So it is a new year. A year that will be better (different?) than the next.
Here I am, 12 months later. I wonder if there has been any growth? Any forward movement? Biologically, my kids are one year older. My relationship with My Love is one year longer. My kitty has stopped biting. My house has turned 100 years old. My hair has been growing. There have been really fun moments. There have been really sad moments. There have been really angry moments. There have been really overwhelming moments. There have been really loving moments.
But what does this all mean for me? It seems a bit ironic (is this the right word?) that I started writing in April. My son turns seven (7!!) in two weeks. What a peculiar month. Not winter - spring wants to begin, but there always has to be something holding it back. Limbo land. March has blown it's winds. April tries so hard.
I remember laying in bed with my almost seven year old when he was just a newborn. Both of us falling asleep right after eating. Lying in any position - just tyring to get the sleep that our bodies were due. I would wake sooner and gaze out our window. Stuck in my position until he woke I would dream about my yard and what I wanted to accomplish. The weeds needed pulling. There were blooms that I was missing. I longed to feel the wind that the trees were experiencing. But I stayed put. Allowed him to wake naturally. He ate again and again we were plunged into a deep sleep. Waking only to dream and eat. I missed an entire season. I think now, that is why Spring is so important to me. I don't want to miss another one. But really what did I miss? So much had been gained, right?
So here I am. Happy spring. Happy writing. Happy growing. The catch is, however - I am hard pressed to come up with any non-biological growth. Where are my dreams tonight? What do I yearn for? Has the moment become too big? Have a stopped looking beyond it? There should be goals, right? I yearn for dissatification. I need to pry the bodies off of me and get up, right?
Limbo land. I am an imperfect soul. I want to grow. I want to do right. I want to expereince the joy that happens spontaneously - but I also dont want to lose track of the weeds. I think I have lost track. How do I envelop both?
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
What's In A Name
How does a nickname find you? Does it lurk behind the shadows waiting to watch your personality unfold itself? Is it given to you at birth? Do you earn it? Does the name bring respect or give you an embarrassing (almost awkward) feeling? Can you name yourself? Does it become you? Is it you?
A true nickname is given out of love. A deep down swell of love. A love that cannot be measured or calculated or even for that matter explained. It comes from history, baggage, a knowing. It comes from a place that cannot ever be uttered. The caller feels it. The receiver understands it. Neither, however, reflect upon it. It is true. Both bow to it. There is an identity. And if born out of love, it is a true identity. Reverence from the name caller. Submission on the part of the receiver. Never spoken aloud. A friendship. A bond. An enchanted space that others may never find.
What's in a name?
UPDATED: March 2014
My kids harass each other every day by calling each other specific nicknames that the other despises. I get annoyed and sometimes come to one of their defenses......
After being outside for the better half of the day Hayden was in the street kicking a soccer ball and Clara was busying with a few neighborhood friends painting and chalking up the sidewalk.
Hayden called out to Clara a couple of times trying to get her attention. He desperately wanted to show her a soccer trick. She was not giving him the time of day.
He then called out, "Clare!" She immediately stopped what she was doing and came running to his side.
In this instant I understood sibling rivalry in all its greatness. A deep , sometimes abysmal, bond that carries ultimate truths mixed with a ton of baggage. A room where no one else is welcomed -- not even parents.
The next time I hear them harassing each other, calling each other by these silly nicknames I will smile, ignore their insults and walk out of their room.
A true nickname is given out of love. A deep down swell of love. A love that cannot be measured or calculated or even for that matter explained. It comes from history, baggage, a knowing. It comes from a place that cannot ever be uttered. The caller feels it. The receiver understands it. Neither, however, reflect upon it. It is true. Both bow to it. There is an identity. And if born out of love, it is a true identity. Reverence from the name caller. Submission on the part of the receiver. Never spoken aloud. A friendship. A bond. An enchanted space that others may never find.
What's in a name?
UPDATED: March 2014
A Room of Their Own
My kids harass each other every day by calling each other specific nicknames that the other despises. I get annoyed and sometimes come to one of their defenses......
