Some Thoughts.

After weeks of life that needed to be lived in different ways, with different routines to accommodate sick days, I finally sit perched at my desk, in my office. Today feels more predictable and usual. Comfortable. I feel good sitting in this space that I created. The calm hue of the buttery cream walls, the simple furniture, smiling faces of those dear, a framed copy of my first published article. My windows providing unobstructed views of trees and their nascent, fragile buds promising that Spring will in fact come. And my thoughts.

My thoughts seem to meet me here.

*****

I love opening books of beloved writers and seeing what words the page delivers. Today I opened A Year With Rilke (translated and edited by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows)--it is an exquisite book, rich in Rilke tidbits and wisdom. These words greeted me:

Let us be complete in ourselves. Let us drink ourselves empty, give ourselves fully, extend ourselves outward--until, at last, the waving treetops are our own gestures and our laughter is resurrected in the children who play beneath them... (Early Journals)

and then...

Here is the time for telling. Here is its home.

Speak and make known: More and more

the things we could experience

are lost to us, banished by our failure

to imagine them.

Old definitions, which once

set limits to our living,

break apart like dried crusts.

(From the Ninth Duino Elegy)

*****

A time for telling indeed. I will offer this: two very divergent set of thoughts interspersed as I lived the sick days. I realized, quite disappointingly, that a nagging sense of embarrassment resided just below the surface of my exterior. A self-critical judge issued verdicts of:

I should be doing a better job of keeping us all healthy.

If I kept my house cleaner then we'd stop getting sick.

If I could get my kids to eat leafy, raw vegetables, they wouldn't get sick. And they'd heal faster!

(Apparently, during these moments of self-flagellation, I choose to ignore the informed opinions of doctors and schools that this has been one really sick winter. Really sick. And that as much as I'd like to think I can control the germs and keep them at bay with hand sanitizer, Clorox and Lysol, I cannot. Sometimes the germs win.)

I shouldn't feel sick for so long. I should bounce back quickly and return to the gym. Start writing my book! I should be a superhero!!! (Alas, I do not yet feel fantastic. I feel a hell of a lot better than I did last week at this time, but my brain still synapses slowly. Small jaunts to the grocery store leave me needing a nap and laughing makes me cough.)

Should. Should. Should.

The divergence came from this epiphany, seemingly from another reality: As I trudged through the various infections and illnesses that comprised the last month of our life, I realized that I was exactly where I needed to be, sitting in the mess. The pain of bruised ribs. The tears of middle-of-the-night ear infections and rubbing of fevered brows. The mess of cancelled outings and play dates, missing a dear friend's wedding. The stress of asking for help continues to rankle me; I'm still working on doing this while jettisoning the guilt and antiquated belief that asking for help equals weakness. (Geesh.) Sitting with the piles of laundry and antibiotics, the realization dawned that I was indeed living. Right then. The strep throats, coughs, the multiple dashes to the doctor's office, bronchitises, fevers and runny noses forced my hand, expertly navigating me to right now. A messy concoction in flawed abundance.

And so, I sit with the conflicting tides of my epiphanies and try to calmly, lovingly and sweetly tell the self-bitchy judge, and her old definitions, to take a hike.

I try, with varying levels of success, to understand my many realities and be complete within myself. Sometimes, I belabor the very dichotomies that define and assure my place in this life. Others, I gingerly hold these nuanced, shadowy gulfs with amazement, desperately hoping to comprehend.

I try to let the old, stale beliefs and shoulds break away and fall out of my reality. Their very departure creating space for the new. Creating space for consideration. For living. For dreams and possibilities. A place where my imagination runs freely--encounters fear and proceeds anyway, marching right up to a future of possibilities.

This is life. Acceptance transcends the bubbling dichotomies--the confounding and conflicting emotions--and the variegated grace sits, patiently awaiting me.

*****

I'm glad to be back here in my space. Where my words meet me. And I, them, as we go forth together.

The Witching Years

You know how it is when you read a piece that so resonates within? That's how I felt the first time I visited and read Amy's fabulous words at The Never-True Tales. She's a talented writer and an on-line community builder. She writes, "Blogging is many things to many people, but for me, it's about writing. It's about the meditation between the mind and the fingers on the keyboard, the puring of thought and feeling in a way that becomes organic and good." Is it any wonder that I so enjoy this new-found connection?

Then I learned about Amy's awesome creation, Won't You Be My Neighbor--which she hosts so writers can connect and discover each other's incredible words. And this community is so important to me...a virtual life-line. Today I have the honor of hosting Amy as my neighbor. (And as luck would have it, I'm guest posting as her neighbor today, too.) After you've read her fabulous words below, won't you go visit Amy? Maybe you can slip off your suit coat, pull on a wool cardigan and climb into your slippers first....

*****

The Witching Years, by Amy of The Never-True Tales.

It’s staying light a bit longer each day, but we still have a long way to go until spring. I can tell because I still have to switch my car headlights on driving the kids home from the karate studio or the soccer fields, still have to flip the porch light before calling them in from the neighborhood streets. In another lifetime (which wasn’t too long ago), I’d sit out these winter evenings indoors, the kids too young for unsupervised neighborhood roaming, my own motherhood too new to risk a public toddler meltdown or unscheduled nap after nightfall. From my kitchen window, I’d watch the sun disappear behind the city long before dinner was served, and something heavy and panicky would rise in my chest and sink in my belly as the outside darkness closed over me like a blanket, locking me into a fate of 5 pm until 7 pm with only my babies for company.

It would have been so easy to switch on Backyardigans and switch off myself, but most days, I resisted the lure of the TV. Instead, I’d play cars on the mat in the boys’ yellow-walled room, listening to thevrooom-vroooom vibrating against their lips, then to the bubbles blown in the bath, the run of the water from the faucet as they brushed their tiny, pearly teeth. I’d find Hidden Pictures, change diapers, press playdough between my hands. I’d pause to find blankies and binkies before scraping the dinner dishes and setting them on the sideboard to dry.

