A Moment of Sunlight, A Season of Fat

One nice thing about my office move is that I can enjoy the sunlight pouring into my window. Or at least I would enjoy the sunlight pouring in my window if there were any in this one-horse town.

Gracious me, though! I just felt a ray of sunshine. It wandered through my window and warmed my forehead, radiating down my face and into my body. I'll keep it tucked away and pull it out secretly later today. I don't even feel like sharing it. This is what the deep winter will do to you. I will guard my bowl of sunshine like a rabid dog.

In like way, I hoard little Toblerones from my Christmas stocking in my coat pockets and whip them out at desperate moments. Somehow the feeling of breaking off a little piece with my teeth and turning over those chewy nougat bits with my tongue is a pleasing substitute for sunshine during these endless grey days.

And the Toblerones, and the cookies, and the creamy coffee--it's all doing its work by giving me just that extra special something that keeps me a little warmer. Why fight against evolution? In winter I evolve into a softer, more well-rounded person, and in summer I shed it for long days in the garden. Now that I am over thirty this wintry padding may prove harder to shake than in past carefree days. But I don't give a flipping fig. Bring on the pastries! Bring on the peanut butter!

My good friend and Merry's godmother describes the Goldeneyes in Missoula, puttering carelessly around floating chunks of ice just as we float about in high summer holding a cold beer in one hand. Here's to feathers and fat, she says. Absolutely. I don't know whether she meant this as a recommendation, a "Go ye therefore and do likewise," but that's how I choose to read it. I am going, I am doing likewise.

Stay warm, all ye freezing ones.

Loving Well

Today has been muffled by snow and the thickness that falls around a house where a child has been sick. In a way it's been long, and in a way it's been a day of grace, a day with no plans, no journeys, no great accomplishments. In days like these I often experience a head clearing, unexpectedly, out of the fog.

A moment of brightness, glimmering only, not overwhelming, as I remade Elspeth's bed with clean sheets, as the girls played in the bath some feet away: I'm singing "All day, all night, Angels watching over me, my Lord. . ." Suddenly I feel comforted, though I had not been asking for comfort or reassurance--I feel as if I am watched over by goodness and love, mercy and tenderness. Even when I do not seek it, even when I forget to know it, it is there, a presence that occasionally surprises me and bids me peace.

This is a secret I have just started to uncover: I do not have to be happy every minute of my life to be content. This year has been intense in its own daily way as I let go of things which I held to and wished for so furiously: my family's proximity, my wish for those I love to be near; my solitude; my writing. At one point recently I finally began to understood: it is okay to feel unhappy sometimes (and goodness knows, with my family, writing, and community, I have very little cause for unhappiness). But it is all right, at moments of frustration and bewilderment, not to feel warm and content and like a well-petted dog safe in her own basket. It is okay to be vulnerable, to be sad sometimes. Before, I fought it, railed against it, desperately searched for things and people to make me happy again. I was not at peace until I had researched my discontent, blamed those responsible, made a bit of a scene, and finally achieved some level of bliss again. I am beginning, just beginning to understand: Joy and peace coexist with discomfort, with frustrated aspirations, discomfort, and with inconvenience.

Also I am beginning to learn the extent of what I must let go. Certain moments, like the silence that fell over the house tonight when the girls were finally in bed and Martin teaching his class, strike me. I recall Elspeth's wet nose against mine after her bath, the way she curved her body toward me and hugged my neck; there is Beatrix's impish, jagged-toothed grin, and Merry's surprise tea time this afternoon. This is not the sentimentality that leads to miserably sticky songs--no, it is the force of joy coupled with the blow of sorrow that such particular sweetness will pass by quickly, that my life also will pass by much more rapidly than I imagine. These things I love so intensely, these things I take also for granted, I must let go of each one. I must let go of every person I love; I must release to them their own lives. So little belongs to me, and so little is mine for very long.

These moments bring me sharply back to gratitude and humility. They remind me of the privilege I have been given. I hold a warm, soft bird in my hands for a minute; the wings extend; it is gone.

To a smaller extent I am also discovering the release that comes with letting go of things. Every thing I rid myself of these days, every item I see depart from my house, I celebrate its going, because its absence opens more space in me. Sometimes I am tempted to rid myself of almost everything, but I am certainly not an ascetic at heart and I love prettiness and I love that my girls are growing up in modest prettiness. There is the loveliness of things but coupled with that is the realization that nothing we own merits any real worth in a monetary sense. Yet I love this beat-up old banker's desk and the ficus tree which speaks spring through the winter and the saris my mother saved from my childhood that now hang in doorways in our house. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to NPR's Tippit's interview about the historical Buddha as I put away and ate more of the piles of peanut butter chocolate-chip cookies we baked this afternoon. I love my new TV that my parents bought me for Christmas and I love watching it. I love Yeungling and I want to relish butterschnapps in hot chocolate.