After being outside for the better half of the day Hayden was in the street kicking a soccer ball and Clara was busying with a few neighborhood friends painting and chalking up the sidewalk.
Hayden called out to Clara a couple of times trying to get her attention. He desperately wanted to show her a soccer trick. She was not giving him the time of day.
He then called out, "Clare!" She immediately stopped what she was doing and came running to his side.
In this instant I understood sibling rivalry in all its greatness. A deep , sometimes abysmal, bond that carries ultimate truths mixed with a ton of baggage. A room where no one else is welcomed -- not even parents.
The next time I hear them harassing each other, calling each other by these silly nicknames I will smile, ignore their insults and walk out of their room.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
Back in bed I made it known that I had not slept a wink. My Love profusely informed me that I was wrong and that I had been keeping him awake with my snores. True anger swept over my entire being. The clock ticked and the rain finally stopped. My mind bent itself around the smell of coffee. At least I had coffee. I charted a few more of My Love's sleep cycles and then I was falling, falling, falling fast asleep. The dawn came to early when I was honestly informed that it was my turn to go get our wonderful bundle of joy. Remembering that I had been out running the morning prior, I tried to hold my tongue (so hard for me between the hours of 11pm and 6am) as I begrudgingly walked down the hall into our daughter's bedroom.
"Hi, Mom. Do you want to play?"
"Yes, I want to play."
The clock ticked, the rain started to fall and we played until the rest of the house woke. My eyes were heavy when I finally served breakfast. I'll sleep when I'm dead, I thought. In the meantime, a hot shower, a hug and a few cups of coffee will probably do the trick. Thankfully My Love knows how to forgive and I know how to forget so we move on - until the next night. ***
***I'm not an insomniac. I really sleep quite well. It's when sleep can't seem to find me that I get pretty irritated. Be glad you are not My Love.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Changing Places
some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. delicious ambiguity...-gilda radner
My Love is on the move again. He is moving his organization into Seattle next week. I anticipate that our family is not far behind. For the moment however, I stand firmly with two feet planted in the dirt. I don't know what is going to happen next. I do know that I would like to stay planted for a little while more. It is not nostalgia. For, while planted, I do not take the time to contemplate the past and its memories. It is not laziness. For while standing at the crossroads I am more than willing to participate in all the tasks that need to be done in order to take the plunge over the edge. And it is not lack of strength. For I know that when the time comes I will muster the strength of lions.
For me, it is about place. I have accidentally memorized the flight pattens overhead and can predict weather changes based on these flight patterns. I could tell you the exact month of each year by the foliage that surrounds me. I don't need a bus schedule to know when the next bus will arrive. My floorboards creak in all the right places. I have discovered each wind chime and can name its owner in a two block radius. With my eyes closed, I can walk to the nearest Starbucks. I can tell you which park is best to visit in the rain. I love to listen to the fog horns early in the morning; the trains at night. There is a blue jay that visits me each year. I can --without pause, be at each kid's bedside within 3 seconds of hearing their first nigh time cry. I can identify all the islands and call them by their right names. There is a clear North, South, East and West that is part of my being.
Being planted in this place, my life has not been without change, transition, hiccups and having to make the most of the moment. Leaving the Christian faith, struggling through college, getting married, transitioning into new jobs, getting into shape, falling out of shape, trying so hard to get pregnant, having a child, being laid off, the new dynamics of "family life," giving birth to another child who wasn't able to breath and having to wonder if any of it was worth it, the relief of hearing her first cries, quiting my job and learning how to be a better mother and wife are just a few of my transitions. These transitions were made without a clear understanding or indication of what might happen next.
In 1989 my parents moved us from one house to the next. Just a couple blocks away. Nothing changed for us; except for my place. From age 5 to 12 years of age I breathed and dreamed of only this place. Even moving just a couple of blocks seemed like a foreign country. I would never be able to run my fingers across the smooth stone wall of our "secret passage" that allowed my sister and I to transverse our block in half the time. The "money trees" that grew in our alley would not follow me. I would never again sit on the street curb after a summer rain and splash my feet in the mud. Or lay down on our front lawn to gaze up at the tallest tree waving in the wind. My feet had memorized every foothold in every climbable tree and I would never again smell the bluebells growing on the side yard. This place has held an organic earthly spell over me ever since. I never did climb another tree. It was a different place.
