12:00 p.m. I am up here in my office, hiding from my children. What is UP with that middle child? What possesses her? She's yelling from time-out: I'm ready to make GOOD CHOICES!
I'm yelling from inside: I'm ready to make sweet love to a hot cuppa Kahlua!
Is twelve o'clock too early? But seriously folks. Where is the zen today?
This is her second time-out today. During her first time-out I disappeared to the back porch to clean up the disaster back there. When I rejoined the family, Merry had moved Elspeth in her time-out chair out to the kitchen, where Merry had prepared a fine feast for the disgracee. Elspeth was happily munching on dry frosted miniwheats and orange slices and a banana, which she apparently didn't want, since she hurled it contemptuously to the floor. I reminded Merry who was in charge and slid Elspeth in her time-out chair back into time-out.
She is back there now after toting dirt from a potted plant all over the house. I have cleared up the trail of dirt and now I am hiding. Regaining my zen in peace. No master of zen am I. Show me a parent of three under seven and you've shown me no zen master.
It's snowing. Happy February duckies!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Day for Ducks, Ducks Dancing, Ducks Doing the Polka
Out of my window, the rain is coming down steadily at a slant; there's the red-sided beauty salon/house kiddy-corner across the street, and the lopsided evergreen beside that; in the foreground the garden looks sloggy and a sick sort of green-yellow, and in the background there's the warm purplish-brown of a hill (once mountain), feathered with bare tree branches.
I'm enjoying this rainy day, though my sinuses increasingly feel they are about to explode. When I was young (I know this is ironic) but when I was young all ten years ago, I felt as though I MUST be perfectly happy all the time. I finally have gotten over that, and I'm trying to let go of more and more so I can, in a non-drug-induced manner, float out the rainy days and enjoy the process.
I tried to remind myself of this newly found zen as I mopped up the milk that Elspeth had spilled all over the floor and up the walls, and I was doing pretty well (floating along, "no use crying over. . .") when Elspeth pushed her milk-soggy foot and pants against my shoulder and into my face. Well, it is hard to retain zen when the culprit behind your work tramples you when you're already down. To her credit, she didn't mean to be frustrating, just meant to let me know that she was milk-logged. I told her, "It's okay for you to feel uncomfortable for a while." I am preaching to myself, folks.
If anything, anything in the world, will threaten your zen, it's being home with your kids. Look, people, if you think this is a piece of cake you are out to lunch in a handbasket (or something). I have heard people say they don't stay at home with their kids because they're not cut out for it, and I hear myself thinking, "Is ANYONE cut out for this?" It's the hardest work I've ever chosen for myself, but it's also probably the greatest privilege I will ever have. Knowing these two things, and knowing that I have chosen them for myself, instead of having to "buck up" like women historically have had to do under a no-choice proposition, I find my job at this moment entirely precious.
That said, my zen is sometimes threatened, especially at times of being kicked, pissed, pooped, and thrown up upon, and when my will for their lives is utterly ignored and flaunted.
But lately I am in a good space, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. This may be because I have tried to adopt a spirit of gratitude rather than of discontent; it may be because my hormones are fairly stable; it may be because I just got that grant; it may be that Beatrix is a snaggle-toothed beauty; it may be because I smell chocolate cake baking; it may be because my life seems so happy at the moment. It is in style to rant and rave about your circumstances, even if you are secretly happy. Today I will not engage in such subterfuge, even though it is raining and it is February.
Today on the way home from Giant Beagle (not the grocery store's actual name), I listened to something rather atonal on NPR, and instead of flipping it off as I am wont to do when it's Not-Bach-or-Mozart-or-Chopin, I actually gave myself a little lesson in feeling comfortable with modern, clashing music. This seemed to match my efforts toward contentment and peace in the midst of chaos, and the ride home was good for me, the music a reminder of my own journey, of being comfortable with discomfort. This doesn't mean that I wasn't happy to turn it off when I reached home.
Which reminds me to leave a note here, that I don't think every experience has to be an illustration of something else, like the woman who lived down the road from us in Kenya thought. My mother asked her to borrow some cream of tartar and when she delivered it she said, "You know, it struck me on the way over that Jesus is the cream of tartar in our lives." We have heard Jesus compared to a whole menagerie of different things, including the head of lettuce in a salad (this image almost made my father disgrace himself in church once as he imagined our King, a head of Iceburg, sitting on the great throne, presiding, I would think, over all of us carrot slices and cucumber sticks and crouton-heads). Though my mind quickly jumps to symbols and metaphor, some things just ARE.