And tomorrow, I am sure, I will once again pull the covers over my head in a bid for five more minutes in bed, and tomorrow I will inevitably raise my voice and howl over the constant mess in the house. Tonight, though, I have felt loved well. And I have remembered that I too must love well.

Vomit vs. Parmesian

Both have strong odors, but one tastes better than the other. One I ate for lunch and the other Elspeth expelled in the middle of last night. Both, in their freshest form, causes me hard work, but one outcome looks good on noodles and the other. . .

Well, I'll spare you the rest. Despite my regular engagement with world news and literature, I find myself often relfecting on the basic fundamentals--such as the scent of child-vomit. (DELIGHTFUL, old chap.)

There are certain things that I will associate with my children being small, and one of them is the scent, the sight, the epic journey of bodily fluids. It's incredible, actually, how such fluids become acceptable conversation among parents of our acquaintance and at auspicious occasions, say, a holiday or birthday party or a nice dinner. "Say," starts one parent as the others taste the first course, "Did I tell you so and so [fill in bodily function] last night?

"You think that's bad," counters the other, and the discussion is in full swing, each story more wildly disturbing than the other until dessert ends with a wild free-for-all of tossing-cookies and poop and spit-up and goodness knows what, delivered with the same gusto with which single, hip people our age describe an especially challenging hike or sky-dive.

Somehow this is all socially acceptable. It's like a first trip to another country--you end up discussing stomach problems more than world peace or justice or the economy. I suppose it follows, since if the stomach's not right, nothing else is worth thinking of. You can live with a broken heart, after all, or a guilty conscience, but you can only cramp and upchuck so long without begging the Almighty to take you home.

And if there's anything worse than feeling your own stomach heave, it's watching your three-year or nine-month old's stomachs heave. One you can endure in quiet, the other you have simply no control over.

(Did I mention this Christmas, when EVERY single house guest--and there were nine of those and five of us, came down with a horrible stomach virus? We took a wee break to fit in Christmas day and continued on from there).

Luckily this little bug is trifling, and therefore worthy of no real gut-groans, just an irritation in the middle of a snowy, cold, wintry week.

Viva la ginger ale.

Snowy Day

This is a picture of Merry and her friend Jenna, created today by Jenna, who is six and pretty as a pixie. Currently she and Merry are in the middle of The Boxcar Children series. Jenna loves making fairy homes outside by special trees. Her favorite color is green.

More snow tomorrow, more sledding, more winter!

new digs

Well, the move is complete. My computer is now in my bedroom, and I am having a little trouble initially with the swap. Where is my favorite tree, swinging with winter birds and the lace of summer honeysuckle? The creek foaming at its snowy banks and the slope running down to the woods?

Instead I now see the the lights of cars, flashing by my window, filled with invisible people in the dark.

So I'm mourning my spindly, rag-tag Black Walnut tree as I would a friend or a muse or. . .

But the point is, this is a temporary and welcome solution because now the baby can sleep in peace and I can type in the quiet.

Also, got some good news from the state of Pennsylvania this week: an artist's fellowship in fiction. What does this mean, practically? WRITING. Hurrah!

Elspeth's on a roll this week. An exorcist has been mentioned but I opt for tireless, patient discipline, an unwavering, positive attitude, the inward assurance that I am totally capable of dealing with every lawless act with calm. . .IN MY DREAMS. Mostly we survive, right?--and hope for the best and that sanity will eventually return to us all.

Snow Day

What bliss! Sledding in the company of good people!

The day was perfect: warm, in the 30's, snowing all day, with snow from our horribly cold week underneath. Highlights include Elspeth flying into the forsythia bush and our friend John almost hurling though our tire swing. We capped off the sledding with hot chocolate spiked with Khalua and lots of popcorn.

And of course we made the trek to our friend Sally's house that night for a huge supper-brunch so Martin could witness the Steelers winning their place in the Superbowl.

This has been a rare day, filled from top to bottom with the delight of dear human company.

Thanks to T M for the great pictures, since we are too lazy to dig up our camera.

Knight With Knees Knocking

No, this is not a treatise on the irony of the strong being internally weak.