I was on my own most evenings back then, Charlie working late. Every weeknight. Every weekend. (I still can’t believe we ever got used to that, but we did.) As I waited for 7 pm, I’d finish the forgotten loads of laundry on the bed, each t-shirt and burp cloth and OshKosh overall cooled and wrinkled in the heap. I’d stare out the blackened windows and wonder how I’d make it another hour. Another twenty minutes. Another ten.

This was my Witching Hour, but what people forget to tell you is how the hours add up, strung together end-to-end, day-to-day to become Witching Years. They commence in those first black nights of nursing a newborn, and they roll on and on until all your children are old enough to take the bus to school. Or at least old enough to wish they could.

And some mothers are great at it–love it, even–but not me. I floundered. I immersed myself in my boys: their needs and their wants, their meals and their clothes and their toys. I waved the white flag and gave myself over to them completely, and this was how it had to be. On the surface, I even looked good at it. Underneath, I was drowning. (Needing. Wanting.) I spent my days sinking and my nights kicking my way back to the top, to where at least the waves slapped me in the face instead of swallowing me whole, arms stroking upward through the dark. I stopped writing. I stopped exercising. I stoppedthinking, truth be told. I think maybe, there wasn’t enough oxygen to my brain.

It’s clearer here, on the other side. In the light. With kids who brush their own teeth and do their own homework and get their own snacks. I know now that being a mom of young children, staying in the house day after day, parenting solo 80% of the time…well, it is what it is. (Oh, is it ever.) I know that I did my best.

I also know I’ll never get those years back, as much as they often make me shudder: those years that passed so slowly as to nearly grind backward. Those years so long I measured my children’s ages inmonths instead. And that’s a travesty, because I left a piece of myself there. Something raw, and unmeasured, and instinctively maternal. Something sacrificial.

It was that something in me that gave way, that moved to the rhythm of my children’s sleep cycles, to the sunrise and the twilight, to the stirring of the oatmeal and the snapping of the car seats and the hefting to the hip, to the breast, to the mouth to kiss the lips.

It was that something that laid down arms. Set aside dreams. And that something was…there’s no other word for it…bewitching.

Thank you, Amy for your beautiful words, so honestly and eloquently woven together. It's great having you as my neighbor, and guest, today.

Sitting With the Mess

(Kids and I have continued our fairly sick winter. And now I am under-the-weather, again. Ugh. I'm trying to stay positive, but must admit that this sick business is getting old. So, I've been posting here less frequently but hope to be back more once I perform the germ exorcism, scheduled for this evening.)

Lately, I've been thinking very much about a brilliantly simple phrase, shared with me by my dear friend and Life Coach Rita Hyland. "Sometimes, Denise, you just have to sit with the mess." As someone who has always liked nice neat corners, tidy rooms and clean resolutions, when Rita first said this her words bounced off my belief system. it did not compute. Sit with the mess? No way. Figure it out, fix it, clean it and move on.

Luckily, Rita's words permeated and infiltrated my old beliefs. I've shifted, knowing that she's brilliantly correct. In the dark, messy spaces sit nuggets of insight and growth. My friends and I, all churning through different complex parts of our lives, have been chewing on this wisdom. It calms. It fits. It helps. It intuits wisdom to deal with the inevitable mess of life. It gave me permission to sit, get dirty and grow.

*****

I sit, watching, wondering.

Perplexed by the intensity of force of

Dark, surging waters.

Gray.

Muddled.

Pounding.

Shallow eddies crescendo to a delirious, towering walls of water.

Waves pummeling. Water penetrating.

At times, I sense a disembodiment,

watching from afar

But I know am the water; she sits within me.

Feeling each white-capped slice of wave

As an extension of my soul.

I dive in, into myself.

Into the uncertain mess.

I want to know what she knows. What I know.

I don't wish for calm,

placid waters and blue skies.

I don't force the return of tranquility.

I don't paint a sunny day on my salt-water

strewn, disheveled face.

I sit. With the

Angst.

Pain.

Uncertainty.

Sensitivity.

Decades old hurts, now expired.

Possibility creeps in, holding hands with the

faintest rays of the sun, breaking through charcoal clouds.

I sit with the mess. And the power within.

I stop silencing it, and myself. Voices released,

swelling majestically over the briny, gray squalls of the ocean,

flying away with the mist.

(Note: This type of writing is a huge departure from my norm. I'd love to get your input--constructive (really!!) or positive--so I can continue to get better. I'd also like to thank Christa and Alita for they each recently wrote beautiful pieces about the water and their words inspired mine.)

Kindred

Maybe we ...have the same single and fundamental task: to make peace with the roads we have travelled, as straight or winding as they have been, and to trust that we are up to the task of what lies ahead, whatever it may be.

E.L. Doctorow’s quote comes to mind: “You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” Maybe now my job is to stop squinting past the headlights. It’s only causing me panic that I can’t see, hurting my eyes, and taking my attention away from what is right in front of me.

Lindsey Mead, A Design So Vast

Every once in a while, life throws me a spark, a connection. And every once in awhile, I'm aware enough to heed the light and follow it. I don't know what cosmic force led me to Lindsey and her beautiful blog, A Design So Vast, but now I will publicly thank that cosmic force for I am so very grateful. Her beautiful prose both inspires and comforts. I often find myself holding my breath as I read a string of words she's artfully woven together--about her journey to now, her experiences as a woman, as a mother. A reverential place of comfort and kindred connection, her blog is one of my must reads. She will humbly deflect this compliment, but, let me just say, that, in twenty years, when I'm being interviewed (yes, after I've written all my best-selling memoirs and novels) about which writers informed and influenced me, her name will be on my list.

We began our friendship through our blogs and emails. And now, Lindsey is an in-the-flesh friend whom I adore. As I've told her, I first fell in love with her writing, and then I fell head-over-heels for her. Today I'm featuring Lindsey as my first-ever guest blogger. (And the crowd goes wild....)

The Dark Blooms and Sings

Lindsey Mead

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is travelled by dark feet and dark wings.

