Every day
Every day I tie a dozen shoes, I hug kids to my hips (their heads come up just that far), I smile often, I furrow my brows. Over and over I say, "sit criss-cross" or I say "make a good choice," or I say a hundred other things that remind, encourage, repremand, demand, console, inspire, complement, or direct.
Every day I get marker on my jeans, I write messages to my kids, I sing songs, I answer questions, I model, I redirect, often all at the same time. Every day I am filled with wonder that these children are all somebody's babies--their Beans--and I look into their eyes and try to create a wide open space in my heart for them, even when they push buttons, or tease each other or tattle on each other or do not finish their work.
Every day I feel like I am not good enough, that I do not do enough, see enough, say enough to be what I am to them: the person they see more than their moms and dads all week. Their teacher. Every day there is a stack of unfinished work, of things I need to do, of meetings, of lists, of books. Yet every day I am also greatful for this opportunity to always come up short; to be challenged to grow; to be filled with wonder.
Wanting more
On Friday I took an airplane down to NJ to meet up with DH and the Bean who'd gone on ahead (the prospect of a 7 hour car ride with toddler suddenly overwhelming after a long week of six year olds.) The plane took off through a partial cloudcover just after sunset, and as we lifted above the ash and indigo clouds, the atmosphere above was smudged with vibrant orange, fading to pale yellow, and then to a hundred delicate shades of blue each growing darker as the vast distance of space increased.
Looking out the window, feeling the odd weight of my body pressing back into the seat, bucking gravity for liftoff, I was struck by how miraculous it is that as humans, we've grown used to this. To flying, miles above the earth. To this view above the clouds. Something about it still feels risky to me; I can't help thinking of Icarus falling in flight away from the heat of the sun. It will always feel brave and terrifying to me, to lift off the ground inside a metal jet. To fly without wings, trusting aerodynamics to lift the weight of steel and small human life into the air.
I brought the newest Elle and Vanity Fair magazines to leaf through on the plane, and spent the flight skimmingt through the pages of models with smokey eyes and skinny jeans, to linger over the book reviews and essays. This happens to me sometimes. This sudden thirsting for stuff beyond the parentheses of my small world.
It's a feeling that almost leaves me breathless. A craving. An intense realization that I am somehow parched for culture, for books, for time to delve into novels, read book reviews, attend theater, re-learn the myths of our culture, or wander through galleries. Without intention, my life grows narrow. I stop moving beyond the vocabulary of everyday. I stop pounding on the window that defines my view. And then, suddenly, like then on the plane, I run smack into my narrow vantage point.
All of the morning poems I've been writing this month have acted as a catalyst for this, I'm sure. They've stirred up something deep in me; made me reflect on the gaps I have in my ability to construct metaphors that matter, or to encapsulate with precise langauge, a specific circumstance or emotion.
The thing is, I'm not sure how to get beyond where I'm at. I'm not sure how to pick up a rock and throw it into the window. Not sure even, what the window or rock look like any more. But if giving ten haphazard minutes poems every morning has changed me, I can gather the same courage to toss myself towards books again, towards learning.
So what I want from you is this: what writers, or poets, or artists or films have had a lasting impact on the way you think and live your life? Name five.
Stumbling towards normal
A beautiful weekend of good food (made by DH!) and good company. Late nights, zinfandel wine, walks with the Bean in the red wagon, and a harvest moon. The first crisp days of fall--where the light is rosey on the mountains and the air cold in the shade. This morning the first frost in the darker parts of the woods.
My heart is still aching though, despite the goodness of the past few days. The vast realization of ten hour days away from my sweet boy makes me breathless driving home from work, just as his day is winding down. I'm still stumbling towards the center of a normal routine from somewhere far out on the periphery where things are spinning far too fast.
I know I'll get my stride again, but the learning curve sucks. You know?
The ecology of resilience
Like a dislocated limb being reset, it was almost easy to slip back to where we were. A little pain for sure, but the ingrained rhythms of preparation (making charts, sorting crayons) quickly resumed its drumbeat in my heart. Everything had been put back, repaired, restored. Outside, kids and parents came en masse to weed and landscape; to plant trees and put up bird houses. The front doors were painted a bright new blue. And tonight, the community will gather again to hold hands all the way around the school.
This is the ecology of resilience. To choose not to be defined by tragedy, and to bend instead like a new sapling, toward the green sap of hope.
Monday notebook page
I'm not saying
Either this gorgeous handbag is the real deal & an exquisite gift from my mother-in-law. Or, it is a knock-off that she bought on Canal street, after following a man who didn’t speak any English up seven flights of stairs to a back room in the garment district where she was locked into a room overflowing with bags, where she selected this beautiful specimen for a mere fistful of smallish bills. I’m not telling.
