Yanamama

Lost and Found

2011-12-01T16:42:00.001-07:00

Sweaters and jackets
Lie haphazardly
Abandoned by a gust of children
Who blew across the playground
A whirlwind of careless laughter
Leaving behind splashes
of green/orange/blue/pink/yellow/red
cheetah spot and zebra stripe
in fleece and satin.
The arms stretch and twist
around mittens and hats
Supplicants wanting only to hold
Their children again.

Reunion

2011-11-10T17:05:00.001-07:00

I drove far too fast to get there. Atfirst I credited the freedom of travelling solo. I had no worriesabout snacks or potty stops. There was no peacemaking from the frontseat. Instead I turned on the radio so loud the windows shook and Irocketed through the sere landscape. For once there was solitude tomarvel at the bare bones of the earth revealed by twisting goldendraperies of vegetation and contrasted by the endless cerulean sky. Iovertook a storm and flew through it, a Valkyrie dodging cars likethey were standing still. The chill rain flew in through open windowsand I tasted the greys and pinks of the clouds and flew even faster.I drove more than 300 miles in four hours.

Later, at the outskirts of town, Ipulled to the shoulder, shaking and sobbing against the steeringwheel. I finally aknowledged that my urgency came not from joy butanxiety and the pathetic fear that no one would remember me. Once mytears dried I debated running away, but instead went forward throughthe sheer mists of memory overlaying the landscape in front of me.

At the front desk I stumbled throughthe first greetings, relieved slightly by awkward hugs. I searchedfor beloved faces, and the warmth of embraces offered first throughFacebook, and then in person. Yet, as always, I felt as if no oneknew what to do with me – including myself.

And so it was for three days. I'venever been good at small talk, and what is a reunion but chit-chat? Idid find some old friends, and we explored our new selves together.I basked in their company. I spent a great deal of time with otherpeople's children, enjoying being an auntie. I caught up with peopleI probably should have befriended twenty years ago. But the only timeit was easy was a night meander through the grounds, chasing ghostswith someone who once owned my heart. We walked, and remembered, andI surreptitiously searched for the source of my loneliness, as if Icould turn off a tap from twenty years before and retroactively findhappiness.

During the day I practiced politesmiles and inept escapes when the silences grew strained. I wasbaffled by pronouncements of great friendship from a man I had barelyknown, and unnaturally hurt by the woman who refused to speak to medespite two decades of distance. I hid at night in my room, staring at the ceiling and listening through the window to drunken declarations of love and undying friendship, and longingto belong. And still I searched, but by then I didn't know what I wasseeking.

I caught it on my last night, for justa moment. We danced, as we'd done so long ago, in a darkened room tomusic that had beaten its way into my bones and heart. I swayedalone, forgetting propriety and how to protect myself and for abrief, fleeting time I felt the limitless possibilities of being 16and surrounded by brilliance and excitement and joy – a sense thatjust by being there I was changing the world for the better.

I left the next morning after a fewbrief goodbyes, relieved that I had faced my fears. I still love theschool and cherish my two years there. My memories are deep andstrong and vivid. Yet I have a lingering feeling that I failedsomehow to truly live my time there, and that failure has followed mesince. I drove home more slowly, mourning what could have been.

Making the Right Choice

2011-11-04T09:03:00.000-06:00

I had a billion and one things to do today. Really. Collecting money from a tenant. Checking on a property. Going to the bank. Paying mortgages. Sending and receiving emails. Prepping for Girl Scouts this afternoon. Eating leftover Halloween candy.

Instead I'm going to the museum with my son's class. They needed a chaperone. I needed to get work done. BUT. My son is a priority in my life, and he needs to see that. So the tenants can wait, as can the bank, and the emails. I'll make the girl scouts thing work (because my daughter is a priority, too). And I'll have a great time with a bunch if kids I like, and one I love tremendously.

Plus, the Halloween candy fits in my pocket. I might even share. If they behave.

It Gets Better

2011-10-06T06:16:00.002-06:00

For three years now, my son has been bullied. I was in denial three years ago; blindly hoping that it would pass last year; and this year, so afraid for my son that I have finally acted.

This isn't the overt physical bullying of lore. Instead it's the subtle, pervasive kind. Name calling, exclusion, manipulation, targeting, finger pointing. He's been so sad and lonely he's talked of desperate measures. I am terrified for him. I thought, I hoped, it would pass. And, I am ashamed to admit, I secretly blamed my little boy.

He's odd. Weird. Impulsive. He picks his nose. He's THAT kid. He's also funny and curious and insightful and compassionate. But those qualities aren't what make friends in the school yard. So I have strained to mold him into something more, well, normal. I have criticized and cajoled and punished. It hasn't worked, because that's not who he is. But in doing so I fear that I -- as much as any bullies -- have hurt him beyond repair. There is no way for me to adequately apologize to this sweet, soulful being who has brought me such joy.

We're trying to fix it. We got him into therapy. I've been reading books on how to help him relate better to people. Most importantly, last week I finally talked to his teacher and the school administration. They were fabulous, immediately coming up with positive strategies and implementing them within a couple days. Unbeknownst to him, faculty and staff are watching like guardian angels. The primary bully has been spoken with and seems to have backed down. And some really great children have volunteered to go out of their way to befriend my boy. I'm already hearing good things: kids are sitting with him in the lunch room. He's been invited to a birthday party. He was asked to play soccer during recess -- and he joined, even though he doesn't really like soccer.

I am grateful and relieved and horribly, terrifically ashamed. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't act. I didn't protect my child. In fact, I personally made it worse.

I also am afraid that he's broken for life.

There's an amazing project out there called "It Gets Better", in which people who have been bullied (usually for being gay) reach out through short videos to kids and reassure them that it gets better. That eventually the bullying ends, or the victim grows up enough to escape it, and that people can make their own, good, lives that rise above the abuse and humiliation of childhood.

I realized tonight that I don't actually believe that. When my son said "Well, that's just how it is, I have to live with it", I agreed in my heart, even when I assured him that this would pass. As I protested to my husband that intervening was a good thing, there were shadows in my mind that cackled "it won't work!" And when I imagined my boy's future, I envisioned him living with the same darkness I do.

Tonight, as I lay grinding over my worries, my thoughts were interrupted by memories, and I finally realized that maybe I was bullied, too. I was an odd kid. Precocious, smart, obnoxious, oblivious. Bad combo. I remembered 5th grade, when all the boys in my small class would hit me on the upper arm as they walked past. I couldn't wear short sleeves because of the bruises. They also ganged up and gave me snow baths every day. I switched schools the next year, and thought sixth and seventh grades were better. But looking back I see myself hiding from the taunting of my classmates, reading in corners of the library instead of playing outside. I vividly remember being brought in front of a four girl "jury" in the gym and made to answer embarrassing personal questions with the specious promise that they'd be my friends afterward. In history class, I was punished by the teacher for crying out when the boy in the desk behind me stabbed my back with sharp pencils and crushed my rib cage by shoving his desk into mine. That boy recently asked to be my facebook friend. I declined.

Eighth grade, another new school, and again it was better, but only because there was someone even stranger. I still feel shame for having teased him. It didn't help much anyway. Within a few weeks the next new kid was warned not to eat with me or else she couldn't be friends with anyone else. PE was the worst. We had to learn square dancing, which required four people. My classmates wouldn't let me be the fourth in any of six squares, even though it meant they had only three to dance. It was my birthday. Another time, the teacher allowed my classmates to mock me for not being able to clear the hurdles in track. I still haven't forgiven her. And through it all were the nicknames, the isolation, the taunting with offers of friendship laughingly retracted in the face of my desperation. I was told "you're weird", "you're ugly", "you're fat", "no one likes you". Hear something often enough, you'll come to believe. Hear it after that, you'll never hear anything else. I thought of suicide daily, but instead wrote bad poetry and dreadful stories. High school, and then college, were better. I built armor out of my oddities, and used my brains as a shield. I made a friend, and then another one. I read a lot. I wrote. I went away to school, and my horizons expanded. I learned that being useful could substitute for being a friend, and built a social life.