The new place though had a wonderful park with the longest fire poll ever attempted by a 12 year old and a great walk every week to buy jelly bellies and milkshakes with my lovely sister.
I have been planted here in this town (my small place) for the past 30 years. It has supported me, grounded me, cheered me up, given me confidence and carried me through it all. Will a new place carry me? Our lives do not usually follow the path of a storybook. I have always loved reading the last page of a fictional novel before I start a book. I can critique it even before the story begins. I know the ending. I am reassured and stay that way through the entire novel. I cannot read the conclusion of my life. I can't even skip ahead a few chapters. Not having my own place to rely on makes it that much more of a mystery. There is no backdrop.
Being uprooted, means that I need to pack a little extra dirt for the ride.Thankfully I have along a good gardener that can replant me when we get to where we are going. And maybe that is really what it is all about. Backdrops will change. The only thing left to carry me is My Love's devotion and adulation towards me and our adorable children. And isn't this a better place already?
Passing Time by Maya Angelou
My Love is on the move again. He is moving his organization into Seattle next week. I anticipate that our family is not far behind. For the moment however, I stand firmly with two feet planted in the dirt. I don't know what is going to happen next. I do know that I would like to stay planted for a little while more. It is not nostalgia. For, while planted, I do not take the time to contemplate the past and its memories. It is not laziness. For while standing at the crossroads I am more than willing to participate in all the tasks that need to be done in order to take the plunge over the edge. And it is not lack of strength. For I know that when the time comes I will muster the strength of lions.
For me, it is about place. I have accidentally memorized the flight pattens overhead and can predict weather changes based on these flight patterns. I could tell you the exact month of each year by the foliage that surrounds me. I don't need a bus schedule to know when the next bus will arrive. My floorboards creak in all the right places. I have discovered each wind chime and can name its owner in a two block radius. With my eyes closed, I can walk to the nearest Starbucks. I can tell you which park is best to visit in the rain. I love to listen to the fog horns early in the morning; the trains at night. There is a blue jay that visits me each year. I can --without pause, be at each kid's bedside within 3 seconds of hearing their first nigh time cry. I can identify all the islands and call them by their right names. There is a clear North, South, East and West that is part of my being.
Being planted in this place, my life has not been without change, transition, hiccups and having to make the most of the moment. Leaving the Christian faith, struggling through college, getting married, transitioning into new jobs, getting into shape, falling out of shape, trying so hard to get pregnant, having a child, being laid off, the new dynamics of "family life," giving birth to another child who wasn't able to breath and having to wonder if any of it was worth it, the relief of hearing her first cries, quiting my job and learning how to be a better mother and wife are just a few of my transitions. These transitions were made without a clear understanding or indication of what might happen next.
In 1989 my parents moved us from one house to the next. Just a couple blocks away. Nothing changed for us; except for my place. From age 5 to 12 years of age I breathed and dreamed of only this place. Even moving just a couple of blocks seemed like a foreign country. I would never be able to run my fingers across the smooth stone wall of our "secret passage" that allowed my sister and I to transverse our block in half the time. The "money trees" that grew in our alley would not follow me. I would never again sit on the street curb after a summer rain and splash my feet in the mud. Or lay down on our front lawn to gaze up at the tallest tree waving in the wind. My feet had memorized every foothold in every climbable tree and I would never again smell the bluebells growing on the side yard. This place has held an organic earthly spell over me ever since. I never did climb another tree. It was a different place.
The new place though had a wonderful park with the longest fire poll ever attempted by a 12 year old and a great walk every week to buy jelly bellies and milkshakes with my lovely sister.
I have been planted here in this town (my small place) for the past 30 years. It has supported me, grounded me, cheered me up, given me confidence and carried me through it all. Will a new place carry me? Our lives do not usually follow the path of a storybook. I have always loved reading the last page of a fictional novel before I start a book. I can critique it even before the story begins. I know the ending. I am reassured and stay that way through the entire novel. I cannot read the conclusion of my life. I can't even skip ahead a few chapters. Not having my own place to rely on makes it that much more of a mystery. There is no backdrop.
