music, dark and loud and fast. I leave her with her class at stage right, then dodge dancers and darkness until I reach the doorway at stage left. She crosses the stage. I'm right there but she doesn't see me yet. She's sobbing again.
We go through this again and again until every class understands how the finale should look. She cries every time, hanging on to her fear. Her nightmare. I can never reach her fast enough.
***
{six}
We're walking to the bus stop, the last week of school. She often walks ten paces ahead, pretending that she's allowed to cross these streets alone. But today she slips her hand in mine, no reason given.
This girl was a clingy toddler, fearful of other children, loud sounds, strange places. I remember thinking of her fragile grasp as a tiny bird's nest cupped in my hand. Crushable. Now her fingers wrap halfway around the back of my hand. Capable. In the fall, I might, might, might let her walk alone. I'm thinking about it.
Last night, I woke from the worst nightmare I can remember. It was a jumbled haze of chasing and fear and hot adrenaline, confusing scenes. I held her cowering in my embrace, hiding her from a faceless attacker. But something drew me from her and the next scene was filled with blood. It took me a long time to fall back to sleep after that. The shadows held terrible secrets.
***
I'm taking a walk with three girls, a stroller, and a dog. A neighbor smiles hello, surveying my scene. My, you've got your hands full.
I laugh. I guess so.
But that's not really it at all. My hands aren't full.
It's my heart.
This one has been in the sand. One with it, really. A simple brushing-off won't do.
Time to go inside. I ask her to say goodbye to her buckets and shovels and trucks and she waves wildly, spraying my shirt with sand. Her legs dangle from my hip and her feet leave wet prints on my jeans. Halfway down my thigh these days. She's getting so long.
I turn on the kitchen tap and catch fragile quick fingers between my own and rub them clean. The sand disappears down the drain. I linger with her in the trickle partly because she likes it so much but mostly because I do. Cool warm big small over under brimming overflowing in my hands.
I had a dream, once, that she was choking. I couldn't help her. She turned blue before I could shake myself back into the quiet darkness folded around me. Her midnight waking was a relief for once.
***
{four}
Just the other morning, I tell her about a funny dream I had, something about cleaning the whole house with the toy mop.
I had a nightmare she replies. I was somewhere and I couldn't find you.
Today it comes true.
Dress rehearsal. Everyone is wearing the right tights and costumes and knows where to stand. Time to run through the final bows. A hundred dancers fidgeting in line, unspent energy raising the temperature of the air. Their noise rolls like thunder down the narrow hall. At least that's how I imagine it sounds to her.
My hands hold both of hers. She is shaking all over. She didn't know where I was.
I will find you right away this time. They have to walk across the stage again, this time with lights and music, dark and loud and fast. I leave her with her class at stage right, then dodge dancers and darkness until I reach the doorway at stage left. She crosses the stage. I'm right there but she doesn't see me yet. She's sobbing again.
We go through this again and again until every class understands how the finale should look. She cries every time, hanging on to her fear. Her nightmare. I can never reach her fast enough.
***
{six}
We're walking to the bus stop, the last week of school. She often walks ten paces ahead, pretending that she's allowed to cross these streets alone. But today she slips her hand in mine, no reason given.
This girl was a clingy toddler, fearful of other children, loud sounds, strange places. I remember thinking of her fragile grasp as a tiny bird's nest cupped in my hand. Crushable. Now her fingers wrap halfway around the back of my hand. Capable. In the fall, I might, might, might let her walk alone. I'm thinking about it.
Last night, I woke from the worst nightmare I can remember. It was a jumbled haze of chasing and fear and hot adrenaline, confusing scenes. I held her cowering in my embrace, hiding her from a faceless attacker. But something drew me from her and the next scene was filled with blood. It took me a long time to fall back to sleep after that. The shadows held terrible secrets.
***
I'm taking a walk with three girls, a stroller, and a dog. A neighbor smiles hello, surveying my scene. My, you've got your hands full.
I laugh. I guess so.
But that's not really it at all. My hands aren't full.
It's my heart.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
cultivating
When we first moved into our house, I thought my thumb would green up pretty quickly. (I never had much luck with houseplants in the apartment. But -- a yard! I would do better.) I imagined a bountiful garden and beautiful landscaping.
But I was pregnant that first summer. I fell asleep in the sun while the girls ran circles around me.
And the second summer, my crawling baby wanted to eat every stick and green thing she alighted upon. And she slept like shit. Hanging a load of laundry was about the only thing on my outside chore list that year.
So here we are, three summers later, and the yard is still full of dandelions. The vegetable garden is a lot of fenced-in nothing. And the spaces where I hoped to splash color are unchecked tangles of whatever wanted to take root.
It's a little sad.
But I didn't have much luck with the few tomatoes we put in the last two years, and I'm not very inspired to figure out why. And honestly, I have a hard time investing money in plants that the chipmunks might chew. Or that might mystify me with sunlight and soil requirements.
This year, I'm sleeping better. But I still don't feel like gardening.
***
A few months ago, I decided to quit this corner of the internet that I'd been cultivating. Everything that was coming up had started to look the same to me. So I wrote the last of it and thought I would tuck into my notebook and scribble secrets that would swell into something more significant.
The break felt good. At first.
It was freeing to live sacred moments and ignore the urge to set them to music. To feel everything but remain right-side-out -- rather than laying myself out there: exposed, unwrapped, guts hanging out.
But the months went by and I picked up my pen only a few times. Made only a few scribbles. And felt myself disappearing around the edges.
***
Last week, I picked up the dandelion plucker and popped a few by the roots. Soon I had a huge pile of weeds and the yard looked only a little different. But there was something satisfying about the way the stems sounded when they broke free.
I've been sizing up the gigantic hostas along the house. The jungle of ferns that have self-spread around the shed and along the fence. Perhaps its time to divide them? Fill in some empty spaces with plants we already have?
Last weekend, the girls begged to plant something. So we put in a row of peas. A patch of zinnias. I'm not sure if they will come up, but they are watching with expectant eyes. I am too.
And maybe that's enough out there, in here. Pulling things out, breaking things down.
And watching. Especially the watching.
It doesn't particularly matter what -- if anything -- comes up. When there's dirt under my nails, I can see my edges.
But I was pregnant that first summer. I fell asleep in the sun while the girls ran circles around me.
And the second summer, my crawling baby wanted to eat every stick and green thing she alighted upon. And she slept like shit. Hanging a load of laundry was about the only thing on my outside chore list that year.
So here we are, three summers later, and the yard is still full of dandelions. The vegetable garden is a lot of fenced-in nothing. And the spaces where I hoped to splash color are unchecked tangles of whatever wanted to take root.