Ultimately it did get better. I have friends. I do things. I have what should be a good life. But in the past couple of weeks I've been dealing with some high-school-like politics in an organization in which I volunteer. At the same time I see what my little boy is going through. And suddenly I am swimming in an ugly steaming stew of sadness and resentment. I have to admit that I am just as lonely now as I was thirty years ago, and I don't think that will ever change. I am still the precocious, smart, obnoxious, oblivious girl I was so long ago, and although the cuts have long ago scarred over, they are still there. And I wonder -- is this my legacy for my son? Will he carry this darkness? If yes, I have failed him.

Camp News

2011-06-20T17:47:00.000-06:00

Time stretches and warps here. There's a sameness to the days so that it seems we've been here forever in some sort of stasis. I lose track of days and dates and time. None of us has a schedule anymore; "lunch time" is heralded by suddenly grumbly kids rather than a timepiece. Bedtime is marking by dark and the end of whatever card game we've been playing. I'm anchored only by the countdown to the arrival of our guests, most of whom are still guesstimating their schedules. I'm floating outside of time. I spent much of last week preparing to send the kids to camp today, until I received an email reminder that they don't start for another week.

We're moving more slowly than in years past. It took nearly a week to finish unwrapping and opening and cleaning. Projects, which in years past we urgent (leaking roofs), are more cosmetic this year, and therefore can be interspersed with reading and card games. The lake is still astonishingly high (we arrived barely after record-breaking flooding eased) and still quite cold, so we've only been down there a few times. Strangest -- best -- of all, Will is more relaxed. He's listening when I suggest we knock off for the day, or take a lunch break. Yesterday he actually spent some time reading and sleeping in the hammock.

We are still working, though. Tradition requires that we rake up all the dead leaves and grass everywhere we mow, which amounts to something like two acres. The rationale makes sense: it reduces mosquito population because they don't have wet places to lay eggs, and it encourages a vaguely lawn-like growth of grass. It's physically exhausting labor. This year I talked Will into renting a dethatching rake that can be pulled by the lawn tractor. It didn't work. I'm now campaigning to experimentally hire a lawn crew to come in and mow and rake and cut hedges during our off year in hopes that it will reduce the amount of thatch. Will is dubious about the effectiveness, and feeling "frugal", but I think it is ridiculous to spend the first nine days of our vacation fixing the mower and raking. Then again it does mean we get to burn things.

We've amassed huge piles of grass and straw and leaves. Traditionally these get piled in the field next to the guest house and ignited in an alarming bonfire that takes all night to burn down. This year we decided to start early -- and paid the price. Despite all efforts it was only a smolder pile, sending up huge clouds of smoke and steam all night, blanketing the southern part of the island in gray. We'd blessed the fact that the usual wind was gone; after a few hours we wished it back, less to breathe life into our fire and more to shift the evidence of our foolishness somewhere else.

One neighbor, shortly after we lit the fuel, drove over and demanded that we "Not do that." He told us his house was filling with smoke, and stood there as if expecting us to immediately dump water over our haystack and apologize profusely. Nevermind that we had a permit; that other neighbors had just the day before been (more successfully, I admit) burning their yard waste; that Will's family has been burning leaves on this island longer than he has been alive. I was surprised by how hostile I felt toward him, and silently supported Will's careful apology-without-a-promise-to-stop. Usually I step in and try to make nice, make happy. It took me a while to figure out, but I realized that I was affronted by the interloper's bad manners! Like many new age parents I have taught my children some basics of conflict management. Will and I have been learning new skills in counseling, too. And when this fellow showed up and just demanded that we stop, I had no motivation to help. If only he had introduced himself, said where he lived, and THEN explained that his house was filling up with smoke! I surely would have done my best to help him. Funny how little courtesies make such a difference.

Another great difference this year is the mosquitoes. Grandpa Dan called and told us to expect the worst -- the flooding and dampness was probably going to lead to the biggest outbreak of skeeters in modern memory. I dread the whiny insects. As of last year we have mosquito netting for the kids' room, but in years past we have gone on "mosquito patrol" before bed, killing dozens in our room and theirs. We've been forced to slather on repellent before bed and with breakfast each day. This year, though, I discovered Raid for Flying Insects. I generally don't approve of pesticides, but in my desperation I learned that this noxious stuff can be sprayed on window screens (even ones with big holes in them) and it kills flying insects on contact. Now, it could be our fabulous raking job, but we've not had many kills on patrol at night. It's wonderful to go to bed knowing I'll only have a few bites instead of the dozens I was getting last year. We'll see if the pattern holds through the warmer months.

It's getting late, and I must feed my children before dark. They're sleeping in a tent in the back yard again tonight, as Will finally repairs drywall damaged years ago by incessant, now repaired, roof leaks. Amazing how work begets more work. Fortunately this is a happy chore because it's a sign that Will's work over the past few visits really is making a difference.

Good night from Dingley Dell!

Biding time

2011-06-05T16:45:00.001-06:00

Today I'm filling time. The truck is packed, I have a small amount of paperwork to finish, and tomorrow morning we leave for Vermont. I took a nap, and in fact Will is still asleep in a square of light that is slowly crossing the bed, causing a restless contortion to avoid the hot spots. Denver is suddenly warm enough that the A/C is kicking on, despite my nightly cooling rituals of fans and windows.

Will and I travel well together. We are curious in the same way, and prowl the parts of touristy destinations that usually get little attention. While others are at the top of castle towers, we seek out kitchens and midden heaps. We'd rather find a locally-recommended restaurant than the one the guidebook suggests. We're almost always up for one more museum. The kids have upset the balance a little, shortening my attention span, but in general we enjoy travelling.

However, preparing for trips used to be awful. I'd make arrangements and Will wouldn't want to have any input until the last minute, at which point I'd feel criticized and managed. Until we actually hit the road, we growled and sniped at each other. I was baffled when Will didn't want to know flight schedules, and he was annoyed when I double-checked that he had his ID for the airline. Finally one day I realized: I am in charge of Macro arrangements, and Will is in charge of Micro arrangements. So, I choose destinations and make flight arrangements. I determine what sights we should see, and make lists of what the kids and I need to take. I cancel the milk order and stop the newspaper. And then, shortly before we go, Will gets involved. Not long before we leave he begins planning daily schedules and driving routes, double-checking that I have important documents, going over my lists.

It still seems odd to me, but I've relaxed into the unspoken arrangement. It works for us. Which is why I've been preparing for weeks -- renewing passports, getting phone service in Vermont, finding a house sitter, cleaning house. And it's why I have time today. Now it's Will's turn.

He was frustrated and impatient this morning, asking me repeatedly to get all our stuff piled up, until he finally truly heard me say that I was done. We're taking a lot less stuff this year. The kids are older and more self-sufficient. Vi has taught me where the tools I need are squirrelled away, so I don't need to bring as much. We use less clothing there, maybe because it's summer, maybe because we don't (Violet doesn't) change clothes six times a day. For whatever reasons, packing is simpler this year.

And tomorrow, right after breakfast, the Clampetts, er, Bakers, are headed far away for 10 weeks. I'll be updating Facebook along the way, and hopefully blogging a little more regularly from there. Happy trails!

VT Invite

2011-04-24T12:11:00.001-06:00

An Invitation to a "Good Time" (But Not in a Naughty Way)

We are thrilled to announce that we're going Camping again for the summer. That is, we're heading back to the Baker family summer camp "Dingley Dell" in rural Vermont for another season of fun, food, rest, relaxation, water sports, tractor rides (Sam's favorite) and any other enjoyable thing we can think of. As always, we'd like all our friends to join us for the whole time; unfortunately we know that's not possible. We do, however, hope you'll find a way to join us for a few days (or more).