Being uprooted, means that I need to pack a little extra dirt for the ride.Thankfully I have along a good gardener that can replant me when we get to where we are going. And maybe that is really what it is all about. Backdrops will change. The only thing left to carry me is My Love's devotion and adulation towards me and our adorable children. And isn't this a better place already?
Passing Time by Maya Angelou
Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Becoming Real
I bought a couch (a pink couch, it was maroon) for $200.00. I was 19 years old. It was my first real purchase (besides beer, gas and mini market food stuffs). My Dad carried it up four flights of stairs into my first apartment (he had some help, I think). He set it down inside the four walls, let out a big sigh and then promptly sat down upon it. I yelled some expletive. He looked puzzled. I finally got him to get up. He was too dirty of course to sit on my brand new couch. He had been helping me move all morning and of course was not in any shape to sit down.
The same feelings crossed my mind when the furnace guy began writing up an estimate for a new furnace (now 27 years old you would have thought I had learned something). He asked for a pen and then sat at my expensive dining room table and began to write. The hardness in which he wrote out his numbers caused me great alarm and I quickly jumped to hand him a magazine so that the indentation would not make a permanent mark on my glossy table. He looked puzzled.
Now 30 years old, my kitchen was being remodeled. The newly finished hardwood floors in our kitchen had yet to be fully installed when the cabinet man came to hang the brand new cabinets and hook up the refrigerator. My Love told the man that if he scratched the floor a divorce would probably follow shortly. The man looked puzzled.
A few weeks later I attempted to reach too far up to remove a silver platter from atop the refrigerator and it fell. It crashed into the newly finished wood floor and made a huge indentation. I was sick. This was only the beginning.
Six years later I watched as my oh-so-not-little bundle of joy (who by the way is going to be 3 next month!) sat at the dining room table and scribbled with a pen (that I had given her) onto a piece of paper. This of course made an indentation into my dining room table. I didn't hand her a magazine to put under her drawing. I was indifferent to the harm she was causing.
Over the last couple of years there have been many, upon many mishaps. Things that I have treasured have been ruined or simply redecorated. Items that I hold close and even my relationships with friends (for that matter my relationship with my Love) have been rearranged. They have taken a beating.
Tonight my almost three year old wanted to read the Velveteen Rabbit before going to bed. I hadn't read it in years. As I finished the book tears came to my eyes. Is this how it feels to be real, I wondered? Bruised, battered, flattened, scribbled upon, scratched, dirtied, emptied, used, loved? No one had ever sat down upon that pink couch before my Dad (with his dirty jeans) sat on it. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was stiff and too clean. My wood floors were perfect, my table immaculate. Me, I was put together neatly. But none of these things were truly cared for, truly loved. Couches should be sat upon. Wood floors should be walked upon. Tables should be eaten upon and used for any type of requirement. Relationships should have depth. The wear and tear of everyday life should show. I am not a perfectly put together person. I am loved. I, in turn love others. Bumps and bruises are bound to happen.
The same feelings crossed my mind when the furnace guy began writing up an estimate for a new furnace (now 27 years old you would have thought I had learned something). He asked for a pen and then sat at my expensive dining room table and began to write. The hardness in which he wrote out his numbers caused me great alarm and I quickly jumped to hand him a magazine so that the indentation would not make a permanent mark on my glossy table. He looked puzzled.
Now 30 years old, my kitchen was being remodeled. The newly finished hardwood floors in our kitchen had yet to be fully installed when the cabinet man came to hang the brand new cabinets and hook up the refrigerator. My Love told the man that if he scratched the floor a divorce would probably follow shortly. The man looked puzzled.
A few weeks later I attempted to reach too far up to remove a silver platter from atop the refrigerator and it fell. It crashed into the newly finished wood floor and made a huge indentation. I was sick. This was only the beginning.
Six years later I watched as my oh-so-not-little bundle of joy (who by the way is going to be 3 next month!) sat at the dining room table and scribbled with a pen (that I had given her) onto a piece of paper. This of course made an indentation into my dining room table. I didn't hand her a magazine to put under her drawing. I was indifferent to the harm she was causing.