Actually, Knight With Knees Knocking is a bit character in the children's story I just rewrote--five hundred times. Or almost that many. Martin continues to be a harsh, unfeeling, cold critic--and a very, very welcome one.

No, the deep thoughts I was pursuing as I dumped ingredients for pizza dough just now (besides the one where I struggled with myself briefly before deciding I should indeed eat the rest of the loaf of chocolate-banana bread completely by myself and with complete impunity) were as follows:

1. I'd like to write poetry again.
2. Ooh, that flour looks GOOD in that glass jar with a lid and a scoop. Ow, Baby.
3. I want to eat peanut butter cookies.
4. Maybe I should read a good book while the kids nap.
5. I am possibly a socialist at heart.
6. My head hurts.
7. Cup of tea! Cup of tea!
8. Lead is not good for children.
9. I am not a homeschooler (even though I. . .technically. . .am).
10. Absolutely. I will eat the rest of the banana bread.

How did I improve the world with these thoughts? How did I act on my inner life?

Here I am writing piffle. I have finished a bowl of banana bread slices. I have drunk a cup of tea in vigorous, hurried swallows as though someone will take my sustenance from me if I do not down said victuals in a hurry.



What makes your knees knock, people?

Me, I get those caps clattering when I:

a. Swallow my coffee while it's still super, just pressed, just poured, hot.
b. See Martin clean any part of the house of his own volition.
c. Smell homemade bread baking.
d. Finish writing a letter and affix the stamp.
e. Bury my nose in the neck of one of my just-washed daughters.
f. Fall asleep on the couch without any worries about who will wake up and need me.
g. Shut the door of my office. . .ALONE.
h. Crunch a waffle.
i. Hear good guitar music. (Music is a tricky thing, since everything from Mariah Carey to showtunes have knocked my knees before I acquired what Martin says, nasally, is TASTE.)
j. Find myself in the middle of a really good book--(I have read enough to be thoroughly engaged and lose myself, but I am not mourning the end of the book yet.)
k. Feel the warming earth blow through my open kitchen window in the spring--a warmth accompanied by the popping of onions in a hot pan.
l. Finish writing anything that has surprised me.

Well, I'll spare you the rest. I had a fleeting vision of going through the alphabet but considering I'm only doing super lazy writing at best, I'll stop and let you all contribute. What floats your boat? Rings your bell? Buzzes your buzzy things? Pings your palate? Rumbles your belly? Gurbles your gonads?

two minutes

No time for writing! Arg! The few minutes I could possibly steal are now gone, thanks to the fact that the baby has taken over my office for sleeping. A room reconfiguration is in the works, folks. . .

Well, here's a little song Merry was singing this morning at the end of breakfast:

--Praise Bird from whom all blessings flow. . .
Praise Bird all creatures here below. . .

--That's a strange song, I said.

--That's the song the birds sing, she replied, The birds think God is a bird.

So there you have it.
*
Yesterday (after a conversation in which Elspeth assumed we were "keeping" the little boy baby we were taking care of--We can't keep him?--she demanded), Elspeth offered me some invisible medicine for an invisible burn I received for the invisible food I had accepted from her hands.

--That's good medicine, I told her.

--Thanks. My mommy made it.

--Wow. What's it made out of?

--Squirrel.

This conversation should not have surprised me so much--there is a squirrel hunting season here (Elspeth is assimilating?) and I had just told her what sushi (or shushi as she says) is made from, to which she replied, YUCK.
*
Last night when we checked on the girls at 11:30 or so we found them snuggled together in one bed. This is true companionship especially considering Elspeth peed out at about three in the morning.
*
Last night we celebrated Elspeth's stunning accomplishments by throwing a Potty Party. Merry baked a cake from her own recipe and it was absolutely delicious--a carrot cake that will become standard in our house, I think. I'll post the recipe once we try it again.
*
Since Elspeth is hanging on me while I type, I'd better sign off. Oh sigh. I love parenthood. Martin came home from work yesterday full of being back and said, "Silence! I had forgotten the silence of my office!" Me, I had to deal with the curmudgeonly jealousy that threatened to whack me over the head. Silence? Office?

Ah, there will be a time.

I just heard a cry from the first floor: BEATRIX! YOU'RE WALKING!

Hmm.

minute

elspeth poured out all the sugar on the kitchen floor. i heard her wails and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. martin is below.

also today i walked into the sunroom to find elspeth had peed in exactly the same spot on the playroom rug as yesterday, and beatrix was again unloading the potted ficus tree in exactly the same spot as yesterday at exactly the same time elsepth was peeing AGAIN in the same spot as yesterday.

fun stuff.