The Particulars

Originally a summer camp for boy sailors, Dingley Dell has been somewhat modernized (we have hot & cold running water and indoor toilets) but is still a classic New England camp experience. We stay in the main house, and our guests enjoy the privacy of another house across the road, with a bedroom on the main floor and a dormitory of sorts (four twin beds) upstairs. Over our past two visits we have (meaning Willl has) worked to perform necessary maintenance and some cosmetic improvements. It's still a camp, but now that we fixed the vacuum (and the roof, and the floor, and the ceiling, and the screens, and painted the walls, and . . .), it's pretty nice. That's not to say we won't have more projects for which we might recruit some help!

Generally, meals are served in the main house, except when we go down to the waterfront and enjoy picnics on the stone beach of Lake Champlain, looking west to the mountains of upstate New York. Our place is situated about ¼ mile up from a semi-private bay, with clear water that's only about 4 feet deep for several hundred yards. We plan to get at least one sailboat in the water this year, and have acquired a motor boat for faster-paced water fun. Area activities include biking, hiking, swimming (duh!), studying history (Revolutionary War forts, anyone?), eating (you KNOW I like to feed people), visiting the Ben & Jerry's factory, and pretty much whatever else you might like.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, or, Where We're Located And How To Get There

225 West Shore Rd, South Hero, VT. (You can Google it.) Basically we're an hour north and across a causeway from Burlington, the largest city in VT; an hour by ferry from Plattsburgh, NY; and an hour south of Montreal, Canada. Car, plane, boat, even train - you can reach us. Airport options include Burlington (BTV), Plattsburgh, NY (PBG), and Montreal (YMQ). Trains come into both Essex Junction (15 minutes away) and Plattsburgh. And, of course, you're welcome to drive yourself.

When To Come

We're heading there almost as soon as school gets out, and we'll get back not long before school starts again. Factoring in drive time and opening/closing the place, we figure we can host from around June 16th until about August 5th.

We Want To Come. What Do We Do?

Let us know when, and we'll be ready for you! We'll have a phone (and access to the internet), but don't know the number yet. Your best bet is to call me on my cell phone or email me.

An Eight Year Old's Joke

2011-03-04T18:23:00.004-07:00

Sam: Why did the onion shoot potatoes?

Mom: I don't know. Why?

Sam: Because they're friends!

Mom: That doesn't make any sense.

Sam: I know. I don't get it either.

An Instructional From Violet

2011-03-03T10:19:00.006-07:00

No matter how heavy things get around here, I can always count on my kids for a laugh.

Last night we got home late from a basketball game and Violet crashed almost immediately. I came upstairs to find my girl, still clad in a sweet pink plaid dress, sound asleep in my bed with the following "How To" on the floor below.

Translation:

How to make a Burp

First make a deep breath and then

drink a glass of water

and then make it into

a burp

That's my girl!

A conundrum

2011-02-25T11:31:00.004-07:00

I think, if conservatives really stand for marriage, they ought to support health care bills that cover mental health, including marriage counseling.

On Marriage

2011-02-17T11:19:00.004-07:00

I have been pondering marriage a great deal lately, mostly because I fear mine has fractured like a bone china cup, still intact but crazed by fault lines, any of which could cause the whole to collapse into pieces. We have been married ten years, together for nearly thirteen. We have moved across country, bought and sold houses, invested, had two children, acquired a new car, adopted a dog. We have, in short, lived the american reality, if not the dream. We are married. But what does that mean? I have a dear friend whose support of “traditional marriage” makes me unspeakably sad, especially since right now I don't even know what marriage means, except that my gay friends and acquaintances long for it as a near unattainable dream.

Thinking across the various stories of marriage that have built the idea in my head, marriage was never about sex, or children, or even love, but about alliances. Us versus them. United we stand. Think about it – Disney princes rescue their unknown ladies (Snow White had never even met her prince) from poverty, evil, enchantment, all by offering a shield against these things. In return, they get a kiss. Isn't that what wedding vows promise? Not “I will love you” but “I will take care of you even if you're sick or poor”. A couple might as well write a legal contract specifying individual obligations. That is traditional marriage. It doesn't sound so romantic when you realize it's a negotiated bargain, sealed with a ring.

Historically, traditionally, marriages were bulwarks against warfare, destitution, the neighbors. The kings and queens of Europe didn't fall in love, they negotiated for the most advantageous match. And that bargaining wasn't limited to nobility. Even peasants had dowries, and girls with more goods were more desireable. If they could breed well, all the better. Many healthy children meant more swords in a fight. Lots of workers meant a better retirement for the elders.

The mythology of marriage is that it begins with love. I don't agree. Love is what happens quietly after years of marriage. After fighting and making up, after traveling and staying in, grieving and celebrating. Love is not just wanting to share the good with your partner. It is cleaning up bedpans and vomit; dealing with annoying habits that you never can embrace; seeing the beauty inside the ugly. Only when you know the whole of a person – beginning to end – can you truly love. I say marriage begins with sympathetic resonance, a sense that this one person will stand with you against all foes, and will help you achieve the highest heights.

My college roommate was married last spring. In attendance was a gay man I know and his partner of fifteen or so years. They are comfortable with each other in the way that long-married people are; I was warmed by their affectionate smiles and eye-rolling at each other's foibles. At the very beginning of their relationship they weathered the storm of a life-threatening illness that still must be managed on a daily basis, and they told me a little about how that affects their long-term plans together. For them, that future is an unquestionable fact. The strength of their union is awe-inspiring. I think often about my morning spent with them and what a marvelous example they are of what a marriage should be. It's ironic that at a “traditional” ceremony, the two people united hope to have a relationship as strong, loving, and long as that of our gay friends – two men who still had to be careful not to touch or say anything publicly that might indicate their relationship to an outsider.

My husband and I are stuck in silence right now. Looking back, I see the flaws in our earliest alliance, and wonder why we ever walked down the aisle together. I have leaned heavily on my friends for consolation, and they, in turn, have given me absolution for whatever decisions I might make. For now, I am searching for solutions. I owe that to myself and my family. And by doing so I hope I honor my many gay friends who have shown me what marriage truly means.

Why I Don't Go To the Doctor

2011-02-01T14:52:00.010-07:00

Ten years ago, I had a first visit with a new doctor. Before any examination took place, he met with me (fully clothed!) in his office, and we chatted. Dr. E got to know me a little. And I got comfortable enough with him that I mentioned my weight. He surprised me by saying that he wasn't terribly worried; health was more important than a specific weight.

I would have followed him anywhere.

Even though he wasn't an internist, I considered Dr. E my primary care physician. He guided me through two pregnancies with minor complications, and I saw him routinely. I could address any question to him. But two years ago he retired. Sure I still get my annual exam from the doctors in that office, but it's not the same.

Prior to meeting Dr. E, I was haunted by previous experiences with a number of doctors, who immediately assumed that any issue was a symptom of my weight. Allergies? I must eat too much. Earaches? Get more exercise. A sinus infection? Lay off the ice cream. Apparently, I was so big even bacteria couldn't escape my gravitational field.

Which is why, for me, going to the doctor is a lot like being sent to the principal.

But I've not been feeling quite right. And, to be honest, I've gained even more weight. It's time to take care of myself. So, I screwed up my courage, made an appointment, and today I had a physical.

I'll get the results from the blood work tomorrow. In the meantime, the numbers in the office were good. Low blood pressure, resting heart rate of 60, great health history. I walked a 1/2 marathon last spring, and am in training to run a 1/2 this spring. I don't smoke or drink. I eat lots of vegetables. I don't drink juice or soda, and mostly avoid junk food. I am, for all intents and purposes, healthy. Despite all that, the only thing the doctor wanted to know is: am I trying any programs to lose weight?

I must be broken, because I am obese. My weight is the only consideration.

And I wonder, why in all my years I've only ever met one doctor who looked at my self first, and then at my body. Because I know I need help, but if you only see a number on a scale, doctor, then how am I going to be comfortable talking to you about what to do?