- Wendell Berry

These Wendell Berry lines have been banging around in my head for a few days. (fighting – or harmonizing – with Annie Lennox and the omnipresent Willy W, of course). I so agree with what he implies, with the notion that to really know the dark we have to surrender to it. We have to let our eyes adjust, which means we must go in without any external light. And that, in that darkness, there is a beauty that we never imagined.

Berry’s words make me think, first of all, about internal darkness. Of what it takes for us to really know the darkness there, to gaze into the ragged hole that exists in the center of all of our souls, to push on the bruise, to feel the wound. Perhaps ironically, for me, I have often described the feeling of that intense darkness as staring into the sun. It has been the focus of the last months of my life, for sure: relenting in my frantic white-knuckled attempts to control, accepting the way it is and in so doing releasing my desperate focus on the way I wanted it to be.

It has only been when I have really let myself lean into that darkness, accept that my deepest wound is the profound sadness of impermanence, that I’ve started seeing the gifts that are there. As I sink into the way my life actually is, everyday I find unexpected gems buried in the mundane. Sure, I also cry a lot more. Every single day I face the truth that this is the last day that my baby will be 5, the last time I’ll have a Beginner, thelast, the last, the last. I grieve and mourn constantly, far more than I imagined possible.

But there’s also beauty here. Surprising, staggering, serendipitous beauty. Divinity buried in the drudgery. Dark feet and dark wings.

***

Thank you, dear friend, for honoring me with your words today.

I Can Still Carry Him Up the Stairs

Last night, I cooked. I so enjoy cooking but I don't do it often, and often I wish I could sequester myself in a private kitchen where no one could find me whilst I cooked. Sigh.

Anyway, last night the evening air hung cold and damp. The kids and I co-existed in this warm, kitchen cocoon. Heavenly scents hung heavy in our space. I made lemon chicken, and it sizzled in the big stainless pan. I got to the part where I juice the lemons (the kids adore this part) and Abby yelled,

"Mommy, can I help you squeeze the lemons?!?!"

"Sure."

"Mommy, can I pwease have a wemon I can cut?"

"Sure, H, sure. Go wash your hands."

So, Abby squeezed lemons and Henry cut his lemon half in preparation for eating. He used a table knife. Suddenly he yelled,

"I cut mysewlf!"

Boy howdy did he. With a table knife, he sliced right into his sweet, plump finger. Blood drip, drip, dripping. Henry is fairly stoic, but this cut freaked him out. So I mothered, cleaned, washed, bandaged, wiped tears. Rebandaged.

Then we ate, the kids and I. Abby frantically shoveled in her favorite meal before leaving for a school event. Henry, wearing his favorite silly monster pajamas (which are beginning to seem ill-fated), wasn't hungry. His finger "huwrt". He retired to the couch and covered up in the family-favorite fleece sherpa blanket. I finished furiously cleaning the kitchen and Abby left.

The house was silent.

"Henry?"

No answer.

I found Henry, half-way to sleep under the sherpa blanket, already drooling. His blond hair already bed-heady, his cheeks flush with pending, interrupted sleep. It was only 6:30 pm. He wakened slightly, enough to ask me if I remembered the time we had caterpillars that turned into butterflies, which we released into nature. Then he mused that the butterflies were probably dead now. (As I've mentioned before, he is the King of the Non-Sequitur.)

As I perched on the side of couch, I watched him. I rubbed his head in that way that a devotee rubs a worn talisman or good luck charm. I hoped by physically handling the brief moment that I could indelibly brand it to memory. Before the inexorable sweep of the second hand took it away.

I offered Henry a cozy bed and an endless basket of bedtime books. He raised his arms, intonnating that he'd like a ride upstairs. I abliged. The house sat silently, the padding of my wool clogs the only exception. Henry then sleepily chattered about his "fingwer" and how well the advil was "wuhking". He held the offending finger high, like a beacon to the sky.

I carried all 42 pounds of him up the stairs. We entered the dark bathroom and stopped. His fuzzy monster jammies, which have glow-in-the-dark stars, faintly lit our space with their luminescent glow. We stood, heads together, in the dark, gazing at our private garden of stars. The combined concoction of warmth, peace and Henry's intoxicating scent kept me still. With Henry, in my arms. Forehead to forehead, soul to soul.

We climbed under flannel sheets and I began to read. Henry nestled so tightly next to me, our breaths existing in unison. I made it halfway through the Velveteen Rabbit and stopped. Henry slept. The night light, like an evening sentry, cast its own soft, watchful halo across Henry's cheeks. Oh those cheeks. And those lashes, resting just above. I stared. I stayed. I soaked him up.

As I padded back out of his room, the coldness of the house slowly enveloped me. I turned back, once more, took one last look and finally, closed the door.

I know that these fleeting moments...flee. Being able to fully experience them sits intrinsically in knowing I'll never be able to replicate them again. I just don't know when an everyday occurrence, which I might not appreciate, will suddenly become the last. The last incorrectly spoken word. The last time I can easily carry his solid body up the stairs. The last time he thinks I hung the moon in the sky, just for him. The last time we star gaze together. Lasts. My anticipation of the lasts may indeed crack my heart open, exposing a vast plane of apprehension. A mixture of subtle grief surrounding the recognition of time's passage.

Perhaps it is this inky awareness that provides the very canvas by which I can distill these moments into my soul. A dark canvas which beautifully exhibits the tenuous relationship between remembering and being. Between darks and lights. And I offer this platitude: I must have the darkness of lasts to appreciate the light. The light of the forward movement of time. Of firsts.

Today, I've indelibly imprinted the following: the scent of lemons, glowy stars and a sleepy body, close to mine. All while precariously straddling the tightrope between lasts and firsts.

Metaphors and Roadsides

Yesterday, Henry and I drove to the grocery store. Periodically, I'd pull over to the side of the road to snap photos. Henry said,

Mommy, why do you keep puwwing over and taking pictures?

Because, I answered, I keep seeing beautiful things.