Like children. Like Elspeth, who painted with my brand new foundation and mascara on her furniture, unloaded the clothes hamper, and spilled my coffee across the counter (all before Martin or I got out of bed!). That child just IS who she IS, and it's not all chaos and discord with her, either. She said the other day that she was sending a rainbow in an envelope to her cousin Josiah and she observed, when I turned off the water in her bath last night, that the faucet had run out of batteries. She also noted, as I bent over sopping up milk from the floor, that she could see "my naked" (I assume a version of Plumber's Butt?) Fantastic.
Keep the faith, people, keep the peace, and for heaven's sake, don't plug along just because it's in style. Do a little boogy-woogy here and there. Especially in February.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Early Early Early Spring
I choose to call this early spring instead of late winter, though you and I both know I'm just joshin'. Our good friend Arne took these pictures of our hike two weekends ago (that other good daddy is Julio and that other little bear is Lucas). It felt like early spring--gusts of wind blew through the bare trees, and the wind was warm. Near the end of the hike I peeled off my hat and it felt as if spring exploded inside my head.
This week? Snow flurries. Frost. Children with colds and cough. More laundry. Typical February gooky stuff.
But I saw the tips of our crocus coming through the soil. It's coming, folks, though all I have now is a MEMORY OF GREEN. The memory is of something real. I know because I have seen the pictures of our garden recently in mid summer. Y'all remember that? Weeds and flowers and vegetables and what-not? Sleeping under a sheet and nothing else? Ceiling fans? Fresh basil? The overwhelming scent of dill going to seed? Roses and japanese beetles? Raspberries on prolific canes?
It will all return, the good and the ugly. Mostly the good and the succulent.
February, beware. Your days are numbered.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Unseen Crocodile at Every Meal
Elspeth took a wonderful nap today, and afterwards she awakened bright and happy, a welcome sight on a rainy, cool day. We had a splendid tea time, just the two of us, since Merry was at a friend's house and the baby was still sleeping. We spread a rosey placemat on the table, and lit a candle, and took down the real tea cups. I poured her a milky cup of tea, and we began talking.
George McDonald and Madeline L'Engle, two of my favorite children's authors, would have been pleased to sit at tea with us--well not with me, especially--I expect I would have proved a real BORE--but Elspeth (who charmed a lady at a cafe last weekend by hooking her fingers in the corners of her mouth and sticking out her tongue--after which she nestled up to the lady and carried on a frank conversation about love, life, and age) would have delighted them.
George MacDonald, beloved author of "The Princess and Curdie," believed that in a true-Myth way, imagination helps us see what is truly real, not what is "make-believe." And in her reflections about writing and faith, Madeline L'Engle writes that she actually floated down her grandmother's stairs as a child--her belief is that children so unite with and are empowered by their imaginations that they can indeed accomplish the unbelievable.
Well, in this case I am fairly relieved that Elspeth's reflections on reality did not materialize in front of my eyes. I asked her, did she have sweet dreams?
And she replied, "There was a crocodile in my room. But he didn't eat me or swallow me."
"Was he a NICE crocodile?" I asked.
Elspeth looked down at the sweets on her plate. "Well, he shared his breakfast with me. And his milk with me."
"What do crocodiles eat for breakfast?"
"Oatmeal."
Of course. I should have known that. Everybody knows crocodiles--at least the nice ones--have oatmeal for breakfast.
And then, as it turns out, the crocodile was in our kitchen, at our table for tea. I poured him ceylon (he didn't want a cup--he just opened his mouth--and I can tell you, my hand was shaking so hard the teapot lid rattled), and Elspeth shared her sweet with him. He gobbled it with alacrity, and it didn't bother Elspeth in the least that the treat he had just consumed was still sitting on the table. She said, with satisfaction, "He ate it all up!"
Well, there you have it, folks. My children are far better story-tellers than I will ever be, and they don't even have to print a word.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Bangladesh Memory 1
Sitting at my window this evening after supper, the sky was a blue-black, deepening into night. Out on the hill, I saw the light of a high tower blinking on and off; below that, there house glowed with light, and below that, the lights of a car flicking through the trees on the hill as it wound its way up to—where? Home, in time for supper? Tick, tick, tick, the lights flickered through the trees, like a stick running along a fence.