I'll go back and try and work with this doctor. But I'll miss Dr. E every time.

Teaching Feminism at McDonald's

2011-01-25T03:00:00.002-07:00

Let me start by saying yes, I do take my children to McDonald's. I have reasons both for and against doing so, and have made an informed decision that we can occasionally go to the nearby "Old McDonald's" for a treat. In a similar vein, my kindergarten-aged daughter wears a LOT of pink sparkly things, has make-up and high heels, and frequently talks about being a princess. Again, I've made my choices, and stand by them, even if I sometimes wince at the results.

That doesn't mean I've compromised my values.

A couple weeks ago, I took my sparklicious daughter and her more sedate brother to McDonald's for lunch and a romp in the play structure there. While they climbed and played I ordered a couple of Happy Meals and something for myself. Now, McDonald's, for whatever asinine reason, not only categorizes their toys by age (toddlers get "safer" bits of cheap plastic); they also gender-identify them so that when ordering one has to request a boy Happy Meal or a girl Happy Meal, or else the cashier freezes in a quandary of what toy to put in the sack. And, of course, the toys for girls are soft and sweet and pink (Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, random stuffed animals) while boys get action toys (Transformers, skateboards, Bakugan).

I resent that.

However, I also get physically ill when facing the bickering that ensues when two kids have the same toy and one disappears, so I took the easy route and ordered one boy toy (ooh, that sounds kinky!) and one girl toy (that does too!) and called the kids down to eat.

After wolfing down their apples and some nuggets, the kids clamored for their toys. Violet got a pink fuzzy thing that may or may not have been a hamster (by making it amorphous the toy company could claim it was any one of four sweet animals -- I think. The explanations were in translated Chinese.) Sam got a Bakugan. For those unfamiliar with the ongoing trend of inexplicable (by which I mean, I don't understand it so I can't explain it) toys/games from Japan, Bakugan is/are a series of robot balls, each of which has a "power" and which seem to be a bastard cousin of Transformers, in that they open up into robots with faces. Some can even combine into greater robots. There are accompanying cards that list the robots' strength, skill, and attack points, all of which reminds me mightily of Dungeons and Dragons in which one's character had strength, skill, and attack points, and I wonder why that was unbearably geeky, but this is cool? But I digress.

Sam was delighted with his Bakugan, immediately disappearing into the tubes and germs that are a PlayPlace. Violet, on the other hand, looked plaintively up at me and asked, "Why did I get _this_ while Sam got a Bakugan?"

So, I took a deep breath and gave Violet a 5 year old's summary of gender discrimination, (yes, I did use those words) and boiled it down to: because she's a girl people think she wouldn't want to play with cool robots. And my fabulous little girl, who is so fierce and strong, understood, and immediately said, "Well, I want a Bakugan." And she took her stupid stuffed blob up to the counter and asked if she could please have a different toy.

The very nice cashier handed her a different sweet fuzzy blob.

She looked at me, then back at the cashier, and said quite clearly, "No, I want a Bakugan."

He didn't get it at first. He stood there, looking at me, then at the pink, sparkly, tiara-bedecked princess in front of him, and at the "girl" toy in his hand. And then the cashier took the second blob back, and handed Violet TWO Bakugan. Because she wanted to play with cool robots, and he was going to make that happen.

We've had a couple more conversations since then about girl toys and boy toys, and gender in general. Our kids are pretty good about it. Sam likes to wear nail polish, and has learned to ignore friends and classmates who make negative comments about it. Violet is still of an age where she's trying to use physical cues to help her distinguish boys from girls, but clothing and hair length are no longer the first things she sees. Most important (to me), is that both of them understand that they can be or do whatever they want, and we'll love them unconditionally.

And that, whenever we go to McDonald's, they can have whatever toy they want.

Holiday greetings

2010-12-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

Yardstick

2010-09-21T13:01:00.004-06:00

The passing of my days

is ticked in irregular increments

upon the door frame

separating the kitchen from

the rest of the house.

Each rising mark a triumph

for you

and a sweet sadness for me

as you shed your childhood

like autumn leaves

falling slowly

until I am buried

beneath the pile of memories.

Running to Stand Still

2010-09-21T10:33:00.003-06:00

I've been looking forward for weeks to the quiet of an empty house. Two kids in school ideally means seven hours a day to myself. I grew up with a great deal of solitude, and feel keenly the difference between lonely and alone. And I crave time alone. Time to think an idea all the way through without resorting to scribbling fractured notes I must later interpret and try to re-create a line of thought. Time to finish a task - even if it's just cleaning a bathroom - without circling through the house picking up things and making meals and separating storming children between each step.

I imagined blissful hours to accomplish everything on my years-old task list; and finding hollow spaces I had to fill with projects or visits to old friends; and being a better parent because I cherished the time with my kids instead of working around their presence to get stuff done.

It didn't happen.

I cried when I left Violet at kindergarten, and spent a few hours reaching for her little hand as I ran errands in my first solo afternoon. But since then, I've had no time to miss her. This year I accepted a position on the school PTA, and it's filling my days (and evenings, and even sleepless nights) with responsibilities and obligations. I'm having trouble finishing anything, because each part of my life is overlapping the others, and I can't concentrate on anything. And I spend my rare quiet moments wondering how any woman ever survives working and parenting and maintaining a marriage. Today is the first day I've had the house to myself since August (Will finally found some work) and I've gotten more done this morning than in many days past, but the passage of time makes me anxious to the point of skipping bathroom breaks and putting off meals.

I did take up my knitting again in the brief time Will and I spend together, exhausted into complacency in front of the TV. And strangely, the year-or-more hiatus has made me a better knitter. I even finished a hat and have started on number two. It's nice to actually have something to show for a hours work.

So. I breathe, and now I'm off to do more laundry before starting in on emails. Bless all of you who do this and hold down a job. I'm in awe.

My beautiful boy

2010-08-04T13:23:00.004-06:00

We had to cut off all his hair. Don't ask why. The only good thing was that he allowed me to take some portraits of his new hairstyle. Doesn't he look nice! More pictures on Flickr.

Contemporary Art a la Five Year Old

2010-08-01T18:09:00.004-06:00

Actual transcript of a conversation with V as she was getting into the bathtub tonight:

Mom: "Why do you have green marker all over your bottom?"

V: (grinning) "I was making a peanut!"

M: "A peanut?"

V: "Yeah! A peanut with my BUTT!"

M: "A peanut with your butt?!?"

V: "Yeah!"

At which point girl-child sat down on the bathroom floor and mimed tracing her naked cheeks with a green marker.

V: "I sat on a piece of paper and made a peanut. Then I cut it out!"

She then raced (naked) out of the bathroom and returned, triumphantly, with her peanut.

I think I should apply for an arts grant for her, don't you?

the peanut in question

A brief tutorial

2010-07-13T14:11:00.002-06:00

Benjamin Franklin famously said, "Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." But what if, to your delicate sensibilities, your guests stink BEFORE THEY EVEN ARRIVE? Just follow this brief tutorial, and you, too, can make your visitors feel like leaving before they even unpack.

Step 1. Look unfriendly. No matter what was said to give those people the impression that their presence is desirable (like repeated phone calls explaining how there's plenty of room, it makes the most sense, you'll be able to spend more time with them, etc), when they arrive keep a frown on your face, and, if possible, add a little wrinkling between the eyebrows. Nothing says "Go away!" like a screwed up face.

Step 2. Don't make them feel "at home" with bizarre statements like "welcome", "It's good to see you", "I'll show you around" or even "here are some towels for you to use". Under NO CIRCUMSTANCE do you want your foul smelling impositions to think that they can treat your house like a home.

Step 3. DO NOT interrupt your regular plans. Sure, the visitors may have driven thousands of miles to see you, but that doesn't mean you want to see THEM. Stick to your Friday dinner plans with the friends you see twice a week. For Pete's sake, you haven't seen them for FOUR WHOLE DAYS, which means you have LOTS of catching up to do -- which also justifies not including the guests in your conversation. At all.