But I love it because it does far more than simply schlep all my stuff around: it makes my painfully boring black t-shirt and khakis fashionable, simply by being tossed over my shoulder nonchalantly. For this reason alone, I will now commence carrying it everywhere.
Didn’t think I was the type to tote Prada bag? I didn’t think so either. But then I though this might be just the thing I need to rectify my flagrantly pathetic approach to style.
I'm all about effortless fashion, people. And what could be more effortless than carrying a bag that can hold everything from diapers to lip gloss and still look divine?
What it is
He swipes the paper with a bold stroke of red, thick as jelly, and looks up, checking for my grin. Then a smile alights softly on his face, like a playful cat, matching my own. So here we are, in this moment of pure joy. All previous frustrations, tantrums, exhaustion, entirely obliterated by this bright happiness.
Each day I learn this, again and again: allowing someone to make you happy is the ultimate forgiveness. Allowing a small gesture of joy or tenderness to pool in your heart, again and again and again, even when things have come up short. To open, even after words have zig-zagged like blistered arrows across the room and leaving dark trails of hurt across the heart; to allow a small fissure for pleasure to split sorrow in half like a opened melon, this is forgiveness.
*** PS--the theme over at Mama Says Om this week is forgive, go check it out.
Don't think I've forgotten you...
It's just--WE MOVED IN. And my kitchen is gorgeous and it's summer and we just got back from all-day furniture shopping and licking peach juice off our fingers and I've had no time to post. But I will tonight. With pictures. Promise.
Endgame
Last Thursday we moved out of our apartment in a blur of hours during which my mom arrived (she’s moving here—long story, for another day) with sandwiches and started vacuuming. Since then DH and I have not stopped—I haven’t had internet access for a week, let alone the time to check it. I haven’t read a newspaper, listened to NPR, had any connection with the world beyond my tiny one here in this rural town where we now live. It is surreal, living like this: working this hard, physically. Waking up every day with sore muscles, and going to sleep every night with a splitting headache from pure exhaustion. Bizarre to have moved out of our home, and not move into anywhere.
My mother has moved to an apartment down the road—and we have been staying with her. Sleeping on her living room floor and eating our meals off of paper plates. In between every hour has been filled with utter, all out work. We put down 1,200 feet of hardwood floor. Sanded it. Stained it. Listening 4,000 times to the pneumatic report of the nailer, the thwack of the wrist, the exhausting repetitive precision of selecting and cutting each board.
We’d go first thing in the morning, after coffee and croissants from the local coffee shop—only checking back in at lunch and bedtime to be with our Bean, who has spent the last two weeks sprouting four molars and two other teeth. Naturally he’s been struck with a fit of anxiety at our continual uprootings and leavings. He cries often when we leave, and sleeps pressed close to our cheeks.
My mother has been wonderful, jumping in with open arms to create a safe space for him, and I imagine, biting her tongue and keeping her “I would nevers†to a minimum. We could not have survived this week without her. And tonight my older sister was here from out of town—on a business trip. She stained the floor with me today, our conversation punctuated with Darth Vadar gasps from our respirators. And as the sky turned pink, we barbecued, our first meal here, though we’re still sleeping down the road.
So it’s been one of those weeks where I have not fallen asleep, I’ve crashed to sleep. Where I’ve consumed more coffee during each day than I usually do over the course of five days. Where together DH and I ride the wild, deranged roller coaster of exhaustion induced giddiness and moodiness. The best part has been our time together---laughing as we nail, singing to the radio, stopping for nooky on a quilt under the trees in the backyard. The worst has been the way we stagger into each other verbally when we’re this tired. The way things don’t make sense the first time, and we talk ourselves into a lather trying to be clear.
And then the things in between: the coyotes last night laughing at the moon. A whole yapping pack of them, their ruckus barks and yips bouncing through the valley below. Or the wildflowers growing thickly now in waist high grasses in the meadows, and the quince blossoms, white and delicate amongst two inch thorns.
We are so close, yet the work keeps stretching out beyond what we can grasp. I try to breathe, and to drink in the moments when Bean wraps his arms around my neck, or when DH and I take a break at the local snack bar and share a milkshake on the steps. But there are times when I feel like crying. Times when I’m angry with tiredness. When nothing makes sense any more. And I cannot wait for this time to be over.
Frenzy
DH and I have realized that we really, really, need super powers to finish the house. Baring that possibility, it won't be finished when we move in. So we're at the point of creating priority lists: we need a shower, washer, dryer, toilet, sink. We need floors. Currently we have none. GAAHHHHHH! Here are some pretty pictures to distract you while I work.
Oh, and did I mention, it's STILL raining? The basement in our apartment is under 8 inches of water...along with all of our boxes in "storage." When it rains, it pours, right?