It's a little sad.
But I didn't have much luck with the few tomatoes we put in the last two years, and I'm not very inspired to figure out why. And honestly, I have a hard time investing money in plants that the chipmunks might chew. Or that might mystify me with sunlight and soil requirements.
This year, I'm sleeping better. But I still don't feel like gardening.
***
A few months ago, I decided to quit this corner of the internet that I'd been cultivating. Everything that was coming up had started to look the same to me. So I wrote the last of it and thought I would tuck into my notebook and scribble secrets that would swell into something more significant.
The break felt good. At first.
It was freeing to live sacred moments and ignore the urge to set them to music. To feel everything but remain right-side-out -- rather than laying myself out there: exposed, unwrapped, guts hanging out.
But the months went by and I picked up my pen only a few times. Made only a few scribbles. And felt myself disappearing around the edges.
***
Last week, I picked up the dandelion plucker and popped a few by the roots. Soon I had a huge pile of weeds and the yard looked only a little different. But there was something satisfying about the way the stems sounded when they broke free.
I've been sizing up the gigantic hostas along the house. The jungle of ferns that have self-spread around the shed and along the fence. Perhaps its time to divide them? Fill in some empty spaces with plants we already have?
Last weekend, the girls begged to plant something. So we put in a row of peas. A patch of zinnias. I'm not sure if they will come up, but they are watching with expectant eyes. I am too.
And maybe that's enough out there, in here. Pulling things out, breaking things down.
And watching. Especially the watching.
It doesn't particularly matter what -- if anything -- comes up. When there's dirt under my nails, I can see my edges.
Monday, May 23, 2011
grounded
She's crying again. Not a lot has changed.
But then, everything has. It always does.
This particular fit doesn't surprise me. I saw it coming. It was circling her eyes all morning. My detached voice doesn't particularly surprise me either. I've been practicing calm collected slow even still. Sometimes I'm pretty good at it.
She's sitting on the kitchen floor, wailing about who knows what anymore. I tell her she can join us outside as soon as she can stop crying.
My blanket she gasps.
It's the only way she can stop. She knows this about herself. That blanket is magic. It grounds her.
Go get your blanket then.
I can't fiiiiiiind it.
It's on the green rocking chair in the living room. (She can see it from where she's sprawled.)
I can't fiiiiiind the chair. (I direct her again.)
It's easier, isn't it, to leave the taps open, water pouring out, than do whatever work it requires to close those valves.
This goes on and on. Until it doesn't. And then it's done.
***
Now it's my turn.
I sit outside, notebook on my lap, a story finally unfolding. I read through what I have and add a single word before they're asking. Asking again. It's something I don't feel like doing.
But I do it.
And I'm ugly the whole time. No my face isn't green but it might as well be. Its a heavy color.
Of course I know exactly what I need. But I refuse to find my breath. I had it wrapped all around me just this morning but that doesn't matter. I will do anything but pick it up right now. I'll cringe and contort and crouch as far from the present moment as I possibly can. On and on until it's done.
And so I suffer.
Even though I know i know i know i know
i know
***
Today the sun is out and a perfect breeze fills my lungs. She asks for another push and I press my palm against her back. The outer bones of my hand span her width and connect with her sacrum. I inhale as she laughs and flies forward. Grounded.
But then, everything has. It always does.
This particular fit doesn't surprise me. I saw it coming. It was circling her eyes all morning. My detached voice doesn't particularly surprise me either. I've been practicing calm collected slow even still. Sometimes I'm pretty good at it.
She's sitting on the kitchen floor, wailing about who knows what anymore. I tell her she can join us outside as soon as she can stop crying.
My blanket she gasps.
It's the only way she can stop. She knows this about herself. That blanket is magic. It grounds her.
Go get your blanket then.
I can't fiiiiiiind it.
It's on the green rocking chair in the living room. (She can see it from where she's sprawled.)
I can't fiiiiiind the chair. (I direct her again.)
It's easier, isn't it, to leave the taps open, water pouring out, than do whatever work it requires to close those valves.
This goes on and on. Until it doesn't. And then it's done.
***
Now it's my turn.
I sit outside, notebook on my lap, a story finally unfolding. I read through what I have and add a single word before they're asking. Asking again. It's something I don't feel like doing.
But I do it.
And I'm ugly the whole time. No my face isn't green but it might as well be. Its a heavy color.
Of course I know exactly what I need. But I refuse to find my breath. I had it wrapped all around me just this morning but that doesn't matter. I will do anything but pick it up right now. I'll cringe and contort and crouch as far from the present moment as I possibly can. On and on until it's done.
And so I suffer.
Even though I know i know i know i know
i know
***
Today the sun is out and a perfect breeze fills my lungs. She asks for another push and I press my palm against her back. The outer bones of my hand span her width and connect with her sacrum. I inhale as she laughs and flies forward. Grounded.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
the last of it
Thanks to all the lovelies who entered my little giveaway. I stuck your names in a hat {okay, it was a pot} and pulled one out.
Betsy! You win! I'll be sending you a little LuSa love shortly.
***
Over a fresh dusting of snow, I walk. White that goes on forever, untouched. My prints trail behind me: divot, streeeeak, divot, streeeeeak, heels pressing and dragging across the powder. I can trace exactly where I've been. Anyone can.
Spring isn't here yet but I'm changing the season. Putting on some lighter shoes and walking in a different landscape. I want to leave invisible tracks for now, over rocks and grass exposed under my feet. I'll show you the map when I'm all done. If I ever get there.
I've been scattering words in my wake, a trail of crumbs for a whole year. I want to horde them in my basket now. I want to gather enough to press together into something a little more substantial. Perhaps it won't be edible, but I think it's going to fill me.
And that's what this has been about, all along. Thanks for being here. I'll see you around.
Betsy! You win! I'll be sending you a little LuSa love shortly.
***
Over a fresh dusting of snow, I walk. White that goes on forever, untouched. My prints trail behind me: divot, streeeeak, divot, streeeeeak, heels pressing and dragging across the powder. I can trace exactly where I've been. Anyone can.
Spring isn't here yet but I'm changing the season. Putting on some lighter shoes and walking in a different landscape. I want to leave invisible tracks for now, over rocks and grass exposed under my feet. I'll show you the map when I'm all done. If I ever get there.
I've been scattering words in my wake, a trail of crumbs for a whole year. I want to horde them in my basket now. I want to gather enough to press together into something a little more substantial. Perhaps it won't be edible, but I think it's going to fill me.
And that's what this has been about, all along. Thanks for being here. I'll see you around.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Birthday Treats (for you) -- a giveaway
It really doesn't feel that long ago. A day just like today, probably.