Step 4. Ask your guests to stay quietly in their rooms as long as possible in the morning "for the sake of the children". That way they won't bother you, even if you're up early. Remember: you only reluctantly conceded to having them stay, not to be your friends.

Step 5. Make it clear that you are NOT a doormat, and you will not be providing meals for your guests. Of course you'll make the usual four separate, individual breakfasts for your family, but the freeloaders can darn well forage for themselves. After all, there ARE leftovers in the fridge. Hopefully, they'll even clear out the end-of-date food you are too sensible to eat. If you prefer, you can always go out to eat. If you do it right, you can sit at opposite ends of the table and not have to talk to them at all.

Step 6. Make lots of plans that the interlopers can't participate in. if that doesn't work, make plans with them, but don't bother showing up when you say you will, and be sure to leave without telling them. If you do have to do something together, make sure it's loud and unpleasant, and mislead them as to what their expectations should be. If you (unfortunately) have to do two activities together, be sure to invite your true friends to "unexpectedly" show up, so you can, again, ignore these other people.

Step 7. Practice your veiled insults before they arrive, so you can use priceless lines like "I love my children too much to do that" when the guests kiss their kids goodnight and send them to PUT THEMSELVES TO BED. Bad parenting must ALWAYS be commented on.

Finally, Step 8. No mingling. Remember, fraternization leads to contamination, so make sure to find ways to keep any children from actually interacting (reference Step 4). For your part, do not participate in small talk, like asking about your guests' trip, or inquiring about them as individuals. Such activities may lead to a false sense of friendship, at least on their part.

Follow these tips and you should have your visitors crying to themselves in the shower within two days. Keep up the good work! With effort, you may even encourage them to move on a day earlier than planned. If you succeed, bravo! If not, well, it's not like you're ever going to visit THEM, is it?

I gave 110%, and so did you!

2010-07-13T12:39:00.004-06:00

We did it! On Sunday, June 9th, I completed the Steamboat Springs 1/2 Marathon in 3 hours and 51 minutes. Around the same time, my fundraising total for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society hit $2,761 -- 110% of my original $2,500 goal.

I can't begin to express my gratitude for your support as I worked to accomplish this huge (and somewhat uncharacteristic) goal. There is no question that your help and encouragement got me to the finish line. And I have to tell you -- I was not the fastest, sleekest, or most accomplished athlete in the event, but I was definitely the most enthusiastic and cheerful! I knew I already had won, even before they fired the starting gun. You see, thanks to you and many other generous folks, the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Team In Training raised more that $110,000 dollars for the Spring season. That means lives were saved, research was funded, families and friends were assisted - even before I took my first step.

The race itself was surprisingly fun. We had a pep talk in the hotel lobby, then got on a bus and rode to the starting line before dawn. Everyone on the bus kept remarking about how long it was taking to get there, as we all slowly realized how very, very far we were going to walk or run. Aside from an absurd number of porta-potties, the starting line was fairly non-descript, and the air was cold until the sun came up. There was a one-hour delay due to some transportation issues, but as soon as we got underway I became aware of just how beautiful the scenery was. Being a (slow) walker, I had the road essentially to myself, and I was able to enjoy the sound of a distant river, at least three different kinds of songbirds, the reassuring crunch of gravel as I toodled down the road, and the sight of gamboling calves running circles around their more sedate dams. The locals were fabulous, setting up cheering stations along the way and offering just as much enthusiasm to me as they had the speedsters at the head of the pack. One pair of water-hander-outers were about six years old, and I had to turn them around as they ran up the course behind me, away from their grown-ups. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I had a spring in my step for quite a ways after I left them behind.

I made good time, even running a few sections, and despite the heat (an uncharacteristic 90 degrees under cloudless skies and relentless sun) felt good for most of the race. I was able to cheer on other Team In Training folks as the full-marathoners began passing me, and I did my best to offer encouragement to all the runners who were faltering. Karma came full circle around mile 11, when I hit my own personal wall and the cheer stations boosted me. That and a little Lady GaGa and other hard-rocking tunes on the iPod. I have to say, mile 12 was pretty much the hardest mile I've ever walked.

When I finally reached town, I was delighted to see my mom and dad, who gave up their day to come cheer me on and brought me to tears with their proud smiles. Finally, I crossed the finish line, received my medal, and got a great hug from Anita, who had sucessfully completed her 10K hours earlier. After some stretching and cold water, we all celebrated with fried pickles and sandwiches at a nearby restaurant (don't knock the pickles -- I've never tasted such salty fried deliciousness in my life!) and Anita and I headed back to the hotel for a much needed nap. When I woke I was pleased to find that I was only mildly sore, and filled with a sense of accomplishment and pride I seldom reach.

pictures are available on Flickr at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ikreske/

So, we did it, and we did it well. Thank you.

Who's up for a full marathon?

Gratefully,

Yanna

So grateful

2010-06-01T11:08:00.001-06:00

I'm humbled to the point of tears. Donations to my Team In Training account are currently at $2,635. Thank you.

http://pages.teamintraining.org/rm/SteamBt10/ikreske

19 days

2010-05-18T17:30:00.001-06:00

Hello! Just writing a quick update on my progress for Team In Training. This has been an incredible week for me! I have fewer than three weeks until the half-marathon in Steamboat, and I have to admit that for a while I've been beset by doubts about accomplishing either the fundraising or walking a half-marathon.

Fortunately, last week I received a very generous anonymous donation which pushed the fundraising past the minimum, and the proceeds from the jewelry trunk show I hosted brought me even closer to my personal goal. That has been a huge relief, although I still have $363 to raise. On the physical side, we just had our longest training day of the season; now we rest up for the race. In order to accommodate some family plans I hit the trail early with some other walkers, and boy did we burn up the trail! In just 3.5 hours I walked 11 (yes, eleven!) miles. I stopped there, but I proved to myself that I can -- and will -- complete 13.1 miles and cross the finish line on June 6th with few problems.

I'm still a little sore today, which probably could be addressed by drinking more water the day of the race, stretching better, and not digging up and moving hundred pound rocks for several hours afterward (the aforementioned family obligation). And in reality, what are a couple of blisters and a sore hamstring compared to rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgeries to fight cancer? Because that's what this really is about. I'm proud to have been a small part in the effort to fight and cure blood cancers. I'm also tremendously grateful to those of you who have supported me - emotionally, physically, even financially -- through this journey.

19 days 'til the race! I'll post pictures and updates on my Team In Training blog if you want to follow my progress or to make a donation.

http://pages.teamintraining.org/rm/SteamBt10/ikreske

Fruit

2010-05-14T11:31:00.002-06:00

Oranges, bananas, and grapes

tumble across the counter

in an unruly respite

between grocery store and fruit basket.

They brighten the room

with exotic colors

in the intermittent dusk

of fleeting rain clouds.

The tulips in my yard

also glow

peach and yellow

as if they

alone

hold back the dark.

Forgiveness and Action

2010-04-08T13:22:00.003-06:00

I forgave myself yesterday. I didn't apologize for the mess or overdue tasks or dirty hair. I just took a deep breath, said I'd take care of it in time, and forgave myself. Then I took a guilt-free nap.

Later, after I picked the kids up from school, we all went to the museum, exploring and touching and asking questions until the security guard announced that the museum was closed and even then he had to pry us out of the exhibit because we wanted to try that thing just one more time.

My world didn't collapse because I continued ignoring "THE LIST". We had fun.

And today I was recharged and already have gotten the top three irksome, bothersome, dreadful things on my list taken care of.

Forgiveness, followed by action. Now I just need to practice. And maybe do a little laundry, too.

SILENCE!

2010-04-06T11:19:00.002-06:00

The critics in my head are very loud this week. I can do no right, I am a failure at everything, I'll never succeed no matter what I try. It's very disheartening, especially since they all speak in my own voice. I got a wonderful hug from Will this morning and cried a little, and he told me I needed to tell them to shut up, but it's just not that easy.