Over the last couple of years there have been many, upon many mishaps. Things that I have treasured have been ruined or simply redecorated. Items that I hold close and even my relationships with friends (for that matter my relationship with my Love) have been rearranged. They have taken a beating.
Tonight my almost three year old wanted to read the Velveteen Rabbit before going to bed. I hadn't read it in years. As I finished the book tears came to my eyes. Is this how it feels to be real, I wondered? Bruised, battered, flattened, scribbled upon, scratched, dirtied, emptied, used, loved? No one had ever sat down upon that pink couch before my Dad (with his dirty jeans) sat on it. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was stiff and too clean. My wood floors were perfect, my table immaculate. Me, I was put together neatly. But none of these things were truly cared for, truly loved. Couches should be sat upon. Wood floors should be walked upon. Tables should be eaten upon and used for any type of requirement. Relationships should have depth. The wear and tear of everyday life should show. I am not a perfectly put together person. I am loved. I, in turn love others. Bumps and bruises are bound to happen.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Stopping Time.
I sat in my car at a gas station today. Both kids off to school. Both kids tucked neatly away. I blanked out. I quickly gazed up at the price of gas, cheerful that it was under $4.00. I remembered reading something that the price had been falling lately...I heard two men chatting casually regarding building big things...And then I saw her. The Mom.
From across the street I spotted her.
Her long brown hair cascading around her. In one arm she held an almost 3 year old. Her four year old had already bolted down the porch steps and into the yard collecting leaves and throwing them up into the air, everywhere. She walked with purpose. In her other arm she held two (no three) bags full of blankets, toys, food, a wallet, medicine and anything else she might have thought prudent to stick in, in those last moments of goodbye. She walked down her porch stairs to her white SUV, walked into the street and around the car and tried to open the backseat. It was locked. My gaze settled. I was no longer sitting in a gas station. I was a part of her life.
She looked immediately around for her almost four year old and spotted him too close to the street (following her of course).She yelled something at him. He smiled and ran off. She tried the driver's door, locked too. Where were her keys? I wanted to find them for her. Run to her with them. Scoop up her kids. Give her a smile. She backed off the street. Put her two year old down and started digging through her numerous bags. Her two year old ran off. Picked up a stick. Started swinging at the older one. She look furiously up at them.Warning them with her body language, unable to budge from her bags. Needing keys to move forward. I wanted to go to her. Stroke her hair. Magically find the keys. Buckle her kids into her car. Bring her a latte. Sit with her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Now she looked mad. Keys had been found. Two year old was being picked up. The four year old though would not listen to her. I saw her count. He starred her down. She finally turned away. Walked back into the street. Buckled the two year old into his carseat and then ran after her four year old. Finally he was in the car. She was in the car. I hoped (more than ANYTHING) during this ordeal that she had kept her keys in her pocket. And then she drove away, gone. I was mesmerized. I couldn't move. There was something so real about what I had just witnessed. I felt embarrassed for watching her. I felt ashamed. I felt as if I had just observed something wrong, a crime.
No crime had been committed. It was just a mother doing her job to the best of her ability at the time in which life decided to throw her a curve ball. How many times had this happened to me? Stressed to the max. Unable to see through my own lenses. Unable to enjoy the humor. Needing to get somewhere. Weighted down. Tired. Sore. Tense. Angry. Wronged. And then the keys go missing.
I sat at the gas station and cried. I cried for her, I cried for her boys, I cried for me, I cried for my own children. So easy to give advice from across the street. "Give up!" I thought. "Who cares about the keys. Run with your boys. Throw leaves into the air. Enlist their help. Play a game. Or go back inside and turn on the TV, " I had wanted to scream all of this to her. At the same time I knew there was a clock ticking, numbers counting down, kids to deploy, people to impress, another day to fullfill. I knew it. I felt her. I felt the clock. I felt the time.
I wanted to tuck her kids safely away for her. Pull her into my car. Smile at her. Enjoy the quiet with her. Then she was gone. The gas meter clicked at me and I was on my way. Off to figure out my day. There was a time to keep. Kids to pick up. Groceries to be bought. A house to be cleaned. A dinner to be made. Homework to be had. Teeth to be brushed.