14 month old Beansprout
I looked at the calendar this morning and couldn’t believe that you turn fourteen months today. When did that happen? I thought we were still in the BEGINNING of April! Funny how my memory has been compromised, since you hit the scene. Starting with pregnancy, certain things become involuntarily selective in my memory. Appointments were missed (or arrived at late), and multi-tasking became a brain bending feat I was no longer capable of. Then I had you and it went even further downhill. Now, in the shower every morning I start to think of all the things I want to accomplish in the day. I make long, detailed mental lists. Stuff that is really important, that I must remember. Yet, when I towel off and walk out of the bathroom my hair still sopping, the entire list has been usurped by one thought: COFFEE. You’re teething again, nose running fiercely, thrashing about in the middle of the night with your feet in my face, looking for solace, and this only increases the severity of my addiction.
This month in your development has been fascinating from a linguistic standpoint. Your receptive language increases exponentially everyday, and I’m watching you make connections between words and things.
You point to the ceiling light sconce, “Light,†I say. You point to the bedside table lamp, “Light,†I name it for you again.
Then you point outside, up into the sky towards the sun, "La!" you say.
You can follow simple directions now—if you want. You run to find your monkey, or your shoes, or truck and bring them to me, grinning widely—when you feel like cooperating. Other times you totally ignore me, more interested in hauling the broom around the house or pushing buttons on my printer (which you are now tall enough to reach.)
“Go find your socks,†I can say, and you’ll run off and find them and bring them proudly. Or I can say, “Go find your socks,†and you’ll shake your head, run off, and come back carrying the cookie sheet from the kitchen. You know the difference, and seeing your own volition taking shape is at once thrilling and daunting.
I love listening to your first attempts at expressive language: “Ki-gi†you say, pointing to the kitty. “Duhg!†You say, eagerly pointing at every dog we pass. You say “Buh, buh, buh†when you see gulls or pigeons in the park, and “Bath!†when it’s time for the tub. You know what I mean when I say, “Okay, you can pull out the drain now,†and every night you look with a mixture of terror and glee as the water swirls down the drain after your bath. Almost every day you try out a new set of consonants and vowels, and yet I can’t imagine what it will be like to hear you really TALK, just like a few short months ago, it seemed inconceivable that you’d be walking, and now you’re running every place.
You no longer walk with your arms akimbo, and you know now to look down at the ground to help you navigate around obstacles. Tool use suddenly makes sense to you too, and you try to figure out the purpose of everything. You use your little hammer to pound the pegs on your workbench. You use both the fork and spoon and successfully get bites into your mouth. And you love using the broom to knock things off high shelves that you can’t otherwise reach, although you can reach many things now that you figured out how to CLIMB: on the dining room chairs, up the book case (at least onto the bottom shelf), onto the ottoman, the wheelbarrow in the back yard.
There is so much that I want to remember about this time: the way you burst into tears sometimes when Daddy leaves, and how you run to the window saying, “Dada!†when his truck pulls into the driveway (you also say “Dada!†every time you see a red truck pass by as though there is only one red truck in the world and it belongs to YOUR Daddy.) I want to remember how you’ve started to lie down on the carpet or the sheepskin fleece by my desk when you’re tired, tummy down, feet tucked beneath you, and start singing yourself little songs. I want to bottle you up right now: the way your skin smells, sweet and warm; the way your hair curls at the nape of your neck; the way when I smile at you always smile back.
A hundred kisses, Mama
In constant motion
It was amazing to feel my lungs expand, to not be out of breath, to just be able to continue at the same pace up and up. I wish I could transfer these effects to the rest of my life, but instead I find I’m whirling about like a dervish, trying to hold on the sacred in small things.
The way the maple blossoms are red and nubby at the end of every twig on the trees that line our block now; the moon, almost full in the early evening sky; playing chasing games with Bean, his giggles filling the room with delight; the five minutes DH and I snatched in bed this while Bean explored the bedroom—just the two of us, warm from sleep, snuggling; the fact that finally, finally fresh produce that doesn’t come from half the world away, is returning to the stores.
I look at the time and wonder how every night it gets to be nearly midnight so quickly. How is it possible that the hours after Bean goes to bed become a mere handful of seconds? Like humming bird wings in motion, a blur of minutes.
Self Portrait Tuesday: Time # 3---Playtime
By the calendar, spring is here now. Yesterday the equinox, and today, a few moments of daylight more. But at this latitude it is still cold, and we are feeling cagy. Bean and I went out into our tiny urban yard today: a mess of lumpy lawn, a broken mower under the deck, the tall gray picket fence leaning in. He raced about on the uneven ground, falling often, laughing, bringing me dried leaves (this is what he does now—bring me small things he finds: lint, a scrap of paper, leaves. And these thing suddenly are precious.)
It was good for me, after days like the past handful, to go with Bean outdoors and watch hid body fill with bubbly wonder like soda in a cup. Good to remember how easy it is pocket these small instances of joy.