I am overwhelmed right now by my to-do list, which in reality isn't that big and wouldn't be too hard to contend with if I just sat down and did it. I use tiredness or the kids or any other excuse not to start, and I haven't yet figured out why I don't just "get it done", but I don't, and of course the longer I wait the worse everything gets.

Funny thing is, I feel like I used to get a lot more done when I was working. How is it that I have more time (including 3 hours a day to myself) and yet I can't even keep up with the laundry, let alone dust bunnies, dirty toilets or school projects?

Remember the Tardis from Dr. Who? It was the size of a phone booth on the outside, but extended in every dimension inside. My days are like that (in a bad way) -- limited time, but the stuff i want to do is far larger. And of course, that is fodder for the critics. Dirty dishes in the sink? White trash. Piles of laundry? Slovenly. Overdue phone calls? Irresponsible.

I read an article in O magazine the other day that talked about finding the truth of a statement. In it a woman was panicking, and the counselor she went to kept asking "is that true?" Over and over again, until all the layers of the onion peeled away, and the woman finally took a deep breath and said "no, it's not." That understanding gave her peace. I tried to use that with the voices in my head this morning, especially around the "you're a bad parent" accusation. But it didn't work. I kept hearing arguments against myself. No matter how smart, funny, healthy, generous, wonderful my kids are, all I see is a reflection of mistakes and failures on my part, as if they are rising above my parenting, rather than growing better because of my efforts.

As I was loading the dishwasher this morning, I finally thought of an answer for Sam, for when he challenges me on why he has to do something, especially when Will and I don't follow our own rules. Because I am trying to raise my children to be better people that their parents. I just hope I don't become the critic in his head.

In which I triumph over snakes

2010-03-24T21:16:00.003-06:00

There I was, faced with a non-functional DVD player. That may not sound particularly tragic to more worldly people, but in our little household the DVD player is one of our primary sources of entertainment, especially when we bond in a ritual that we've come to call "Friday Family Movie Night". It's more impressive with capital letters, don't you think? Today is Wednesday -- the clock is ticking toward Friday evening, and I have a bazillion important things other people need me to do, so what better time to completely dismantle the entertainment system and attempt to rewire the whole shebang, McGyver-style, during the few hours the kids were entertained by a massive snowfall?

I got everything taken apart, cables lying everywhere like snakes (aha! a reference that explains the title!) or, perhaps more accurately, intestines. The kids occasionally stuck their heads in like worried family checking on a surgery-in-progress. But I couldn't make it work. One device would work, leaving two others hissing at me as I pushed the mute button on random remotes, also scattered like casualties around the carpet. Or I could get them all to sort of work, but the DVD player was only showing in pink. Or the TiVo wouldn't recognize the antenna, sadly blinking "no signal" at me. I delved into my box of random cables acquired over time, switching the red/yellow/white trio for the red/green/blue one, and then trying (again) the s-video, and occasionally hearkening back to the old coaxial. At one point I realized I had a cable exiting and entering the same device. Oops.

I changed strategies. Google guided me from despair to anguish to resignation, with occasional teasing passages that almost got me fixed up, until I learned I would need 75 Pounds Sterling for the correct part (because I was reading an English TiVo blog at the time). Finally, I gave up and headed to Target, hoping to find the right magical cable for under a hundred dollars.

Wrong cable (for a good price). In fact, I have no plugs into which I can plug that particular cable. I think I picked it up with a healthy dose of wishful thinking. We got home and my little angels looked at me with their sparkling eyes, begging to be able to play Wii because they were going through withdrawal. I laughed harshly and told them they might never play Wii again. I could hear their pillow-stifled sobs from the living room as I again approached the machines.

Then, I got it. I found a diagram online, printed it, and took it with me to the living room. Of course, none of the devices or connections shown on the diagram related in any way to my personal set up, but suddenly I was surrounded by a blue glow and I began working in a steady, inspired fashion. Tab A, Slot B. TiVo video? Check. Audio? Check. Wii video and audio? Check. Even better -- they were routing audio through the Surround Sound, so it was even BETTER than before. Oh, yes, an electronics goddess! DVD audio? check. Video? Pink. Unhealthy, unholy, reminiscent of Pepto Bismol. *sigh* And again lightning struck -- a few buttons on the remote, and voila! Perfect video.

I slowly rounded up the leftover pieces, shoved the old TV aside (I installed a new one which had been meant for a father's day present, but I thought I needed it to make this whole thing work), and trudged to my desk to write up a detailed explanation of how to make this whole thing work. But I won! The wiring-snakes are now coiled in the random-electronics box, the three remotes are labeled, the instructions are taped where everyone can find them, and I won't have to mess with this again for a few weeks, when the new TiVo arrives.

But I'm pretty proud of myself, even if it did take all stinkin' day and someone more knowledgeable would have been finished in an hour (two at the outside). So now I can go watch TV and continue to ignore all the tasks my ToodleDo account keeps reminding me about.

Two Blogs at Once!

2010-03-03T14:11:00.001-07:00

I updated my Team In Training blog this morning -- please check over there for more fabulous words of self-absorption!

http://pages.teamintraining.org/rm/SteamBt10/ikreske

Picasso-esque

2010-02-25T12:12:00.002-07:00

My little girl drew this portrait of me when I was four, and I thought you'd like to see how much I've changed since then.

Fundraising

2010-02-22T14:14:00.004-07:00

I just sent out 69 (teehee!) fundraising emails regarding the half-marathon I'm going to walk in early June. Immediately afterward I felt the urge to send a second email, apologizing for the first. It's not that I don't believe in the cause, I just feel so, well, whorish, asking for money, especially from people I don't necessarily know all that well. I hate to cause a sense of obligation among people I care about, although I've donated to or purchased from many of them in the past with nary a concern.

Blue February

2010-02-17T21:46:00.002-07:00

As I walked this morning I heard so many birds singing that I was reassured of the arrival of spring; the thought brought a (relieved) smile to my face. Later, however, I slipped back into a blue funk that has haunted me for days now. I don't know if it's February doldrums, or something hormonal, or maybe it's altogether unrelated to any of that. I do know that I am restless and frustrated, and I have been thinking poisonous thoughts about my children and husband in the wake of the slightest infraction. I just want to crawl into my bed and be ALONE, with no demands or expectations, no whining or complaining, and no responsibilities. I did get four errands run this morning, and three loads of laundry, and tonight I will sleep in clean sheets. Perhaps that will be enough to bring me out of it. Or maybe I just need a good cry. Until then, I think I'll ignore the laundry that needs folding, go take a shower and lose myself in a cheesy gothic romance novel.

Me? An Exercise Addict?

2010-02-09T14:21:00.005-07:00

I am in no way an athlete. Any similarity to those sleek, competitive people who like getting out and sweating is purely coincidental. Which makes the following so much more surprising to me: I am learning to like exercise for the sake of exercise, and I'm coming to need it every single day (including weekends and vacations).

My first experience with exercise was watching my mother and aunt (we all lived together when I was little) attend an aerobics class. They hated it. Someone in their class had t-shirts made that said something along the lines of, "Mikki's class - whine, bitch, moan, complain, whimper" etc etc. I don't know how long they did it. I just remember watching that random group of women through a glass window, sweating and groaning, and later celebrating their survival with a cigarette and glass of scotch. They joined a gym later, lifting weights and maybe walking on a treadmill. I participated a little, more for the novelty of it, but again I saw that exercise is an odious chore faced reluctantly and whose accomplishment deserves a reward (again, a glass of scotch and a cigarette).