My mom poured chocolate into heart molds. We added lollipop sticks and waited for them to cool. I took them to class and handed them out at snack time. Sweets to the sweet. Star for a day.
Today I'm 30. Years away from that elementary school classroom. And miles away from so many of you.
But I'm so happy you come here. And while I'd love to hand out cupcakes, this computer screen is no magic looking glass. So the best way I can think of to reach through is to share something I love.
Sleep is getting better around here, but I usually wake up with a foggy head and an outlook that could use changing. When I hop in the shower, I reset my morning. Something about the idea of *washing away* that does the trick for me. The steam and the silence helps. And my soap? Mmmmm. A slice of sensory heaven. I'd love for you to try it.
Please hop on over to LuSa Organics and browse around the site. Pick a product that piques your interest and tell me about it in a comment here. (Visit their blog while you're at it to meet the family behind this inspiring business.)
I'll pick one random entry and I'll order you something lovely. A birthday treat from me.
Sweets to the sweet. Thanks for stopping by!
Thanks for entering. I drew a winner -- Betsy!
My mom poured chocolate into heart molds. We added lollipop sticks and waited for them to cool. I took them to class and handed them out at snack time. Sweets to the sweet. Star for a day.
Today I'm 30. Years away from that elementary school classroom. And miles away from so many of you.
But I'm so happy you come here. And while I'd love to hand out cupcakes, this computer screen is no magic looking glass. So the best way I can think of to reach through is to share something I love.
Sleep is getting better around here, but I usually wake up with a foggy head and an outlook that could use changing. When I hop in the shower, I reset my morning. Something about the idea of *washing away* that does the trick for me. The steam and the silence helps. And my soap? Mmmmm. A slice of sensory heaven. I'd love for you to try it.
Please hop on over to LuSa Organics and browse around the site. Pick a product that piques your interest and tell me about it in a comment here. (Visit their blog while you're at it to meet the family behind this inspiring business.)
Thanks for entering. I drew a winner -- Betsy!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
stuck
Last night's menu included bacon. Breakfast for dinner.
Today that greasy smell weighs heavy in the air. Sticks in my hair, even after my shower.
It's really starting to gross me out.
I open the kitchen window. The pane rows outward, a brave pioneer in the cold. Winter walks in.
The brown window frame stands out, warm against all that gray. The snow. The clouds. The trees. A landscape barely breathing.
Then I see it.
A small moth. Stuck where it last quivered with life, just before the window closed in some warmer month and squeezed the life out of it.
The clock ticks above my head.
Tomorrow is coming.
So I leave the window open a crack and get the kids ready. We're going outside. We'll kick the snow around a little. Feel the breeze chill our cheeks. Shake the bacon out of our hair. Move.
February wants to hang around forever. But we're never really stuck unless we fold our wings.
Today that greasy smell weighs heavy in the air. Sticks in my hair, even after my shower.
It's really starting to gross me out.
I open the kitchen window. The pane rows outward, a brave pioneer in the cold. Winter walks in.
The brown window frame stands out, warm against all that gray. The snow. The clouds. The trees. A landscape barely breathing.
Then I see it.
A small moth. Stuck where it last quivered with life, just before the window closed in some warmer month and squeezed the life out of it.
The clock ticks above my head.
Tomorrow is coming.
So I leave the window open a crack and get the kids ready. We're going outside. We'll kick the snow around a little. Feel the breeze chill our cheeks. Shake the bacon out of our hair. Move.
February wants to hang around forever. But we're never really stuck unless we fold our wings.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
conversation with the muse
I tried rain.
I thought the sound might wake you. It fell steadily, then harder. It roared in my head but you didn't move.
I added something a little more solid. Something that would plop heavy like wet sand and stick to your roof.
Sleet. It drummed and hissed right above your head, but your breathing never changed. You were down deep.
I clapped once. Thunder in your ears. The rumbling shook the whole house. You groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over your head.
I don't have time for this. I sigh. Your eyes are beautiful when they're open.
Now snow falls silently. Tucking in the ice and gently kissing it goodnight. In the morning, you'll step out into this wonderland, unaware of what lies beneath. You won't recognize my footprints on the driveway so you'll crack your tailbone on the front step and curse me for never stopping by.
You want inspiration? Next time I'll have to hit you over the head.
I thought the sound might wake you. It fell steadily, then harder. It roared in my head but you didn't move.
I added something a little more solid. Something that would plop heavy like wet sand and stick to your roof.
Sleet. It drummed and hissed right above your head, but your breathing never changed. You were down deep.
I clapped once. Thunder in your ears. The rumbling shook the whole house. You groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over your head.
I don't have time for this. I sigh. Your eyes are beautiful when they're open.
Now snow falls silently. Tucking in the ice and gently kissing it goodnight. In the morning, you'll step out into this wonderland, unaware of what lies beneath. You won't recognize my footprints on the driveway so you'll crack your tailbone on the front step and curse me for never stopping by.
You want inspiration? Next time I'll have to hit you over the head.
Friday, February 18, 2011
thawing
The fog flies thin and breathy over the windshield of my car. In transparent, transient clouds, the lake exhales -- breath moving again after winter's frozen coma. The season is changing by degrees. Groaning under a week of warmer weather. The mud loosens under softening snow.
I wonder if it hurts -- the change. The shape shift. The thaw.
***
It finally happened. She said it.
I don't LOVE. YOU. ANY. MORE!!
Girl-two rages on. Again. It's been a long week.
I release 20 slow exhales (One minute. Thank you, Stacy) and keep my voice even.
I'm sorry to hear that, E. I love you very much.
When the fit finally fizzles out, she falls asleep. I watch her chest rising and falling and I wonder about the depths I can't see. About growth -- in body or mind or spirit. About subtle degrees and changing seasons.
The stretching, the shape-shifting -- it must hurt. I let her sleep.
***
I look forward to Spring. To warm, gentle breezes. But I know the thaw comes first -- muddy and groaning and stuck in between.
All I can do is watch. Wait. Breathe.
This is where we are.
I wonder if it hurts -- the change. The shape shift. The thaw.
***
It finally happened. She said it.
I don't LOVE. YOU. ANY. MORE!!
Girl-two rages on. Again. It's been a long week.
I release 20 slow exhales (One minute. Thank you, Stacy) and keep my voice even.
I'm sorry to hear that, E. I love you very much.
When the fit finally fizzles out, she falls asleep. I watch her chest rising and falling and I wonder about the depths I can't see. About growth -- in body or mind or spirit. About subtle degrees and changing seasons.