Things that used to speed by but lately, I've slowed. I took photos of the rustic beauty: of trees. Of light. Of shadows. I feel interwoven with the stalks, the snow, the chipped bark and barren, regal branches. I'm reminded that I'm just one part of this majestic, pulsing world. I sit in wonder as I consider the seemingly barren tree, bubbling with spring and fecundity just below her winter's casing.

Winter landscapes inexorably mesmerize me; while I absorb their beauty, I feel a carbonated gratitude bubble through my being. Nature demonstrably exhibits resilience and fragility--one of life's paradoxical metaphors. One which I identify with so, so much. Strong and weak. Driven and lagging. Inspired and flat. Up and down.

Just like life.

Just like me.

Almosts

Sunday morning. 9:45 am.

Locals filed into the bagel joint. The air sat heavy with the scents of just-made bagels, bacon and hot coffee--a warm respite on a biting February morning. Hungover 20-somethings, young families, older couples, and our clan.

Our weekend had been filled with the familiar and comforting company of old friends. We decided on an impromptu breakfast out and half of us were still clad pajamas. Abby in her Merry Christmas PJ bottoms and Henry in his silly-monster-footy pajamas. Both sported their slippers--a very special treat, indeed. We settled into the comfortable din of the morning, enjoying decadently delicious bagel treats. (Is there anything better than a bagel made on-the spot?)

Suddenly (as it always seems to be), the kids expressed their immediate need to leave:

I'm so firsty, Mommy. I weally need some to dwink. Fidget, jump.

I'm sooooooo thirsty. Spin in a circle.

I'm ready, Mom. Mommy???

Mommy, can we go now?

Drinks were gone and it was time. Since my friends still ate their meals, I asked them to stay and enjoy their tasty bagels while I took the kids to the car. Hubby ventured to pay the bill. The kids waited for me by the front door. I grouped butter-soaked napkins into a neat pile. I adorned my Nanook-of-the-North floor length down coat and began to gather our strayed belongings from the dinged, Formica table:

A half-eaten cinnamon raisin bagel wrapped in its crumpled foil wrapper

My coffee cup

Markers

A notebook

A hand-drawn picture of a man "with weally, weally long hair"

My huge bag hung over my elbow, opened to receive each item. Plunk, thud, thud each fell in, joining the crumbs, receipts and cluttered subculture of my purse. The restaurant continued to hum.

Peripherally, through the smudged restaurant windows, I saw it. A blurry flash of very familiar silly-monster-footy pajamas. I saw the blond bed head. In the parking lot. Running. A car approaches. A dark, salt-covered, winter-dirty car is driving. Right. Toward. Henry.

The din of the diners fades. I hear only the deafening, maddening thud of my heart.

I can't quite breathe. A black time warp threatens to swallow me away from the parking lot. I'm moving but I feel as if the tiled floor suddenly became three feet of wet sand. Time speeds and stalls. I'm moving in slow motion. I'm flying.

The car?

Henry?

Their momentum continues, my eyes glued to the unfolding scene in the parking lot. Outside my reach. Outside my control. Outside.

I finally reach the door. Through the glass, I see his face, cheeks bitten red by the wind. His eyes cheerful, he and his silly-monster PJs obliviously run toward his sister. As I whip open the door, the cheap, metal bells crash against the glass, colliding with each other. The wind whips and rattles the local advertisements taped to the door. The wind holds the restaurant door open a bit too long, chilling the watchful patrons. Cold air crashes against my face.

Henry now safely stands next to his dumbfounded sister. Abby stands next to Henry in stunned silence. Terrified. Her pink cheeks flaming against her pale, frighted face. She understands the significance of what just almost happened. She's now old enough to comprehend. Her eyes and hands tremble. Her eyes tentatively search out mine.

The car sits in the middle of the drive--its driver and passenger also dumbfounded by a pajama-clad four-year-old frolicking, alone, in the parking lot. My eyes meet the driver's eyes. I sent my silent thanks:

for paying attention

for driving defensively

for seeing him

Thank you. Oh, thank you.

Large, lazy snow flakes fall around us. I turn to Henry and crouch to the salty, snow-stained black top. My long parka splays out around me. It's bright blue color in jolting contrast to the black hole I just left. I shake with terror. Pulsing relief, anger and desperate sadness threaten to swell into a tsunami of raw emotion and hot tears. I grab Henry's arms.

Our eyes lock. His blue eyes stare into my bulging, raw eyes, decoding all emotion simmering there. He wants to look everywhere but at me. He knows. My words, staccato and sharp, puncture our silence:

What you just did was so incredibly dangerous.

You CANNOT ever leave ANYPLACE without Daddy or me.

Why in the world did you think you could run in the parking lot?

Do you know what would've happened if that car hadn't seen you? Do you? I clench his arms in a desperate attempt to physically imprint my words into his being.

I am very upset. I am so sad because if that car had hit you...

Oh Henry.

My heart threatens to surrender to the almosts. The what-ifs. Alternate, dark endings clog my brain.

Henry rings his silky hands, working one over the other. His silly-monster-pajama-clad body safe. His blond bed-headed hair tousles ever-so-slightly in the raw February wind. I exhale. A shallow, slow exhalation, jagged and raw. Like the wind. The tears, they come. The murky, dark pit of almosts and what-ifs in my stomach? They stuck around. Heavy and leaden. For days.

In Flawed Abundance

The last weeks I've slowed the pace of life, allowing time for gratitude, being, and total occupation of a moment. This deliberate, languid pace quieted the cacophony of thoughts and actions usually clamoring for my attention:

Rush. Do this. Do that. Orchestrate. GET IN THE CAR!!! Must do...Should do... Hurry! Oh shit. Hurry faster. Whirl, swirl, rush rush rush.

It's easy to continue to speed along, living on the facade while not delving into these inky, vital, churning masses. My new awareness makes the practice of being present easier and softer. More natural. I've seemed to step off the maddening swirl, creating a tapestry deep in rich nuances and emotions, allowing me to do the living and exploring that needed to be done.

As I've cultivated this slower cadence, any previously ignored or brushed-aside parts needing attention percolated to the surface. A collection of assorted subcutaneous themes (which, for me, usually reside just below the frenetic pace of life) actually gained voice and traction.