The next time I spotted my kids I tried not to hurry. I tried to forget about time. I tried to enjoy the little pleasures. I tried being a friend, instead of a Mom. It felt good. I smiled. I drank some coffee and sat back to watch my little spirits flirting this way and that. Stopping time felt nice. I was relaxed. I cried a bit. I wished for the company of that other Mom.
My only tip to all mothers out there - ALWAYS know where your keys are...Or....decide to give up, and join your kids in a joyous moment of laughter and movement. No matter what though, just remember we are building big things and the foundation is by far the most important.
From across the street I spotted her.
Her long brown hair cascading around her. In one arm she held an almost 3 year old. Her four year old had already bolted down the porch steps and into the yard collecting leaves and throwing them up into the air, everywhere. She walked with purpose. In her other arm she held two (no three) bags full of blankets, toys, food, a wallet, medicine and anything else she might have thought prudent to stick in, in those last moments of goodbye. She walked down her porch stairs to her white SUV, walked into the street and around the car and tried to open the backseat. It was locked. My gaze settled. I was no longer sitting in a gas station. I was a part of her life.
She looked immediately around for her almost four year old and spotted him too close to the street (following her of course).She yelled something at him. He smiled and ran off. She tried the driver's door, locked too. Where were her keys? I wanted to find them for her. Run to her with them. Scoop up her kids. Give her a smile. She backed off the street. Put her two year old down and started digging through her numerous bags. Her two year old ran off. Picked up a stick. Started swinging at the older one. She look furiously up at them.Warning them with her body language, unable to budge from her bags. Needing keys to move forward. I wanted to go to her. Stroke her hair. Magically find the keys. Buckle her kids into her car. Bring her a latte. Sit with her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Now she looked mad. Keys had been found. Two year old was being picked up. The four year old though would not listen to her. I saw her count. He starred her down. She finally turned away. Walked back into the street. Buckled the two year old into his carseat and then ran after her four year old. Finally he was in the car. She was in the car. I hoped (more than ANYTHING) during this ordeal that she had kept her keys in her pocket. And then she drove away, gone. I was mesmerized. I couldn't move. There was something so real about what I had just witnessed. I felt embarrassed for watching her. I felt ashamed. I felt as if I had just observed something wrong, a crime.
No crime had been committed. It was just a mother doing her job to the best of her ability at the time in which life decided to throw her a curve ball. How many times had this happened to me? Stressed to the max. Unable to see through my own lenses. Unable to enjoy the humor. Needing to get somewhere. Weighted down. Tired. Sore. Tense. Angry. Wronged. And then the keys go missing.
I sat at the gas station and cried. I cried for her, I cried for her boys, I cried for me, I cried for my own children. So easy to give advice from across the street. "Give up!" I thought. "Who cares about the keys. Run with your boys. Throw leaves into the air. Enlist their help. Play a game. Or go back inside and turn on the TV, " I had wanted to scream all of this to her. At the same time I knew there was a clock ticking, numbers counting down, kids to deploy, people to impress, another day to fullfill. I knew it. I felt her. I felt the clock. I felt the time.
I wanted to tuck her kids safely away for her. Pull her into my car. Smile at her. Enjoy the quiet with her. Then she was gone. The gas meter clicked at me and I was on my way. Off to figure out my day. There was a time to keep. Kids to pick up. Groceries to be bought. A house to be cleaned. A dinner to be made. Homework to be had. Teeth to be brushed.
The next time I spotted my kids I tried not to hurry. I tried to forget about time. I tried to enjoy the little pleasures. I tried being a friend, instead of a Mom. It felt good. I smiled. I drank some coffee and sat back to watch my little spirits flirting this way and that. Stopping time felt nice. I was relaxed. I cried a bit. I wished for the company of that other Mom.
My only tip to all mothers out there - ALWAYS know where your keys are...Or....decide to give up, and join your kids in a joyous moment of laughter and movement. No matter what though, just remember we are building big things and the foundation is by far the most important.
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