The stretching, the shape-shifting -- it must hurt. I let her sleep.
***
I look forward to Spring. To warm, gentle breezes. But I know the thaw comes first -- muddy and groaning and stuck in between.
All I can do is watch. Wait. Breathe.
This is where we are.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
worried
My kid is not in school today.
No, she's not sick (actually, she's finally over the most recent cold...)
No, its not another blizzard (actually, our yard is melting apace...)
My kid is not in school today because the district canceled all classes due to staff shortages. Teachers are protesting.
They are upset.
The new governor plans to cut collective bargaining rights of state workers to help correct budget shortfalls.
In an automated phone message on my voice mail this morning, the school district superintendent stated his apologies for inconveniencing our families with the closure.
I wanted to call him back.
I wanted to tell him I don't mind.
I wanted to tell him I hope my child's teacher is protesting today. I hope she is standing up for her benefits. And I hope her voice is loud.
Because her voice is the one my child hears all day. Her voice is the one my child trusts. Her voice is the one we should value and reward.
***
We were standing at the bus stop when Girl-one startled me: Mama, I think I'm being bullied.
What?
She quickly told me about some teasing words. How sad she felt. I quickly explained that these were hurtful words, but not really bullying. We could talk about it more after school.
I emailed Mrs. K to let her know how Girl-one was feeling. What actually happened. Bullying is red-hot word and I didn't want the teacher to think something larger was going on.
She didn't respond right away. I figured she was busy.
The next day, I received a very long email from Mrs. K. She talked about how this issue always hurts her heart. How she wishes sweet, sensitive Girl-one did not have to hear such words. How she thinks about her students as her children and has zero tolerance for teasing in the classroom.
She told me that in class on Friday, she read a book and sang a song with the children about teasing. They talked about words that hurt and trying to ignore teasing. They talked about why a child might tease another child. They talked about real situations. Mrs. K told them about a time she was teased and how she handled it. She made sure they understood they could always talk to her about teasing and about their feelings.
All of this was in response to my email. In response to my child.
The email came at 10pm on a Friday night. On Mrs K's own time. After she had put her own three children to bed.
I've always worried that sending my sensitive girl to school was the same as throwing her to the wolves. But knowing that she is under Mrs. K's kind, expansive wing reassures me. Girl-one is safe. She spends her days with a gifted and generous heart.
I want to give Mrs. K an award. For this. For everything.
But my state is planning to reduce her benefits. I don't care if she has access to a pension and I don't. I don't care if she pays less into her benefits than I do. I don't care if we have a budget deficit. There has to be another solution. Taking something away from teachers doesn't say we value you. Taking something away from teachers does nothing to invest in our children. In our future.
I usually stay out of political discussions. I am usually the political apathetic.
But when I think about this issue, this protest, all I can see is people. Families. Mrs. K.
They're afraid of changes in their financial security. They're upset about what's being taken away. They're worried.
I'm worried, too.
This just isn't right.
No, she's not sick (actually, she's finally over the most recent cold...)
No, its not another blizzard (actually, our yard is melting apace...)
My kid is not in school today because the district canceled all classes due to staff shortages. Teachers are protesting.
They are upset.
The new governor plans to cut collective bargaining rights of state workers to help correct budget shortfalls.
In an automated phone message on my voice mail this morning, the school district superintendent stated his apologies for inconveniencing our families with the closure.
I wanted to call him back.
I wanted to tell him I don't mind.
I wanted to tell him I hope my child's teacher is protesting today. I hope she is standing up for her benefits. And I hope her voice is loud.
Because her voice is the one my child hears all day. Her voice is the one my child trusts. Her voice is the one we should value and reward.
***
We were standing at the bus stop when Girl-one startled me: Mama, I think I'm being bullied.
What?
She quickly told me about some teasing words. How sad she felt. I quickly explained that these were hurtful words, but not really bullying. We could talk about it more after school.
I emailed Mrs. K to let her know how Girl-one was feeling. What actually happened. Bullying is red-hot word and I didn't want the teacher to think something larger was going on.
She didn't respond right away. I figured she was busy.
The next day, I received a very long email from Mrs. K. She talked about how this issue always hurts her heart. How she wishes sweet, sensitive Girl-one did not have to hear such words. How she thinks about her students as her children and has zero tolerance for teasing in the classroom.
She told me that in class on Friday, she read a book and sang a song with the children about teasing. They talked about words that hurt and trying to ignore teasing. They talked about why a child might tease another child. They talked about real situations. Mrs. K told them about a time she was teased and how she handled it. She made sure they understood they could always talk to her about teasing and about their feelings.
All of this was in response to my email. In response to my child.
The email came at 10pm on a Friday night. On Mrs K's own time. After she had put her own three children to bed.
I've always worried that sending my sensitive girl to school was the same as throwing her to the wolves. But knowing that she is under Mrs. K's kind, expansive wing reassures me. Girl-one is safe. She spends her days with a gifted and generous heart.
I want to give Mrs. K an award. For this. For everything.
But my state is planning to reduce her benefits. I don't care if she has access to a pension and I don't. I don't care if she pays less into her benefits than I do. I don't care if we have a budget deficit. There has to be another solution. Taking something away from teachers doesn't say we value you. Taking something away from teachers does nothing to invest in our children. In our future.
I usually stay out of political discussions. I am usually the political apathetic.
But when I think about this issue, this protest, all I can see is people. Families. Mrs. K.
They're afraid of changes in their financial security. They're upset about what's being taken away. They're worried.
I'm worried, too.
This just isn't right.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
clean slate
It's been one of those days. I'm ready to turn the page.
I'm drying Girl-two's hair. She's crying. I'm thankful for the white noise. Something louder than her, finally.
She's upset about the snarls. About hair blowing in her eyes. About being too cold. I don't respond. My sympathy already went to bed.
We're done.
You must be too tired for books? I'm accusatory. This doesn't help.
It will have to be a short one. The words are sharp in my mouth and I don't swallow them. I should.
I try.
We read. She gets her sip of milk and tucks into bed. I tell myself that tomorrow is new. A clean slate.
John kisses her forehead.
Her request is soft. I want Mama to say "Goodnight, Moon."
What is tomorrow, to her? Every moment is a clean slate. How does she know this? She teaches me.
New starts now.
I'm drying Girl-two's hair. She's crying. I'm thankful for the white noise. Something louder than her, finally.
She's upset about the snarls. About hair blowing in her eyes. About being too cold. I don't respond. My sympathy already went to bed.
We're done.
You must be too tired for books? I'm accusatory. This doesn't help.
It will have to be a short one. The words are sharp in my mouth and I don't swallow them. I should.