*****

At any given time, I help and guide my children. That's a given--I am their mother. Conflicts come and go. We talk, resolve, hug and regroup. With my newer, slower approach, however, I've quieted long enough to truly explore feelings and nuances where before I didn't necessarily allow enough time to delve.

Currently, my sweet daughter Abby is unsettled. The underlying, inky source of her conflict? Moi. More specifically, her perception that she isn't getting enough of me. She's been temperamental and short-fused. Sassy. Traces of disappointment and unease shadow her usually clear blue eyes. Luckily, she's started to master her ability to articulate her frustrations. While I applaud her ability to express herself, I must admit some of her observations are fairly biting. Like...

Mommy, I feel like all you do is text and tweet.
Mommy, you're always on your computer.
Mommy, when you're always on your phone, I feel like you're not taking care of me.

Ouch.

And you know what, she's right. My phone is my constant companion; it blings and pings and I slide that baby open, reading the current tweet/text/blog/email de jour. As a result, I'm only giving her part of my attention. I've created a situation where she feels she needs to vie for my attention. She's starving for me. And competing with my phone.

This is not okay with her. It's not okay with me. She wants and deserves solid, undivided, full eye-contact chunks of my attention. Her perception IS her reality. And therefore, mine. Her disappointment is palpable--her emotions raw. As for her perception that I'm not taking care of her--well, my first reaction was, That's preposterous! I mean, who does she think puts all the clean laundry in her room, the laundry fairy? And prepares the meals and drives to school and activities...,

but then I looked beyond her words and soaked up the message infused between them: I haven't been fully present in my moments with Abby. As a result, her foundation suffered hair-line fractures and I needed to patiently repair the damage. With patient explanation and gentleness. And time.

Luckily, I had it. This slower cadence I've cultivated allows time. Time to excavate and explore the ruins of a parental mistake. Time to create a cavernous space of possibility--allowing the dissonance to sharpen in brilliant focus. The priority? My daughter.

The steps I took to address Abby's concerns were neither novel nor inspired. Merely obvious footholds of problem-solving. I mentally created computer- and phone-free time. I let her be the one to end conversations. I allowed her be the first to end a hug. My epiphany lay in the novelty of my approach--I allowed space for the clamoring discord to have its rightful spot in the bright spotlight. Traces of Abby's doubt still linger, holding to the edges of her newly bolstered belief in her mother's love. Gratefully, I now see a returned brightness in her eyes.

*****

A woman, a mother, must stoke the fires of her own life. She must craft solitudes to fill her parched soul. I do this. I've gotten really good at this. But in the process, I've created an imbalance. Probably because I left myself thirsting for so, so long. And now, I must restore equilibrium--that precarious balance between my needs and theirs, constantly recalibrating, tweaking, stepping-back-to-analyze. The elusive balance is never easy; and it is forever shifting. I know that if I completely plunge into their lives, I lose myself. If I immerse completely into mine, I lose them.

*****

I read a glorious poem this morning and the following words resonated with salience:

Stripped of causes and plans and things to strive for, I have discovered everything I could need or ask for is right here— in flawed abundance.
(From Mark Nepo's poem, Accepting This)

My deliberate cadence allowed my flawed, cracked abundance to shine through. For this, I offer supplications of gratitude. For in the quiet magnitude of a moment, I learned the simplest, most profound lesson. Slow. Down. Listen. My hope: that the brilliant, humbling clarity will carry me through.

My Sick Lair

I got smacked with a great winter bug. Sore throat, feverish/hot/cold and total and complete lack of brain synapse. Yesterday, I lay on this couch all day long.

Today: second verse, same as the first.

Instead of pretending (like I'd do in the past, I'd keep going, all-martyr-like, until I made myself really sick), I spoke the truth. I. Feel. Awful. (And look pretty awful, too.)

And my real-time angels keep offering the most decadent support:

"I'll pick up Henry from school and bring him home for a play date".

"I'm going to the grocery store. What do you need?"

"Honey, you go to bed. I'll put the kids down."

"Mommy, can I do anything for you?"

When I returned from driving the kids to school this morning, I found a treat bag full of magazines, chocolate, vitamin drink and sunshiney-yellow, we're-here-to-cheer tulips.

Instead of resisting the love and support of my friends and family (I'm fine, I can do it all), I fell, open-hearted into their healing sustenance. I said,

"Yes, thank you, I'd love that and so would Henry."

"Would you please bring me a pint of Hagan Daas chocolate and a rotisserie chicken?"

"Thank you, love, I'll do just that."

And I did. I went to bed. And slept, A LOT.

And even though I'm still sickly and curled up in my sick lair, interestingly, I feel lifted as I lounge, supported. Saying Yes to help is a really, really good thing. Saying Yes to support is as healing of an action as I can imagine.

My lack-of-power brain and I are signing off now. Cough. Sniffle.

Like a Warm Hand

I procrastinated. The words ached to get out but I told them "not yet", "just a minute". I ran the washing machine. I put away toys. I made myself a sandwich. Now the washer has stopped, and begs me to take out the wet clothes and transfer them to the dryer. I ignore her pleas.

The winter scape sits patiently outside my window. Aching to be lauded and appreciated. I watch the gorgeous everything, begging for my attention. I turn inward, back to the bubbling words.

I gain a sense of order and calm when things are....orderly. And calm. But those words, in my head? They started hopping like overheated atoms. Pushing against my brain, spilling out, whether I had the foresight to place them onto the paper, or not. I ignore the washing machine and the winter white wonders so I can stay here, with the words, with the security of my computer to capture the words as they tumble and fall.

***

In a myriad of conversations with friends (both spoken and written), their words, salve-like, normalize my human experience. As I live this life of mine, I yearn for connection and solace in a story shared, a communion of experience. Whether it be a friend sharing the spirals of a rocky day or me submerging into an article or book, nodding as the writer eloquently shares her story, their contributions shine lights on my own wobbly, imperfect, human path. I bathe in the comfort of knowing we all share the sameness of humanity: perfect imperfection. Their words delivering their own unction, unifying me with others.