I can't say I've never exercised. I played soccer in fifth grade, but that was a game. I ran cross-country in high school, but it made me cry (and occasionally vomit), and thus was not to my liking. Search and Rescue practices (when I was at UWC) were entire weekends hiking through forests, over mesas, and down gullies. Calculating backwards I probably covered fifteen or more miles in a day back then. And oh, I felt strong and competent and even beautiful. But going for a run? A bike ride just to get my heart rate up? feh! Thus athletics became a sideline - I was the volleyball team manager, I cheered the basketball team. But I was never the one in bright polyester satin.

Don't get me wrong - I love the feeling of a good day's work. The ache and sweet exhaustion from hauling and digging; the first deep breath at the top of a climb; the grace of a perfect ski run. But I do better with a goal. My garden blooms and feeds me; we search for a lost person; the house is tidy (and yes, housework IS exercise, thank you very much!).

I blame the dog for the change. She requires walking, and the consequences are dire if I don't take her out (poop. 'nuf said.) So, I drag myself out of bed while the household sleeps, put on some shoes, and walk. I've hated it, especially in the winter, but it's better than having to clean up, or having to face those guilt-inducing eyes when I'm too lazy to get up.

But sometimes the sky is too gray, the room too cold, and the excuses come too easily. This morning I couldn't get up. It's snowing, and and dark, and I wanted a shower and just five more minutes in the horizontal, so I rebelled.

I discovered, however, that even though I was clean, and rested, and the dog voluntarily went out in the back yard, that I was grumpy. I had a low level of cranky going on, for no apparent reason. It didn't go away after loudly hustling the reluctant ones out of the house, or when my PTA meeting was over. I was growly all over. So when I got home, instead of settling down to paying bills or dealing with emails, I looked at the blue sky and warm sun, and took the dog for a walk. Wouldn't you know, ten minutes later I felt a warm glow rush over me, and I found myself chatting to Teddy and generally feeling good. Despite the cold my nose and fingers were warm, and I was telling myself to go a little farther, a little faster. Let's see how far we can go in thirty minutes. And I realized, I'm no athlete, but I kinda like this exercise.

Clean Trash Cans

2010-02-02T21:08:00.002-07:00

I washed out one of my trash cans this weekend. It's the one I use for recycling, so I don't generally put a liner in it, and drips and splashes had congealed into a sticky mess at the bottom. I could no longer look at it without grimacing. So, a few spritzes of 409, scrub scrub, scrub, and voila! a clean trash can. I immediately tucked it back under the sink where it lives, unseen by any but me, and felt good for the rest of the day about getting that taken care of.

I'm actually kind of pleased that I felt compelled to wash out a trash can. I know, it sounds totally silly -- both to be pleased and to wash out a trash can -- but it's the kind of thing my mom and my mother-in-law do, and I like the fact that maybe I'm starting to be more like them. You see, both are extremely intelligent, capable people; of all the yardsticks I use, I measure myself against them the most. None of this "what would jesus do?" stuff for me. Nope, Meredith and Vi set the standards for me. Not in a nagging back-of-the-head kind of way (unless I'm beating myself up, but I'm practicing being nicer to me) but in a "this is the right way" or "this is how it has been done traditionally" or, best of all, "this is the smartest, most efficient, and it'll make your life easier in the long-term" kind of way. For years I teased and laughed at the "silly" things they would do -- like scrub a trash can until it was nearly new. But (finally!) I believe I am starting to learn basic wisdom, and much of it is being handed down by these two wonderful women. So when I feel compelled to clean out a trash can which only I ever see, and at the same time I know it's the kind of thing my role models would do, I'm kinda pleased with myself.

Thoughts of Mortality and Farewell

2010-01-28T10:03:00.007-07:00

Having just returned from a follow-up (and blessedly clean) mammogram, I am pensive this morning with thoughts of mortality and farewell. Three women in my family died last year. The turning of the calendar allows me to distance myself from that fact, as if the new year is distinct and free of the losses of the summer and fall. My sadness, however, stretches across the months and I find it difficult to approach my memories for fear they will overwhelm me.

Perhaps now, finally, I can write out the shards of goodbyes that have been sticking in my heart.

Jan died first. It wasn't unexpected -- she had been anticipating it for a long time, and from a distance her absence wasn't so noticeable.

Will and I visited Jan twice in her grotto in Connecticut. She was invariably cheerful and did her best to host us, although our little family unit is tremendously independent. The noise and suddenness of our young children alarmed her; at the same time it recalled for her the times she was called upon to help her oldest sister with childcare. She took such great pride in helping raise her nieces and nephews, and in all the descendants! Our cards and photos were arranged with care along the shelves of her tiny house, layered in front of one another so they became three-dimensional records of our aging. During our visits I didn't listen enough. I was distracted by the green of the trees and Jan's nervousness regarding my flighty children, so I have scant knowledge of the facts of her life. Instead I have impressions of determination and endless curiosity, of a liberated woman long before that was fashionable, of a life filled with celebrations in New York City, and peaceful times in Connecticut. And I have memories of her with each of my children: tentatively holding Violet, the first in the extended family to do so, and barely having time to embrace Sam, who was vibrating with excitement to go run around and explore that fantastical place. I am grateful for those memories, and saddened by the photos I never bothered to send because I was "too busy", although I know she would have been delighted.

Barb went next. I could say it was complications from a stroke, but really she was tired and the kind of lonely that comes from witnessing too many loved ones pass away.

I knew Barb only as a Grand Dame, rising from the death of two of her sisters to steer our large family in the stewardship of the Bane cabin. Family lore speaks of her mother holding court each Sunday with supper for four daughters, their assorted spouses, and eventually their children. I love the photos of Manna with her family arrayed around her in their Sunday best, cousins becoming nearly as close as siblings. That role fell to Barb late in life, long after the cousins and then second cousins had built separate traditions. Her presence still bound us, if only out of respect. Barb and I both had left Colorado - she to California, I for the East coast - so our relationship was truncated by geography. Yet she remembered my birthday each year with a card, and -- after we each returned to Denver -- with a brief phone call. Only now that I have a perpetually full calendar and often miss dates important to others do I appreciate the thoughtfulness of such gestures.

Finally bright Robin flew away too soon. What started as a surprising shortness of breath revealed itself as lung cancer that gave her a terribly short time to say goodbye.

Robin was on the other side of the family, far away, and I saw her only a few times. My strongest memory of her was a visit when I was tiny -- six, perhaps? My mother was forced by circumstance into a man's world, owning her own printing business and struggling alone to raise a child, which left little room for fashion and frills. Robin visited us, bringing her delightful California style, tall and lean and blond and girly in ways I'd never seen before, and she shared that with me, taking my little hands and painting my nails. I don't think I'd ever felt so glamorous. I doubt I even breathed for her whole visit, I was so awed.

Each of these remarkable women gave me, us, a final gift with their deaths -- they died the way they wanted to. Jan stayed in her home, conceding the need for assistance at the end, but never allowing the help to make her truly dependent. Barb chose her own way, seeing the consequences of failing health and instead setting a date, saying goodbye, and letting go when and how she wanted. And Robin celebrated to the end, adventuring and throwing parties and smiling that marvelous California smile.

I feel unworthy of my grief. To be honest I didn't know any of them particularly well, so my tears are more for myself than for them or the people most affected by their loss. Nonetheless, I want them back. Even knowing that I probably wouldn't pay any more attention to them resurrected than I did before, I feel that I am no longer whole without each one. My family, my life, is diminished without them.

Chubby fingers and long legs

2010-01-27T20:23:00.006-07:00

Tonight you chuckled as you plopped -- wet from the tub -- into my lap, pretending to shiver so I would wrap you tightly in your bright pink towel and hug you until your damp hair soaked my shoulder. I spoke quietly in your ear, using an intimate voice because we were so close, and you told me fantastic ideas I only half-heard through the breathless squeezing of love that sometimes overtakes me. You took the nail clippers from me, arguing that you should trim your own nails; I allowed it reluctantly, suddenly protective of your not-so-tiny-anymore hands, grimacing as you nearly cut yourself (not unlike what I did several years ago, though the scar is on my heart instead of your hand). As you concentrated, I marveled at the perfection of your chubby fingers, so smooth and ever more proportionate, the nails traced with crimson from a lacquer swiped off as quickly as you apply it. You still haven't learned the particular leverage of a nail clipper, so I finally took control again, wishing we had more time but aware of the clock marking bedtime. When I finished you swirled away, the towel a royal cloack soon replaced by mis-matched pajamas, and I called your brother, assembly-line style, to the bathroom to bathe.