We twirled until we were both dizzy and then we sat and watched the world spin. I could see his eyes still tracking the orbiting yard around him, and the grin on his face wide like the grin on mine.
It’s been an interesting week of sinking deeply into words, and now I’m longing for easier things: for messy collages, for magazines, anything where the image does all the work, and words are only for decoration. I’ve realized how important daily writing is for me---not just morning pages (though they help); doing the kind of writing that requires me to return to previous work again and again, crafting sentences on a daily basis makes it possible for me to refine meaning: like making maple syrup, so much sap evaporates before there’s real sweetness to be had.
This push I’ve had to write fits with the season. This piece of Earth has turned it’s axis again toward the sun, and everything feels it: receding ice, new shoots, and randy stray cats who come yowling around our door looking for handouts. The shift in season also reflects another internal shift—my body is going though some sort of hormonal reordering, and my moods are wildly flailing all over the board.
So it was good to go outside in the cold bright air, soak up sun and twirl.
Wednesday Mosaic
We eat sweet ataulfo mango scored into cubes and eaten right from the peel with our fingers, the sticky juice getting everywhere. Bean runs round and round the coffee table coming back each time for more, his cheeks flecked with the yellow fruit. We’re both grinning. The sun hits the back of my neck and makes the leather of the couch warm to the touch. The cats are sitting on the windowsill soaking up the sun’s heat, and when we go out onto the porch for a moment I hear birds—not just the house finches and chickadees that have kept us company all winter, but early song birds that I cannot yet name by call alone.
The lowers DH brought home a few days ago for me, still blooming: hot magenta, lemon and golden petals filling the room with delicate fragrance. Breakfast is my favorite meal and this week we’ve been gathering around the island in the kitchen, the three of us eating mouthfuls of warm buttered toast, fresh plums, yogurt, coffee. Even though Bean was up so much last night I heard myself say to DH, “I can’t wait for the night to be over,†at around 2:30 a.m., this start to the day somehow redeems it. The tiredness temporarily wiped away by the fact that I’m here with my guys in the kitchen, DH and I swapping small talk and smiles while Bean kicks his highchair and practices using a fork.
By late morning I sink gratefully into clean sheets (I love the way they feel, newly laundered), and nap hard with Bean nudged into the nook of my arm. When he wakes me two hours later, I can’t figure out where I am. The house, the bedroom, everything is utterly unfamiliar for a minute as my brain untangles itself from the terrain of my dream.
It is one of those days of family meals, and I love this. I make tofu with sesame seeds and almonds, sautéed sugar snap peas, rice pilaf, and while I’m cooking DH and Bean take a walk down the block. I catch them with my camera on their return, and Bean sees me from half a block away and grins as wide as a melon wedge when he runs into my arms.
Later we go to the park, snow still on the ground, and I watch in wonderment as my baby is suddenly a kid. Independent. Exploring. Picking up woodchips and throwing them with glee, then taking my hand and climbing the stairs to the slide where we go down together over and over again. On the way back I look for more evidence of spring: and find sap making buds knobby and big on twigs, and former icy patches into puddles reflecting sky.
When we get home I finally make it: the perfect chai masala. Steamed milk, good sugar, and this tea.
Just the way to start a day
We parked our stroller outside and trundled in---immediately transported to some Old World place of heady bread aromas, freshly brewing coffee and warm croissants. A tiny place really, with just enough room for wall counters and stools, and a display rack, the rest of the shop is the bakery itself, where the baker whom we recognized from summer farmer’s market trips, was rolling dough.
As if aware of our delight, Bean sat happily on the high counter in the sun, still bundled in his snowsuit, his hair standing straight up with static, and ate mouthfuls of buttery croissant. NPR was on low in the background and when fresh coffee cake came out of the oven—all crumbly and sweet, we ordered two pieces. If I could have my way, this is how I would start every single day
Inspiration Monday # 1
My inspiration for this week comes from: Irene, who made this precious hat for Bean’s birthday (on Thursday), and this lovely neckwarmer for me.
Her way of writing---almost prose poetry---is so subtle, so full of emotion, that it always hits me right here, in my heart; makes me breathe deeper, makes me linger over her words.
Somehow she manages to write every day, take incredible self portraits and raise beautiful sons. She makes me laugh, makes me wish I live in Paris, and makes me wish I could knit. The slivers of wisdom and insight she has shared with me have had a direct impact on my writing life (and yes, Irene, you are SO going into the ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS if I ever write my book.)
She's okay!
Tonight hearing her voice made tears spring up unexpectedly with relief. We're different, and we fight sometimes, but today reminded me that this is not what matters. What matters is each moment living. Each moment that we're talking and painting and working things out. Each moment breathing is good. Each moment laughing---better.
Thank you for all your kind thoughts & good wishes!