the weeks have been long, difficult and cold. there has been death, illness and hopelessness and dispair. and yet. and yet…there is light. there is hope and peace and the promise of new birth, renewal, light. there will be smiles and laughter again, there will be restful sleep and quiet minds. what keeps us going is this promise, and the gratitude of knowing that that it keeps on turning, the wheel of the year, and with it growth and promise and opportunity. the rhythm of our days, the dailiness of warm meals and brisk walks and early bedtimes, the comfort of hand knits and hot soup, lavender baths and hands to hold, they keep us together, keep us holding on, the promise of peace.
the littlest one turned three. there was a lovely afternoon spent playing with friends, sharing a meal, lighting candles and making wishes. tomorrow, i host a party for a dear friend who is preparing to welcome her second child soon. again, there will be playing, a meal, lighting candles and making wishes. i’ve always loved parties–loved going to them, throwing them, dressing up, decorating, finding the perfect gift. since becoming a mother, parties, celebrations have taken on a new meaning, one of honor and tribute. i suppose the sea change began when i got married–rather than throw a big, raucous party, we decided to elope, sneaking off by ourselves to celebrate ourselves and each other, to honor each others needs and feelings and interests, rather than subjugate ourselves to the social obligation of invitations, plus-ones and seating charts. our intention was to celebrate our marriage, not just our wedding day. and so it is now with birthdays, we celebrate our children and our family within the constructs of our family culture. our celebrations are small, intimate, joyous occasions. there is nourishing, wholesome food, nature, reverence, laughter and tribute. we have a tradition now of each of us lighting a candle and making a wish, tribute or offering to the person of honor and passing that light, one to another, until the light reaches the person of honor, who then makes a secret(or in the case of a three-year-old, not so secret) wish, we sing songs and each blow out our candle. it’s been remarkable to see how careful children are when trusted with something as serious and dangerous as fire, even the rowdiest of children has had focused energy and intention toward the birthday child, and out of the mouths of babes, indeed–the wishes and tributes these children have offered have been poetry. tomorrow we will make beeswax candles together, a room full of women with the intention of supporting our friend and sister, and we will light them when we learn she is in labor. we will be mindful of the light and focus our energies and intentions on the transition from one to two separate people. there will be poetry rd, a potluck meal, knowledge shared, focused attention and love on a glowing, beautiful mama-to-be. we will, in the immortal words of general foods, celebrate the moments of our lives…
we worked together, sadie tying knots and carefully, mindfully needlefelting, gus and double-o choosing colors and teasing wool, each rolling tiny balls of beeswax into the pears and apples in the maiden’s harvest basket, little double-o rolling the candle with mama’s help and finally gus insisting on cutting a piece of birch bark for a candle holder. we mostly had fun, creating together, only a few moments where i caught my breath and bit my tongue in order to let it all unfold. our package ships out tomorrow morning, tonight we sleep in flannel sheets, crickets and cicadas outside our windows, no fans or air conditioners to disrupt this first night of autumn weather. we are grateful for it, see its beauty, and hope that our creations help usher in a gentle, mindful transition for it’s intended recipient.
popovers. my sweet seven-year-old can make them by herself, while i lounge in bed and wait, thirty minutes of snuggles and stories with my kiddos, drifting in and out of sleep. the two minute warning “ding” of the timer gets me out of bed, hot coffee waiting complements of papa, who left for work after supervising the measuring, egg cracking and turning on of the oven. the four of us sit down to eat, popovers with butter and homemade, homegrown raspberry jam. the conversation is giggles and shrieks, and i know that this day is a gift. the easy pace, the taking our time, the unhurried way we lounge, eat, tidy, dress. stories, puzzles, painting, dancing, a walk. avocado and tomato sandwiches, more stories, some rest. a bowl of raspberries warm from the sun, bubbles, digging deep until the earth feels cool and moist. freckles and sunkissed shoulders. a lavender bath, some quiet time and phone calls for mama. papa comes home from work, kisses and tickles and play with the dog. dinner is noodles with pesto, green salad, corn on the cob, watermelon. dishes are washed, hair and teeth brushed, pajamas and nightgowns replace the dress up clothes of dragons, mermaids and fairies. a million kisses, still more stories, a drink of water, a secret message on each small back, darkness, songs, sleep. when it works, it’s brilliant, on days like today when each of us wake well rested, when there are no boring errands to run, no pesky mosquitoes, no rain, no asthma attacks, no mountains of laundry, no hurt feelings, no refused meals. today was a day to remember when things don’t go so smoothly. remember that it flows when we let it, when we don’t try to control it and instead just enjoy the unfolding.