Something about the lights in that house, their warmth, their formation—oddly, in a cross shape—glowing in the gathering evening, plunged me back into my own childhood. I had a sense memory, of arriving at someone’s house in Bangladesh when I was very young. The dusk flooded over the hills, the insects sang loud in my ears (as only insects can sing in the tropics), it was warm but not hot. My family and I neared the lights of the house—and the lights of a familiar house at dark are warm beyond description—we knocked, waiting in a moment of expectant silence. And suddenly the door swung open and the good world of just my family on that walk was gone for the good world of being with friends who are like family. That first step into the light out of the evening--into the bosom of a familiar house filled with supper smells where perhaps a small friend your own age waits, and a friend for your sister, and a woman and man who are as old as your parents—it is like stepping out of a cooling bath into a big, warm towel. Somebody wraps you up, and you feel safe and clean and completely at home.
Suddenly, back here in this cold corner of Pennsylvania, Beatrix was asleep. As I stood up to put her in her crib, I was an adult again, and like an adult I understood that the mother and father in the house in my childhood memory was probably scrambling around like mad, tidying up and checking on dinner and perhaps snapping at their kids underfoot. Perhaps that mother thought of political unrest or a sick parent as she stirred the soup. All the while her child waited at the window, watching the dark gathering, waiting for me, her friend, to come up her path.
Is this timelessness, this magic that hangs heavy in the air, for my children too? Holy childhood, where colors ring like music and the sound of a dog barking at nap time calls them into sleep. Holy children, who love without thought of deserving, who are loved before they even know how to articulate love. May my children’s memories be this sweet, this full, this glorious.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Never Had to Have a Chaperone, That's Sure. . .
I'm here to keep my eye on HER. . .
--Sisters, Irving Berlin's White Christmas
My mother once found a doll for Merry that wore the cutest clothes but had her little tongue out exactly like Elspeth, below. We were both baffled by the doll and her tongue, but now everything is clear to me. Some children are never quite angelic.
Need I say more?
--Sisters, Irving Berlin's White Christmas
My mother once found a doll for Merry that wore the cutest clothes but had her little tongue out exactly like Elspeth, below. We were both baffled by the doll and her tongue, but now everything is clear to me. Some children are never quite angelic.
Need I say more?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A Blue Day
Driving back from our Mennonite church Sunday afternoon, I gazed out the car window (Martin was driving) at the blue sky--blue the color of what? Silk, the heart of a violet, the sea over sand--an impossible blue, especially in this part of the world on the first day of February.
That morning I had looked out our kitchen window, caught the furry white line of a contrail and I started singing: I SEE A CONTRAIL! over and over to the tune of a Cat Stevens song. I love being startled by a pure blue day in the middle of all this hummy-drummy winter grey.
Well, by the time church, kid-gathering, and grocery store stop was over, I was not as mesmerized by the blue and the sunshine--rather, I was a bit sleepy but most of all I felt worried. I had exchanged stories with friend there who had told me about some tragedies in her life which mirrored some of my deepest worries: one or two are old favorites, the ones that grab me by the throat when, lifting a hungry Beatrix to my breast in the middle of the night, I feel some lump or thickening, when my mind jumps to words like breast cancer, sending shocks deeply into my mind and heart. This worry is a personal favorite, and has never come to anything. The other worry was real. My friend, whom I love dearly, is very ill.
Though we had just sung a beautiful hymn about releasing anxiety to God, I had walked from that good place of peace over to the narrow path between all that is normal and familiar on one hand and all that is baffling and terrifying and unknown on the other. I'm afraid this is a path I find myself on occasionally, and I am always walking alone there. It is my own mental "valley of the shadow--" and this is a valley that shakes me until my teeth chatter if I am honest enough to admit it.
I was completely alone in this sort of valley as I watched the sky, though my children slept in the back seat, and Martin sat beside me. And though my mental image of this path of worry is that it goes straight through a valley, I never reach anywhere on the other side. More often I go wandering around in circles, lost, walking myself more and more deeply into ruts, ruts of my own misery and confusion, my own sadness and darkness. And I am always alone here. You can't take people with you into worry. You can hold the hands of others in sorrow and grief, but this kind of anxiety is a one-person journey. It is lonely and isolating and it is not at all good.
But suddenly, alone in this awful place, someone was there. I can't explain it exactly--except that in my head, I pictured my hands, tightly fisted and white-knuckled, opening, and my worries floating away from me, up from the pit of my own making, over my head, further and further into that real, wonderful blue sky.
Now this is not some kind of hokey visualization--I did not arrange for it to happen (though I believe releasing worries is certainly a choice to some extent), nor did I say HELP ME GOD, though I believe my soul sometimes asks for things despite my own blundering.