I try.
We read. She gets her sip of milk and tucks into bed. I tell myself that tomorrow is new. A clean slate.
John kisses her forehead.
Her request is soft. I want Mama to say "Goodnight, Moon."
What is tomorrow, to her? Every moment is a clean slate. How does she know this? She teaches me.
New starts now.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
how I got here
I snuggle down and pull the sleeping bag over my shoulder and up to my ear. I had forgotten how warm this thing is. I am pretty comfortable.
I can't sleep, though, because Girl-three is still complaining through the crib slats, just behind my head. But she's winding down, now that I'm here.
My mind grows legs and walks back in time, settling into a night nine years ago when these very covers were much too warm.
I'm positioned similarly, but I have the sleeping bag pulled all the way over my head, sealing me in. Or rather -- sealing them out.
The mosquitoes.
I'm lying on a picnic table in the Everglades, buried deep in my down-filled sleeping bag. Sweating.
It sounds crazy, I know. Perhaps you are wondering how I got here.
During my sophomore year in college, decided I needed to get away. John and I had just broken up. I was starting my engineering classes and balking at the career in front of me. I needed a break from the path I was walking. So I joined Americorps NCCC and spent 10 months hopping around the southeast from service project to service project. {Missing home. Missing John. Finding myself. -- But oh, that's a different story.}
We were heading back from our project in the Florida Keys and we stopped for a weekend in the Everglades to pick up some service hours and experience the place. The night we arrived, we set up camp and everyone hunkered down. But there were mosquitoes trapped inside the fabric of my tent and they whined in my ears. It seemed like everyone else was snoring. I tossed and turned and started to feel desperate.
It has to be better outside.
I unzipped the tent and hauled my stuff out there. But it didn't take long for them to find me down in the grass. So I headed for higher ground -- the camp picnic table.
Higher, lower, it didn't matter. I was spread out like a feast.
Sleep never came. I listened to the night sounds for a very long time. I saw myself at the bottom of the food chain -- my blood fed the mosquitoes, who fed the bats swooping over my head. Dawn was a relief.
I vowed never to camp out under the stars in the Everglades again. But if you would have told me then that I'd be camping out on the floor in my baby's room in this same sleeping bag, I would have laughed at you.
Now that's crazy.
I would have laughed even harder if you had mentioned the baby's two older sisters would be sleeping in the other room. I mean, I knew I wanted kids. But three? By 30? I pictured myself doing a lot of backpacking.
***
Girl-three is finally asleep and I'm drifting off myself. Maybe I'll unwrap out of this sleeping bag and crawl back in my own bed. Maybe I won't. I'm pretty comfortable right where I am.
I can't sleep, though, because Girl-three is still complaining through the crib slats, just behind my head. But she's winding down, now that I'm here.
My mind grows legs and walks back in time, settling into a night nine years ago when these very covers were much too warm.
I'm positioned similarly, but I have the sleeping bag pulled all the way over my head, sealing me in. Or rather -- sealing them out.
The mosquitoes.
I'm lying on a picnic table in the Everglades, buried deep in my down-filled sleeping bag. Sweating.
It sounds crazy, I know. Perhaps you are wondering how I got here.
During my sophomore year in college, decided I needed to get away. John and I had just broken up. I was starting my engineering classes and balking at the career in front of me. I needed a break from the path I was walking. So I joined Americorps NCCC and spent 10 months hopping around the southeast from service project to service project. {Missing home. Missing John. Finding myself. -- But oh, that's a different story.}
We were heading back from our project in the Florida Keys and we stopped for a weekend in the Everglades to pick up some service hours and experience the place. The night we arrived, we set up camp and everyone hunkered down. But there were mosquitoes trapped inside the fabric of my tent and they whined in my ears. It seemed like everyone else was snoring. I tossed and turned and started to feel desperate.
It has to be better outside.
I unzipped the tent and hauled my stuff out there. But it didn't take long for them to find me down in the grass. So I headed for higher ground -- the camp picnic table.
Higher, lower, it didn't matter. I was spread out like a feast.
Sleep never came. I listened to the night sounds for a very long time. I saw myself at the bottom of the food chain -- my blood fed the mosquitoes, who fed the bats swooping over my head. Dawn was a relief.
I vowed never to camp out under the stars in the Everglades again. But if you would have told me then that I'd be camping out on the floor in my baby's room in this same sleeping bag, I would have laughed at you.
Now that's crazy.
I would have laughed even harder if you had mentioned the baby's two older sisters would be sleeping in the other room. I mean, I knew I wanted kids. But three? By 30? I pictured myself doing a lot of backpacking.
***
Girl-three is finally asleep and I'm drifting off myself. Maybe I'll unwrap out of this sleeping bag and crawl back in my own bed. Maybe I won't. I'm pretty comfortable right where I am.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
not a raccoon
When I was a kid, I loved the novel Where the Red Fern Grows. I'm sure I read it at least five times, and I always cried at the ending. Old Dan and Little Ann lived in my young heart, for sure.
There's a bit of miscellany hanging around in the cobwebs of my consciousness from reading and re-reading that book.
About raccoons. About trapping raccoons.
Did you know that if you drill a hole in a log, place something shiny at the bottom of the hole, and insert two nails facing into the hole and at just the right spacing, you've got yourself a trap?
The curious bugger will stick his paw into the hole and grab that shiny thing. He will get stuck. The nails will hold him there.
He could just let go.
But he won't. He's clutching his prize. He can't see the simple escape.
Let go.
***
Girl-two used to melt down a lot. I mean, a lot. Like six times a day. (That's a lot.)
She'd spy some shiny thing that she wanted -- a certain snack, more time at the park, a way to sneak out of teeth brushing or room cleaning -- and she'd hang on. Tight. She'd scream for a good.long.time.
I would encourage her to let go. With gentle unwrapping, insistent prying, or creative distraction. Nothing worked.
Until finally, she'd release. It was a decision she made herself. I couldn't bring her there. She'd collect her nuk and blanket and tuck into her bed to regroup.
She still throws wild, unstoppable fits. But they possess her much less frequently. I watch her winding up sometimes, wrapping her fingers around that shiny thing, but five times out of six, she can let go of it before she's completely stuck.
She's learning.
Let go.
***
I fluster easily.
Especially when things don't proceed the way I expect.
It's Sunday morning. John is outside with Girl-one and Girl-two, building front-yard sledding tracks for them and taking breaks to rake snow off the roof.
Girl-three sits on my hip and we wave from the front window. They're having fun. I'm glad. But.