I read Katrina's beautiful piece sharing the bumps in her path.

I read Amy's incredibly liberating piece about The Witching Years which so tracked my emotional feelings I thought, perhaps, she'd tapped my first five years with my children.

I read Lindsey's words about the conscious presence and acceptance of life's everyday gifts, packaged in unassuming wrapping. And about Grace.

And Christine's constantly inspiring posts about her journey through depression.

Like a warm hand, slowly and lovingly extended, the words of these brave women sprinkle grace into my life, easing the pain of experiences by knowing I am not alone.

Again, I say: this sharing of life normalizes the human experience. Today, as I was gearing up to write (yes, procrastinating), I decided to read Dani Shapiro's latest blog post. Predictably, her words resonated with insight. I happened to look down and see that she'd responded to a comment I'd left on a previous post, one she wrote about Exposure-- writers sharing our intimate details. I commented that even though they make me nervous, I find that my grittiest posts are the ones that seem to resonate most with readers. Dani replied,

"Sometimes, what we think of as the "grittiest" may well be the most universal part."

Yes. Oh my yes.

With all of our varied chapters and moments, we all share in a common experience. Being human. Once I lifted the shroud of secrecy from my experiences, I found peace. And acceptance. The liberation in sharing and finding kindred souls along the way, also living their own versions of this universality, delivered grace. And connectedness. The beginning was so scary; peeling back my protective layers of perfection, and stopping the masquerading forced vile to bubble in my stomach. It felt like a powerful vise gripped my lungs. I felt the fear and did it anyway.

I can now look back and see how much fuller my experiences could've been if I could've only fully felt the extent of what was really happening. If I could've embraced my realities instead of cohersing, editing and hiding behind the mask. And I try, while embracing this lesson moving forward, to not judge my younger self. I know she did the best she could.

As I sit with some parts of my life still ensconced within me, I know that more words and other memories beckon, aching to be released. My hope that I can soon share the fullness of my story. And I sincerely hope that in that parlaying my heritage, those very dark, inky reaches of my history, I will ease the path of another. I know with certainty that I will ease my own. Baby steps. I've still so much to share--sharing that will undoubtedly further connect me to this pulsing, kinetic human experience. I'm working up to the day when I share my entire story. All the grittiest parts.

What's in a Name?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my blog's name. Musings de Mommy perfectly suited this space when I started writing here years ago. But I sense that my words and posts are evolving, changing...they're not just about motherhood. Yes, that's still a big part of my life, and therefore it shapes my writing content. Technically, I'll always be a mother who muses.

But.

I think I'm ready for a new name. One that more broadly captures what I do here, in this space. I have some ideas. Inspired by Aidan's post asking for name suggestions for her soon-to-arrive baby girl, I'd love to hear from you. If you were going to name this blog...what would you call it? Would you help me?

A few words about my blog:

I write about my daily journey. About the unique paradoxical nature of life. I explore the triumphs and challenges with my children, and sometimes, if he's really lucky, my Hubby. I write because I have to...it's become as necessary as breathing. I write about my challenges as I try to stay present in this moment, the very one I inhabit, right NOW. I write about my emotions. About trees and shadows and the seasons. I share my thoughts about the ebb and flow of life...the darkness that necessarily, predictably precedes the light.

(P.S. I must admit that this whole name-change notion makes me nervous. How will people find me? Is it silly to change now? Will I change my twitter account? Will people know that it's me??? If you've been through this process, I'd also love to hear your advice and strategies. Please?? And Thank You (in advance).)

Betwixt the Bewitching

Finally, I realized it. Fancying myself a quick learner, I'm continually amazed at how long some things take to soak into my essence and become obvious. But, finally. I understand.

Why I want to slow down.

Why I want to nestle in next to my children for hours.

Why I want to cuddle under covers, warmed by multiple bodies, while I watch the steel gray winter sky threaten to sink so low that I could reach out and touch it.

Why I want to submerge into hearty recipes, warming my kitchen with the fragrant grace and bounty of stews and soups.

Why I crave slow, languid hours of quiet solitude.

Because I stopped long enough to hear it:

the combined whispers of my soul and winter and the earth, mingling in quiet harmonies:

Slow down.

Go within. Hibernate.

Release yourself from any guilt, remorse or shame. Do not push.

Rest. Recuperate. Relax.

Do so deliberately, and allow yourself to be thrilled by the quotidian, imperceptible passage of moment into moment.

Marvel at the winter's bewitching light, allow the mesmerizing power of the tree's intricate tapestry of branches to hypnotize you.

Stop.

All is well.

Trust your instincts.

Trust your path.

Trust.

I hear it. The occult, soft singing. So, so soothing. And I figure, since I'm lucky enough to sit betwixt the lullaby-like harmonies of soul and earth, I may as well join in.

Shadows and Light

I lay in bed. The clock read 11:03 pm. Emotions, hot and raw, bubbled inside, clawing to get out. Nothing terrible--just one of those emotive passages of life. The rather unfortunate timing of this particular outlet: it was the evening of Hubby's 40th birthday. (And I adore birthdays. They are sacred days of homage to the special birthday person. Not days for emotional outburst and catharsis.)

I tried. I squelched. I pretended. I even told those emotions to take a hike. To avoid spilling my emotional beans, I vanished into the kids bedrooms, tears brimming and falling down my face, hoping that my dear Hubby would be asleep upon my return. I watched those sleeping angels and kissed, kissed kissed them through teeming emotion. I sat on the precipice of release--the great, freeing feeling of cleanse that descends once the emotions are freed. Once they're allowed to do their job.

I padded back to my room. Hearing the soft snores of Hubby punctuate the dark, I thought I'd succeeded. I didn't ruin his birthday with tears. I climbed back into bed and through that same darkness, I heard,

"How are the kids?"

Shit.

"Fine," my voice wavered in response.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked. I thought, No, no no not today not on his birthday.