But this afternoon I felt Grace lay her hands upon my fists, and just as I coax Beatrix to release some chokable object by stroking the backs of her little knuckles, so did I, in response to other hands, uncurl my own fingers.
The objects of my worries weren't taken care of or resolved, and they did not explode with a puff of smoke--no, I will still struggle with their reality and with my responsibility in the face of such trouble. Sadness remains, but my gnawing, horrible fear was taken away, at least for that moment. The opening, the letting go, is something that must happen every day. But sometimes, like this Sunday afternoon, I feel the breath of joy on my face.
During this time I had been watching the bare hills on either side of the road flash by, seeing the bare spokes of the winter trees. But in the instant after this grace visited me, I focused on one tree, and on that tree's limbs I saw--buds. Buds! Tightly curled, tiny buds on the first day of February! A moment later our car curved around another hill and a whole forest of budded trees spread beneath the blue sky, the tufts of each curled bloom and leaf perfect and visible on the bare brown branches.
This is peace that is beyond understanding. The sorrows of this life--sometimes I feel them dark before me. But I am not alone.
That morning I had looked out our kitchen window, caught the furry white line of a contrail and I started singing: I SEE A CONTRAIL! over and over to the tune of a Cat Stevens song. I love being startled by a pure blue day in the middle of all this hummy-drummy winter grey.
Well, by the time church, kid-gathering, and grocery store stop was over, I was not as mesmerized by the blue and the sunshine--rather, I was a bit sleepy but most of all I felt worried. I had exchanged stories with friend there who had told me about some tragedies in her life which mirrored some of my deepest worries: one or two are old favorites, the ones that grab me by the throat when, lifting a hungry Beatrix to my breast in the middle of the night, I feel some lump or thickening, when my mind jumps to words like breast cancer, sending shocks deeply into my mind and heart. This worry is a personal favorite, and has never come to anything. The other worry was real. My friend, whom I love dearly, is very ill.
Though we had just sung a beautiful hymn about releasing anxiety to God, I had walked from that good place of peace over to the narrow path between all that is normal and familiar on one hand and all that is baffling and terrifying and unknown on the other. I'm afraid this is a path I find myself on occasionally, and I am always walking alone there. It is my own mental "valley of the shadow--" and this is a valley that shakes me until my teeth chatter if I am honest enough to admit it.
I was completely alone in this sort of valley as I watched the sky, though my children slept in the back seat, and Martin sat beside me. And though my mental image of this path of worry is that it goes straight through a valley, I never reach anywhere on the other side. More often I go wandering around in circles, lost, walking myself more and more deeply into ruts, ruts of my own misery and confusion, my own sadness and darkness. And I am always alone here. You can't take people with you into worry. You can hold the hands of others in sorrow and grief, but this kind of anxiety is a one-person journey. It is lonely and isolating and it is not at all good.
But suddenly, alone in this awful place, someone was there. I can't explain it exactly--except that in my head, I pictured my hands, tightly fisted and white-knuckled, opening, and my worries floating away from me, up from the pit of my own making, over my head, further and further into that real, wonderful blue sky.
Now this is not some kind of hokey visualization--I did not arrange for it to happen (though I believe releasing worries is certainly a choice to some extent), nor did I say HELP ME GOD, though I believe my soul sometimes asks for things despite my own blundering.
But this afternoon I felt Grace lay her hands upon my fists, and just as I coax Beatrix to release some chokable object by stroking the backs of her little knuckles, so did I, in response to other hands, uncurl my own fingers.
The objects of my worries weren't taken care of or resolved, and they did not explode with a puff of smoke--no, I will still struggle with their reality and with my responsibility in the face of such trouble. Sadness remains, but my gnawing, horrible fear was taken away, at least for that moment. The opening, the letting go, is something that must happen every day. But sometimes, like this Sunday afternoon, I feel the breath of joy on my face.
During this time I had been watching the bare hills on either side of the road flash by, seeing the bare spokes of the winter trees. But in the instant after this grace visited me, I focused on one tree, and on that tree's limbs I saw--buds. Buds! Tightly curled, tiny buds on the first day of February! A moment later our car curved around another hill and a whole forest of budded trees spread beneath the blue sky, the tufts of each curled bloom and leaf perfect and visible on the bare brown branches.
This is peace that is beyond understanding. The sorrows of this life--sometimes I feel them dark before me. But I am not alone.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 26, 2009
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!
More snow tomorrow, more sledding, more winter!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
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.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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?
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?
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