But I will need to log in to tutor soon, and I have some other work I want to complete first. Getting it done will mean a bit of free time after the kids are in bed tonight. My prize. But afternoon knocks at the door. It's not going to happen.
And now I've got my fingers wrapped around that shiny thing and I don't want to let go. I feel my teeth start to clench. It's happening. I'm flustering. Getting stuck.
But before a full blown bad mood can cloud my vision completely, I spy that simple escape.
Let go.
So with a deep breath, I do. Free time clinks softly as it lands on the bottom of the hole. I leave it there while I make lunch and log my tutoring hours. I leave it there while I clean up after dinner and put the kids to bed. I don't miss the feeling of fluster.
And guess what. I got that work done more quickly than I expected once the kids were in bed. I'm holding free time in my hands right now.
I'm learning.
Let go.
I am not a raccoon.
There's a bit of miscellany hanging around in the cobwebs of my consciousness from reading and re-reading that book.
About raccoons. About trapping raccoons.
Did you know that if you drill a hole in a log, place something shiny at the bottom of the hole, and insert two nails facing into the hole and at just the right spacing, you've got yourself a trap?
The curious bugger will stick his paw into the hole and grab that shiny thing. He will get stuck. The nails will hold him there.
He could just let go.
But he won't. He's clutching his prize. He can't see the simple escape.
Let go.
***
Girl-two used to melt down a lot. I mean, a lot. Like six times a day. (That's a lot.)
She'd spy some shiny thing that she wanted -- a certain snack, more time at the park, a way to sneak out of teeth brushing or room cleaning -- and she'd hang on. Tight. She'd scream for a good.long.time.
I would encourage her to let go. With gentle unwrapping, insistent prying, or creative distraction. Nothing worked.
Until finally, she'd release. It was a decision she made herself. I couldn't bring her there. She'd collect her nuk and blanket and tuck into her bed to regroup.
She still throws wild, unstoppable fits. But they possess her much less frequently. I watch her winding up sometimes, wrapping her fingers around that shiny thing, but five times out of six, she can let go of it before she's completely stuck.
She's learning.
Let go.
***
I fluster easily.
Especially when things don't proceed the way I expect.
It's Sunday morning. John is outside with Girl-one and Girl-two, building front-yard sledding tracks for them and taking breaks to rake snow off the roof.
Girl-three sits on my hip and we wave from the front window. They're having fun. I'm glad. But.
But I will need to log in to tutor soon, and I have some other work I want to complete first. Getting it done will mean a bit of free time after the kids are in bed tonight. My prize. But afternoon knocks at the door. It's not going to happen.
And now I've got my fingers wrapped around that shiny thing and I don't want to let go. I feel my teeth start to clench. It's happening. I'm flustering. Getting stuck.
But before a full blown bad mood can cloud my vision completely, I spy that simple escape.
Let go.
So with a deep breath, I do. Free time clinks softly as it lands on the bottom of the hole. I leave it there while I make lunch and log my tutoring hours. I leave it there while I clean up after dinner and put the kids to bed. I don't miss the feeling of fluster.
And guess what. I got that work done more quickly than I expected once the kids were in bed. I'm holding free time in my hands right now.
I'm learning.
Let go.
I am not a raccoon.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
so I remember
Heartache.
I'm wearing it across my chest today.
It's white-hot
Pain to the touch.
My body knew how to feed a baby
But now
It doesn't
Know what to do.
I'm full
Of emotion.
For your entire life
And all of mine
(that I can remember anymore)
Nursing was a retreat
in the rocking chair
a comfortable connection
a quiet love.
Your body would relax
And I watched you fall asleep
In stages.
But the peace leaked out of that space,
a slow
drip.
Drained,
Done.
You are fine.
You are forgetting.
I can't.
It hurts too much
to lay on my side.
But when the swelling goes down
and my heart hides back inside my chest
I'll have this
So I remember.
I'm wearing it across my chest today.
It's white-hot
Pain to the touch.
My body knew how to feed a baby
But now
It doesn't
Know what to do.
I'm full
Of emotion.
For your entire life
And all of mine
(that I can remember anymore)
Nursing was a retreat
in the rocking chair
a comfortable connection
a quiet love.
Your body would relax
And I watched you fall asleep
In stages.
But the peace leaked out of that space,
a slow
drip.
Drained,
Done.
You are fine.
You are forgetting.
I can't.
It hurts too much
to lay on my side.
But when the swelling goes down
and my heart hides back inside my chest
I'll have this
So I remember.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
surprised
On the day I met you, you surprised me with your intensity.
One minute, I was seated on the exam table, facing the nurse-midwife. My voice was even.
I really like your shoes, I told her. She remarked that they were, indeed, comfortable. I thought that I would, perhaps, get a pair myself.
The next minute, you were in my arms.
And then you nursed for the first hour of your life. You screamed when someone else held you. You attached to me with a fierceness I was unprepared for.You were a loud, wrinkly, thin-skinned little seed. The world was so much for you, all at once. You needed to burrow deep.
I worried that you'd always fear everything. Everyone. But in the past year especially, I've watched you peeking out more and more, your tender shoot testing the sunshine and finding it warm. Safe.
What's unfurling surprises me with its complexity. You're the girl who dances ballet and collects snakes. You're a snuggler through and through, but you can throw fits like no one else's business. You sample many foods. But refuse to drink water for its boooorrrrring taste. You're sweet. But intense. You know what you want and you're willing to hold out for it. You warm my heart daily -- and push me to pull out my hair just as often.
At night you usually fall asleep instantly. But last night it was late when you crept downstairs and said you couldn't sleep. You were too excited.
For today. For being Four.
You were excited about presents, of course. But you're also looking forward to everything this year will bring. A booster seat in the car! A dance recital! 4K in the fall!
This excitement -- this looking forward to it all -- doesn't really surprise me, though.
You've always had it in you.
One minute, I was seated on the exam table, facing the nurse-midwife. My voice was even.
I really like your shoes, I told her. She remarked that they were, indeed, comfortable. I thought that I would, perhaps, get a pair myself.
The next minute, you were in my arms.
And then you nursed for the first hour of your life. You screamed when someone else held you. You attached to me with a fierceness I was unprepared for.You were a loud, wrinkly, thin-skinned little seed. The world was so much for you, all at once. You needed to burrow deep.
I worried that you'd always fear everything. Everyone. But in the past year especially, I've watched you peeking out more and more, your tender shoot testing the sunshine and finding it warm. Safe.
What's unfurling surprises me with its complexity. You're the girl who dances ballet and collects snakes. You're a snuggler through and through, but you can throw fits like no one else's business. You sample many foods. But refuse to drink water for its boooorrrrring taste. You're sweet. But intense. You know what you want and you're willing to hold out for it. You warm my heart daily -- and push me to pull out my hair just as often.