Too late. Once released from the feeble confines of my controlling grasp, the emotions gasped for air. I gasped, too. He wrapped me into him. Game over. I offered up, through my tears, a silent supplication of gratitude for this wonderful man who is my husband, with whom I get to traverse this life.

***

Life's mystery comprises in its complexities: dark, then joyous; despondent, then brilliant. I know I am not the first to delve into life's intrinsic paradox. But comfort and sure-footing sit within this paradoxical equation. When I sit in my moments of emotional catharsis, settling into this knowledge and understanding yields comfort. Remembering helps--remembering the cyclical, idiosyncratic pulse of life, the thread that connects all of us, each of us, helps.

As I sit on the precarious perch of my life, sometimes smiling, other times crying, I ground myself in the knowledge that the predictive flow and ebb continues. Even when in the inevitable seat of growth and catharsis, the brilliance and joy of life linger on the edges of the shadows and sadness, promising the inexorable return of the light, and the giddiness in my soul.

He Dreamed a Dream

A repost from January 2009.

*******

This morning, Hubby and I talked with the kiddos about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I asked Abby if she knew who MLK was, she said yes; she saw a picture of him in her classroom. I asked her if she knew why we celebrate his life. She answered that he helped the “brown” children and the “peach” children go to the same school.

We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.

We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.

After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,

“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”

Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.

I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.

Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.

We still have a lot of work to do. But it gives me hope to see one small iteration of your dream, realized. Thank you, Dr. King.

(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)

Its Constant Passage

And the winds of time will take us, with its sure and steady hand,

where the river meets the sea. - John Denver, John Denver & The Muppets

Each and every time I hear these lyrics, my eyes glisten. Even though it's technically a Christmas song, when it pops up on my iPod, I listen--regardless of the season. This morning, the song came on and the familiar tears stung my eyes. These lyrics, confound me, stop me. I find them simultaneously true, sad and hopeful, always urging reflection. These words remind me, as if the wrinkles and the lengthening of my children weren't enough, that time knows no stop signs. It does not nap. It proceeds on its continual, immutable journey.

Time, moving me through challenges and complexities. Time, delivering me to hard-earned moments of grace. Constantly in flux. Dependable. Maddening. Sure.

Today, as I drove to pick up Henry from school, I passed the cemetery. Cars lined the snowy street. People gathered to say goodbye to one of theirs. A cloud passed through my heart, aching for the loss of life. I sent up a wish for the departed that their life had been what they had wanted it to be.

Time, in certain moments, hypnotizes me with it's certainty--the hush-like descent of twilight, always followed by the promising glimmer of sunrise. At others, it's rash, steadfast passage smacks right up against my heart.

Snowflakes and Seconds

The last two days, the forecasters have promised me snow. I awoke with a start at 4:13 am this morning and peered through the blinds, anticipating my beloved snow.

No snow. Luckily, I entered sleep-land again, despite my nagging disappointment.

But when Abby came in at 7 am, asking if there'd be school, I quickly scanned outside. White. Everywhere. Ahhhh. The snow came, as promised. I exhaled deeply.

Now, the snow falls, falls, falls, steadily and patiently. Snow alters me on a cellular level...a panacea of sorts. It simultaneously calms while invigorating and awakening some part of my soul, lying dormant, heralding the arrival of the blankets of fluffy white. I love the way the air smells when it snows. I love the trappings of snow...fires, fleeces, red-cheeked faces. There's hope in that snow. A promise of sorts.

The graceful flakes hypnotize as they descend to my world. The gradual layering of peace...so achingly beautiful to me. I imagine the slumbering earth below. It seems as if Mother Earth pulls up her blanket of snow over her layers of mulched leaves and acorns, burrowing in for her winter slumber.

Tall, bare trees reach starkly, boldly into the low winter sky; their roots holding steadfastly to her frozen bed. I see the trees as the Earth's sentries. Guarding the hibernating land through the harsh, pounding winter, then, months later, gently alerting everyone of spring's imminent arrival.

The trees, they never cease to inspire wonder and awe in me. So stoic. So tall. So graceful. Today, laced in muted whites.

I stand outside, and look up at the sky and allow the snow to fall on my face, my hair. I feel small--wonderfully small, aware of my microscopic place in this life. Yet full of appreciation for the opportunity to fulfill it. My own little perch--a place to observe, learn, retreat and replenish.

***

The last several days, I purposefully observed my interactions with my children. I took more deep breaths. I found little gems hiding beneath snarky comments and tired eyes. I sense a softening in me; a welcome shift, for sure. I feel more tender, more open to the experiences as they present. And I suspect that my appreciation--amidst another tantrum, another pair of urine soaked pants, a barley squelched dramatic interlude--starts with the rekindled awareness that these moments are finite. As my friend Lindsey beautifully writes, these moments show "tangible evidence of the wheeling forward of time, inescapable proof that our moments on this planet are numbered. On the whole time’s movement seems an odd combination of quixotic and inexorable, some moments stretching endlessly and others passing with blinding speed."

Blinding speed. Blinking and years are spent. Yes. But in this quiet moment, fueled by the snowy tundra outside my window and the (thankfully) happy chatter of my children, time slows. The ethereal grace of this moment prevails. The seconds fall softly and slowly. Like snow flakes. I sit, satiated by the prevailing tenacity of our connectedness. Warmth from the fire. Abby, Henry and me. Together. Enjoying the endless stretch of this moment.

New Year

The dawning of the new year and new decade have me feeling introspective. My acute awareness of freshness glints and reflects off all the new moments of 2011. As I feel the pulses of the new year, I realize that each and every moment in life hold the same promise and power as the arrival of a new year.

I must admit that this epiphany feels a bit obvious, elementary. I even feel a bit silly sharing this non-profound insight. I mean, last year, I wrote and wrote and wrote myself hoarse about the beautiful power of Now. And that I finally embraced the beauty of living in this moment--and showed up in each one--instead of living in passed moments or those that have yet to come. Because, not surprisingly, in living that way, I missed moments that I wish I could now reach back and soak up.