my fingers are flecked with sparkly pink nail polish applied by a seven-year-old, obscured only slightly by the drying bits of pizza dough under my nails, and streaked across my jeans. i’m stealing a few moments in front of the air conditioner while the kids are otherwise occupied to take a moment to breathe before the hurried evening routine of cook dinner-eat dinner-clean up after dinner-give baths-brush everyones hair-read stories-tuck in-sing songs-goodnight. hurried, because i do it alone, night after night and day after day, and if i don’t hurry at some point during the day, everything falls apart. after the kids are tucked in and sleeping, there’s laundry to wash-dry-iron-fold, a house to pick up, bills to be pay and work to be done and finally, sleep. in the morning, it’s more of the same. we’ve lost the beauty of our rhythm in the hurried routine. we rush through our verse before meals, hungry because preparing the meal took too long. the kids eat breakfast, and sometimes lunch, alone at the dining table, set with flowers and cloth napkins for what? the eating never stops. the food prep, the cleaning, it never stops. my well is dry. i find myself withdrawing from these kiddos, these beautiful, loving, sparkling souls. i have always been engaging, present, and now, i feel a disconnect. i miss my children, and i’m certain that they miss me, and yet here we are, under one roof. i know it is temporary–the distance, the exhaustion, the resentment, but it’s here now, and fight it as i try, it’s informing my parenting. this will pass, there will be laughter and leisure and palpable love again, but right now, in these moments, i miss the connection of parents and children, sitting down to meals, to shared experiences, to wonder and magic and kindness and joy. my partner, oh how i mourn for his time lost in pursuit of a better life for us, of long hours and meals behind a desk, but i know it too will come to an end, this project, just as much as i know there will be another one not long after. this is not the life we dreamed of–no livestock, no acreage, no swimming holes or lazing in hammocks, no occasional babysitter–but we are making this life as good as we can. our children are happy, sunkissed, giggling, mosquito-bitten, barefoot, innocent children. i know i’m doing good work, hard work, enough work, but it sometimes feels like too much. maybe this heat, the hot kitchen, the long, restless nights have invited this pity party. who turns the oven up to 500* on a day when the outside temperature is 1/5 that? what am i thinking? i think i’ll go throw the pizza dough in a freezer bag and instead sit down in the under the dining room table fort and serve smoothie pops and popcorn and call it a meal.
there is a stillness in the air that belies the impending storm. the leaves on the trees have turned to catch the drops that will come, they will come. we have been waiting all day for this storm to cool us off, quench us. postponing and postponing the watering of the garden in anticipation. the kids are tired from the heat, lazy. naked but for silk capes and raspberry stains, they sit before the fan playing games, eating popcorn, daydreaming. we have read our pile of library books that sit waiting for return, due today, and yet these naked children, the oppressive heat, the impending storm all provide excuse to take advantage of our librarians oft-awarded “grace period”. there will be cold peanut lime noodles, rice vinegar cucumbers and mango lassi pops for dinner. there will be cold showers and sleeping in front of the fan. there will be rain. there will.
here, two poems that inform and inspire my parenting–the former, a bit of a laugh, and a nod to my punk rock youth, the latter, a fully fleshed out aspirational piece that resonates with person i am(at least try to be) today.
this be the verse~philip larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
and, from the prophet, by kahlil gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
it’s finally felt a little bit like summer here, so we headed to the beach for a couple of days to soak up some sun, play and relax. i am so drawn to the ocean, it feels like home to me. when things in life begin to get me down, i only need to feel the sand receding beneath my toes and hear the waves crash around me to once again feel ready to fight the good fight. when my da died, on the eve of christmas eve 2000, i was so undone and ravaged with sorrow that i drove myself, sobbing, to the beach, tore off my tights and wool socks and boots and stood in the icy cold surf, feeling relief and release. the ocean is my therapist. this visit left me feeling lighter, more present, and to be able to share that with my children felt magical. all anxiety was washed away and we were so connected, building castles, flying a kite, splashing and swimming in the ocean, relaxing to read and picnic in the fading light of sunset. we sleep so soundly after a day at the beach, the sound of waves echoing in our minds, lulling us to sleep. we are lucky to live close enough to take advantage of it’s magic, and far enough to not take i for grated. it is medicine–pure, natural, magestic, ancient medicine that heals us when we can’t even see we need healing.
we went up to the country for two weeks, where cool breezes, warm sun and love of friends and community reigned. i am at home there, meditativly washing dishes from meals from a dozen or so full bellies, kids in and out, bringing leftovers out to the pigs, collecting eggs and mason jars of black caps. we slept soundly at night, after days filled with salamanders, snakes, toads, streams, hammock swinging and freedom, and evenings of fireflies, fire dancing, bonfires, sparklers, scrabble, coctails and hushed conversations. there were parties, amazing fireworks, delicious meals, wisdom shared. there were grandparents and babies, a bouncy castle, face paint and dirty feet. more than anything, there was love, children born of different parents loving and fighting like siblings. women, some blood relation, some soul, working side-by-side, laughing and sweating and dancing. there were men with quiet connections and loud chainsaws. tenderly tended earth, nurtured children, nourishing meals, easy friendships. love.
oh sweet caroline, what a pleasure it was to have you in our care. you were such a surprise, showing up one day entirely unannounced, making our home your home, delighting us with your beauty and grace. how excited we were each morning to greet you, to bring you food and fresh water, to sneek a peek at your nest and count your eggs. in the end, there were ten eggs and all ten of them hatched! you were very proud, and waited for us to return from the farm to lead your ducklings off to the river, chirping and waddling after you. we had hoped you’d stay, that we’d get a chance to see your ducklings grow, but learned that you needed to teach your ducklings to swim and keep them safe from predators–biological imperatives for survival. still, the tears that poured forth on that day that you left us will never be forgotten. heavy hearts went to sleep that night wishing you safety, happiness, and that you were still here. oh, how wonderful and surprising those twenty-five days you spent here were! we hope to see you again, swimming in the river and perhaps one of your ducklings will grow up and return to her place of birth to build a nest. if she does, we promise to keep her safe in your honor.