At night you usually fall asleep instantly. But last night it was late when you crept downstairs and said you couldn't sleep. You were too excited.
For today. For being Four.
You were excited about presents, of course. But you're also looking forward to everything this year will bring. A booster seat in the car! A dance recital! 4K in the fall!
This excitement -- this looking forward to it all -- doesn't really surprise me, though.
You've always had it in you.
 |
| Happy birthday, E! |
Sunday, January 30, 2011
in peace
Sundays are for stories. So here's some fiction.
***
She was a small child. Skinny. Too skinny, they said.
They used to laugh and tell her hold on or the wind will blow you away.
Fart, they said, and you'll -- disappear.
She would stamp her foot and yell I won't but really, she believed them. She had nightmares about where she'd end up. Always dark spaces. Always cold places. Places not here and not really anywhere. Where she'd be nothing but a creak in the floor. Her mother held her when she cried at night and whispered in her ear. Hush, baby. It's not like that.
Nearly a century passed and she never blew away. When her soul rode that last breath out of her body, it drifted around for awhile, untethered, until it found a place to settle.
She's nowhere dark. Nowhere cold.
She rests in the bend behind your knee, where you tuck your hands when you're lying in bed and its particularly cold and you're particularly tired.
She curls in the patch of sun that moves across the couch and onto the floor and pulls you along with a warmth more comfortable than any cushion.
She hides in the cupped hollow between held hands.
She climbs into the top of your inhale, where you're all filled up and needing nothing, into that instant before reflex kicks in and you let it all go.
She swirls in the shower's steam, thick and slow, before it condenses on the bathroom mirror.
But the very best place she's found to rest in peace is that safe, warm, two-hearts-beating space that only forms when a child's head settles onto a mother's shoulder.
Heaven.
***
She was a small child. Skinny. Too skinny, they said.
They used to laugh and tell her hold on or the wind will blow you away.
Fart, they said, and you'll -- disappear.
She would stamp her foot and yell I won't but really, she believed them. She had nightmares about where she'd end up. Always dark spaces. Always cold places. Places not here and not really anywhere. Where she'd be nothing but a creak in the floor. Her mother held her when she cried at night and whispered in her ear. Hush, baby. It's not like that.
Nearly a century passed and she never blew away. When her soul rode that last breath out of her body, it drifted around for awhile, untethered, until it found a place to settle.
She's nowhere dark. Nowhere cold.
She rests in the bend behind your knee, where you tuck your hands when you're lying in bed and its particularly cold and you're particularly tired.
She curls in the patch of sun that moves across the couch and onto the floor and pulls you along with a warmth more comfortable than any cushion.
She hides in the cupped hollow between held hands.
She climbs into the top of your inhale, where you're all filled up and needing nothing, into that instant before reflex kicks in and you let it all go.
She swirls in the shower's steam, thick and slow, before it condenses on the bathroom mirror.
But the very best place she's found to rest in peace is that safe, warm, two-hearts-beating space that only forms when a child's head settles onto a mother's shoulder.
Heaven.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
the first of it
{{{flashback}}}
Third grade coat closet, jacket in hand, mind already on the playground. She's at my side.
Can I play with you guys?
I'm filled to the brim with not wanting to. But no gets stuck in my throat. I wiggle out of this tight space.
I don't know. Go ask her. I point her in my playmate's direction. Let someone else deal the blow.
She cries. I never forget her face.
{{{flash forward}}}
We walk home from the bus stop. She likes to stay several paces ahead, pretending she's on her own. I talk to her back and strain to hear her answers through my hat. I ask the usual questions -- how was the day, anything new, what did you learn. A story tumbles out. I don't quite understand at first.
Playground. Friends walking. Can I walk with you? They didn't want me. I'm sad.
I don't know what to say.
She gets a hug and a freshly baked muffin and as she steps back into our home circle. She leaves those hurts on the front step.
{{{next day}}}
Different kids. Different injustice. Inconsiderate words. An even sadder face.
The stuff on the doorstep is starting to pile up. And this is just the first of it. The least of it.
{{{flashback. oh no -- flash forward?}}}
I'm lying on my mother's bed, face buried in the pillows, all the sobs dried up for now.
I'm more than a child but still in the middle of a growth spurt. I'm shooting up too fast, I think, and the growing pains really hurt.
It's not going to be alright. It'll never be alright.
There was a note, I explain, some mean words from both sides. Them against me. Now I'm alone. I feel so heavy.
{{{and here I am}}}
I made it through those days. Patched up those hurts and made it through girlhood and into womanhood. But growing up was hard. I was relieved to make it to the other side.
But now I'm leaning over the fence, reaching, stretching, craning for her hand. I can't pull her over. She has to make it on her own.
I'll throw every rope I can think of, though, and stones that she could stack. But she'll fall. She'll feel heavy. These struggles will be hard to watch.
Harder than I thought. Harder than my own.
But what she unfolds into -- I can't wait to see.
Third grade coat closet, jacket in hand, mind already on the playground. She's at my side.
Can I play with you guys?
I'm filled to the brim with not wanting to. But no gets stuck in my throat. I wiggle out of this tight space.
I don't know. Go ask her. I point her in my playmate's direction. Let someone else deal the blow.
She cries. I never forget her face.
{{{flash forward}}}
We walk home from the bus stop. She likes to stay several paces ahead, pretending she's on her own. I talk to her back and strain to hear her answers through my hat. I ask the usual questions -- how was the day, anything new, what did you learn. A story tumbles out. I don't quite understand at first.
Playground. Friends walking. Can I walk with you? They didn't want me. I'm sad.
I don't know what to say.
She gets a hug and a freshly baked muffin and as she steps back into our home circle. She leaves those hurts on the front step.
{{{next day}}}
Different kids. Different injustice. Inconsiderate words. An even sadder face.
The stuff on the doorstep is starting to pile up. And this is just the first of it. The least of it.
{{{flashback. oh no -- flash forward?}}}
I'm lying on my mother's bed, face buried in the pillows, all the sobs dried up for now.
I'm more than a child but still in the middle of a growth spurt. I'm shooting up too fast, I think, and the growing pains really hurt.
It's not going to be alright. It'll never be alright.
There was a note, I explain, some mean words from both sides. Them against me. Now I'm alone. I feel so heavy.
{{{and here I am}}}
I made it through those days. Patched up those hurts and made it through girlhood and into womanhood. But growing up was hard. I was relieved to make it to the other side.
But now I'm leaning over the fence, reaching, stretching, craning for her hand. I can't pull her over. She has to make it on her own.