Anyway, as with all lessons and epiphanies, another iteration and layer of this evolving knowledge awaited me. I don't need a new year, a new month, a new decade on the calendar page to infuse me with an appreciation of the possibility that exists all the time. Yes, of course, calibrating with the pomp and circumstance of a new year certainly helps.

But. Now, I sit with this newfound knowledge--each moment holds freshness and possibility--all year long.

***

Yesterday I stood in the checkout line at Marshalls. And a woman stood in line behind me with the tiniest baby all snug in her car seat, coozily nestled in her stroller. The mom looked down at her baby and smiled--you know the smile. The one where all else ceases to exist and the hearts and souls of that mother and baby twine together, satiated in love and togetherness. I love you. I adore you. You are my world.

I remember some of these moments with Abby, and even fewer with Henry. Yet sadly, there are many more that I don't. That phase of my life, those nows, have passed. Now I'm at Marshalls, by myself. Just me, my purchases and my purse. I love these moments by myself (and looked forward to them for a looooong time) and yet...I'm longingly staring at this new mother behind me, craving my own tiny baby to share a smile with. In unsuspecting moments, like this one, the realization slaps me--my children are no longer babies. Hubby and I will not have any more babies. No more pregnancy tests, nursing, rocking, awake-all-night, mustard-seed poop diapers, binkies, tiny onesies and heavenly baby smell. I've graduated to solo-trips to Marhshalls, independence, 8 hours a night and a new set of joys and challenges I never could've imagined.

What I do know is this: now that I'm living presently, I savor the moments of youngness with my children. I notice, peripherally, the mother of teenagers smiling longingly back at me when I'm walking through the parking lot, tightly holding both of my kids' hands. The teenagers of that other mother walk ahead, heads lowered as they engage their iPhones, Northface fleeces pulled low over their quickly moving fingers. I turn back to the blond heads of my children. And smile down at Abby. Then at Henry. You know the smile.

Sigh.

I embrace the moments of our current reality. Nighttime spooning with Abby. Henry's silky hand in mine as we walk up the walk to his preschool. The complete and utter chaos of mornings. The gentle, steady beat of their voices--needing me, calling for me. Those moments are numbered. One day, they won't call out for my help. They'll send secret teenage-smoke signals that I'll need several books (and bottles of wine) to decipher.

So, we move forward, marching along into this Now, and the next, and the next. Goodbye babyhood and toddlerhood. A bittersweet lump forms in my throat, tangled with emotion. Bitter because I realize with the passing of each, we will never return to the splendor of those moments again. Sweet because many other unknowns await. Bruised ego moments. Holding hands moments. Even the crabby bitch moments (Abby and Henry can confirm). ALL of them. Even when I'm redirecting and reprimanding Henry, AGAIN. Pissed off moments. Blah, joyous, sad, soaring, slammed-doors moments. Toy-story reenactment moments. Mitigating. Celebrating. Living. Holding tight, fingers and souls twined together.

Now.

Happy Hew Year. Happy New Now.

King of the Non Sequitur

Henry has, at the tender age of four, mastered the non sequitur; he utters so many non-related tidbits he keeps us in stiches. But I don't think anything demonstrates his agility and prowess more than the following photo. I walked into the family room this morning and found this:

Yes, Denise, There IS a Santa Claus

...There is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

- Francis Pharcellus Church, September 21, 1897, The New York Sun

I remember the Christmas that I decided that Santa Claus wasn't real. I remember it clearly as if it happened just yesterday, yet it was 31 years ago. It was a very, very sad moment, when the brilliance of faith and belief were temporarily snuffed.

I was seven. It was Christmas Eve, 1979. That afternoon, I played over at a neighbor's house. My friend and I created this fun activity where we jumped over the couch in the basement. On my last trip over the couch, instead of landing on my feet, I landed on my chin. And my chin landed on the marble floor.

My parents were called; my chin was inspected. They made the executive decision: to the ER. So my mom, dad, three-month-old baby brother and I piled in the Impala and drove to the ER. I received seven stitches in my chin. My chin hurt. A lot. That evening, I sat in the family room. The multi-colored lights of the Christmas tree cast a magical glow across the rainbow shag carpet. I looked at my Mom. Tears streamed down my face.

"Mommy?" I said.

"Yes, Denise?" she replied.

"Is Santa Claus real?" I asked.

Her calm reply, "I believe in Santa Claus."

"Yes," I persisted, "but is he REAL? Do you and Daddy put the presents under the tree? And in the stockings?"

She looked at me, with crestfallen pain in her eyes. "Yes, we do."

Through hot tears, I choked out, "And what about the Easter Bunny? The Toothfairy?"

She sadly shook her head. "But. I believe, Denise. Faith is believing in things you can't see or touch. I have faith. I believe."

I went to bed, chin and heart throbbing, stitches bulging under wrapped bandages. The next morning, Christmas morning, felt dull. Numb. My heart ached. I remember my dad saying to me, through his own sheen of tears, "You know, Denise, I will always believe. Santa will always live inside my heart." And he invited me to continue believing, too.

That moment, I decided. I believed. And would always, always believe. To this day, I believe. I have a built-in talisman, the scar on my chin, to forever remind me that belief and faith are choices. Ones that I consciously choose every day. Now, in 2010, Abby sits on the precipice of her very own Christmas of 1979. She straddles the innocence of pure, blissful belief and the more arcane equation of faith. I can see the lightening bolts of uncertainty knit themselves into her eyebrows.

She's seven.

And when she asks me, as I know she will, "Mommy, is there a Santa Clause?" I will answer, with conviction,

"Yes, Abby. There IS a Santa Claus. I believe. I believe in Santa, magic and power and an abiding force larger than any one of us. I believe in forgiveness and wonder and love that swells larger than the largest ocean wave. I believe in faith--I choose to believe. I believe in a spot that simultaneously resides in your body, and tethers to a universal symphony and cadence of the human experience. I believe. I believe in Christmas, Santa and the mystic twinkling of Santa's sleigh bells. Santa will always live in my heart, and yours. If you so choose."

And I will invite her. Through my own curtain of tears, I'll invite her to believe.

(from newseum.com)