I'll throw every rope I can think of, though, and stones that she could stack. But she'll fall. She'll feel heavy. These struggles will be hard to watch.
Harder than I thought. Harder than my own.
But what she unfolds into -- I can't wait to see.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
missed moment
I am in the car. It's just me and Girl-three. Girls one and two spent the weekend with my parents (quiet house again) and I'm meeting my dad in an outskirt-ish town so his drive isn't quite so long.
Girl-three isn't saying much -- this car is kind of a ghost town without her sisters. I've got the heat on high to chase away the chills and my thoughts are mixed in and digesting -- leavening for my daily bread. Only I'm rising a bit too much -- out of myself -- and I miss a turn on this familiar road. I take the next U-turn and get back on track. But I'm still lost in thought.
I pull into the gas station. They're parked. Waiting. I see two grinning girls wave from the front seat -- they've been here long enough to unstrap and spill into a new space.
I get out and they're already on the pavement, two bubbling brooks unbound in this frozen landscape. My head is still lodged in the clouds -- they're hanging low today -- so it's quick hellos and hugs and I'm on task with loading bags and carseats and its not until I'm halfway home that I realize -- I just missed my moment.
The girls and I see a whole lot of one another. My presence is a constant. Even when I'm at work, I'm still here, just behind that door. Whatever they need. But when they got out of my dad's car, they had been gone for two full sleeps. That's long enough to miss the look of someone.
I could have had my moment. I could have got down on a knee, eye level, and taken those hugs full strength instead of watered down. I could have whispered into their hair -- I missed you. I'm glad you're home. But I missed that moment.
Now we're driving home and Girl-one has her nose buried in a book and Girl-two is singing her way into a whole new world. I'm back to being car driver and meal maker and rule setter. But I'm also bed-head kisser and lunch-note packer and lost-toy finder and good-night hugger. I'm the face of home for these children, even when I'm old hat. And that's a good feeling.
But I'm sad I missed that moment. I can't get it back. I'm trying to collect as many as I can, to line my soul, to cushion my heart. These days will be gone before I can blink.
***
It's morning. Snack time. I'm about to get up from my chair and put away some dishes -- Girl-three is safe in her high chair and I have to make the most of these moments. Girl-two stops hopping her bunny crackers across the table and looks at me.
Mama, I want to be close to you.
So I scoot her chair closer to mine and we're touching. I don't get up. I stay right here. Now.
In my moment.
Girl-three isn't saying much -- this car is kind of a ghost town without her sisters. I've got the heat on high to chase away the chills and my thoughts are mixed in and digesting -- leavening for my daily bread. Only I'm rising a bit too much -- out of myself -- and I miss a turn on this familiar road. I take the next U-turn and get back on track. But I'm still lost in thought.
I pull into the gas station. They're parked. Waiting. I see two grinning girls wave from the front seat -- they've been here long enough to unstrap and spill into a new space.
I get out and they're already on the pavement, two bubbling brooks unbound in this frozen landscape. My head is still lodged in the clouds -- they're hanging low today -- so it's quick hellos and hugs and I'm on task with loading bags and carseats and its not until I'm halfway home that I realize -- I just missed my moment.
The girls and I see a whole lot of one another. My presence is a constant. Even when I'm at work, I'm still here, just behind that door. Whatever they need. But when they got out of my dad's car, they had been gone for two full sleeps. That's long enough to miss the look of someone.
I could have had my moment. I could have got down on a knee, eye level, and taken those hugs full strength instead of watered down. I could have whispered into their hair -- I missed you. I'm glad you're home. But I missed that moment.
Now we're driving home and Girl-one has her nose buried in a book and Girl-two is singing her way into a whole new world. I'm back to being car driver and meal maker and rule setter. But I'm also bed-head kisser and lunch-note packer and lost-toy finder and good-night hugger. I'm the face of home for these children, even when I'm old hat. And that's a good feeling.
But I'm sad I missed that moment. I can't get it back. I'm trying to collect as many as I can, to line my soul, to cushion my heart. These days will be gone before I can blink.
***
It's morning. Snack time. I'm about to get up from my chair and put away some dishes -- Girl-three is safe in her high chair and I have to make the most of these moments. Girl-two stops hopping her bunny crackers across the table and looks at me.
Mama, I want to be close to you.
So I scoot her chair closer to mine and we're touching. I don't get up. I stay right here. Now.
In my moment.
Friday, January 21, 2011
territorial
Our dog has an overnight guest. We're watching my sister's dog for a couple days.
Emma is a tolerant hostess. But her territory has been compromised and she's a bit put out.
She is not allowed on the furniture. But Tucker balks at the idea of laying in Emma's bed (how it must smell to him!) and his face reads displaced and I feel sorry for him so I let him up on the couch. Emma looks at him and then at me. If she could speak she'd surely pout -- not fair.
***
I'm the floor, halfway through my 20 sit-ups (Another resolution! That I'm keeping!) Girl-three laughs and runs over in her slightly awkward, slightly fast way. She sits on my stomach. This certainly makes things harder. Her grin is mischievous, a flag staking her claim.
Mama, can you hold me? Girl-two is a snuggler. I sit up and she settles in. Girl-three has no words for this but she's determined to maintain her space. Her insistence speaks -- not fair.
***
It's 10pm. You know it's always 10pm. I add one little sentence to my novel -- the scene is creeping along. But it moves. It's like molasses but it moves.
I click the program's X and right away start gentling my muse. She rails against my touch and boils everything to the surface without using the words -- not fair.
Hush, I tell her. You have to share.
Emma is a tolerant hostess. But her territory has been compromised and she's a bit put out.
She is not allowed on the furniture. But Tucker balks at the idea of laying in Emma's bed (how it must smell to him!) and his face reads displaced and I feel sorry for him so I let him up on the couch. Emma looks at him and then at me. If she could speak she'd surely pout -- not fair.
***
I'm the floor, halfway through my 20 sit-ups (Another resolution! That I'm keeping!) Girl-three laughs and runs over in her slightly awkward, slightly fast way. She sits on my stomach. This certainly makes things harder. Her grin is mischievous, a flag staking her claim.
Mama, can you hold me? Girl-two is a snuggler. I sit up and she settles in. Girl-three has no words for this but she's determined to maintain her space. Her insistence speaks -- not fair.
***
It's 10pm. You know it's always 10pm. I add one little sentence to my novel -- the scene is creeping along. But it moves. It's like molasses but it moves.
I click the program's X and right away start gentling my muse. She rails against my touch and boils everything to the surface without using the words -- not fair.
Hush, I tell her. You have to share.
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