And you, you came upstairs talking ceaselessly about your game, so intent that my listening was inconsequential. You kept turning to the wrong room out of distraction, and I tugged you back with verbal nudges and gentle pushes until you had stripped, baring long muscles and a smooth belly; you mesmerize me with your unconscious Greek perfection. I had, again, to remind you to remove your dirty socks -- you kept talking all the while until you settled into the hot water and slowed, waiting for me to wash your hair, to a pace I could match. After rinsing I stepped out, trying to respect your privacy but relishing the openness of your innocence. Later, when I returned with a towel you rushed to me and I sat, wrapping you in a hug and expecting a cuddle like so many times before, but you threw your head back and laughed with your jack-o-lantern smile and exclaimed "I tooted!" before wriggling away to put on jammies and begin another story about your game. I perched on the edge of the tub wondering where my sweet boy had gone, knowing full well that you never did sit for long. Finally you slowed again, long enough for a quick kiss and an awkward hug before climbing into your loft where I could faintly hear you telling your stuffed friends the same things that had washed over me minutes before.

My Shame

2010-01-26T16:35:00.003-07:00

My children bicker

and talk back.

They yell and then,

when I am at wits end,

they melt into tantrums

and sulks.

I am ashamed to say,

they are merely reflections

of my worst self.

Sometimes

I get so angry

I lose control

shouting

until I am astonished

by the echoes of my voice

beating up the stairs.

My babies cower

on the landing

wide-eyed

and, for once, quiet

(meek even)

unsure of their sudden

monster-mother.

I stretch out the ache

where I stomped my feet

and swallow away a

ribbon of pain

in my throat

and after a shuddering breath

I bend sorrowfully down

to apologize.

They respond slowly -

but salve my heart

with delicate pats

and wet kisses

and enthusiastic promises

to do what I ask

immediately

next time.

And life goes on

but I am ashamed

and awed

by the gift

of their ceaseless love.

Putting on a different hat

2010-01-24T22:30:00.002-07:00

I went out for coffee tonight with my friend Leslie. She's a musician, and is taking a break from her day job to immerse herself in her passion. She was gracious enough to approach me as a creative person rather than the pragmatic mother-of-two personality I usually wear, and it was delightful to stretch my imagination. The walls of the coffeehouse were hung with bright, intriguing paintings, and L suggested we write responses to two of them. It was such a different activity for me. Recently I have silently mourned the loss of creativity in my life, fearing that it was dead, but I am reassured tonight that I suffer only atrophy and not true death. I get caught up in the cut-and-paste crafting of early childhood; I must reach beyond that and allow myself to play. Hopefully that will revive a part of me I thought lost. In the meantime, perhaps I can find a more interesting use for popsicle sticks and yarn fragments. We'll see.

snapshot

2009-12-21T12:28:00.004-07:00

I'm sitting in my kitchen/office, sniffling from a perpetual stuffy head. My butt is cold after throwing the ball for the dog outside for twenty minutes. I have Pandora playing a random mix of alt/indie rock kinda loud, and a long list of to-dos circling in my head. Violet and our neighbor girl are playing cheerleader upstairs, and a quilt I made! is finishing up in the dryer, ready for a photo shoot before becoming an everyday item on Violet's bed. Sam is getting muddy and learning a random collection of football rules from the neighborhood boys (and one intrepid girl). Will's off at a challenging job which leaves him tired but enthusiastic. Christmas presents are piling up under the tree and, not coincidentally, the guest room is incrementally cleaner. And I am content, although I need to go blow my nose, again.

Gratitudes

2009-11-29T16:08:00.002-07:00

I've been writing little "I'm grateful for . . " type messages on FaceBook this week, after being challenged to do so. Someone remarked that it gets harder over time; I found it got easier and easier. I have so much to be grateful for. Now that Thanksgiving is over I don't really want t give up this little habit because it is a good reminder to myself, especially when I'm blue, of how wonderful my life truly is. So, today's gratitude is for the women I am closest to in my life:

Stephanie, who teaches me how to be powerful and gentle at the same time.

MaryAnn, who consistently demonstrates the path to joy.

Julie, who proves to me that style and beauty are always within reach.

Anita, who helps me find the laughter in anything.

Mom, who taught me compassion and how to love unconditionally, no matter the risk.

Your examples help me become a better person. Thank you.

A sacred time

2009-11-25T21:14:00.003-07:00

This time of year is sacred to me, and not just because of my birthday. Like many others I appreciate the inward turning of the autumn, bringing our lives inside from the yard, and spending more quiet time together. I know many people are looking forward now to the holidays, especially Christmas, and I, too, enjoy the gaiety of family get-togethers and sharing presents. But Thanksgiving in particular is sacred to me specifically (or, as Sam more appropriately says, pacifically) because it is a secular holiday about only one thing -- gratitude. No giving or getting, no agendas. Simple, sweet gratitude. Counting my blessings, which are so abundant I can't contemplate them without tears of humility.

This year our family lost three wonderful women. I haven't written here in months because I can't put my feelings of loss and diminishment into words. But this week, I have felt them, and others, near, and today I am grateful for the chance I had to meet them. Today I celebrate the wonderful women who made my family with its long branches and strong roots and astonishing intertwining friendships, and I am grateful.

Eight inches

2009-11-16T09:00:00.002-07:00

of snow, people! It snowed all weekend, and this morning the air is crisp and chilly and the sun is reflecting so brightly we didn't need to to turn the lights on for breakfast this morning. I'm awfully glad to see the sun - we had a fair bit of morning gloom over the past couple of weeks, which makes the o-dark-hundred dog walk rather dreary. In fact, I couldn't force myself out of bed when the alarm went off at 6:20 this morning, possibly because the smoke detector chirped all night and worked it's way into my dreams and I didn't sleep all that well, but most likely because it was still dark and who wants to get up in the dark? The dog is staring pitifully at me now, hoping I'll take her out so she can smell every last inch of snow and hopefully find a buried squirrel. What is it with dogs and squirrels? Fortunately I did get all my bulbs planted in the last couple of weeks, so if all goes well in the spring I will have tulips and daffodils and irises and the whole front of the house will be a riot of daylily color. Of course, Violet was "helping" with the planting, so it may turn out far different than I imagine. Things involving our children usually do. I promise pictures, regardless.

Poetry from the back of a notebook

2009-10-15T12:57:00.004-06:00

I turned the radio up

until the music echoed

against the glass

shaking the reflections

of the stoplights all around.

I followed the thread

of melody

back through time.

In college there were

so many more

possibilities.

10,000 foot overview

2009-10-14T21:03:00.003-06:00

I'm brewing several posts, not sure what will percolate up first. Until then, here's a simple status update . . .

Sam has just plunged into the world of Harry Potter, and we now are on book 2 (Chamber of Secrets). I've ruled that he's not allowed to watch a movie until he's read/been read the corresponding book. I'm not sure how else to slow him down -- some of the later books have such intense stories that he's not yet ready for. Nonetheless, it's wonderful to see him entranced by a story. He's also enjoying school more than ever before, which is a relief and delight. He'll like it even more next year when Violet doesn't get to spend all day with me while he's with his peers. Sibling rivalry at its most subtle. He's also active in cub scouts (which he enjoys) and karate (which he doesn't like but I insist on).

Violet is deep into a Princess/Barbie (commercialized beyond anything I could have predicted. Did you know there are Barbie movies based on tales like "The Prince and the Pauper'? Holy cows.) phase, and often insists I call her Cinderella for hours at a time. I am surprised by how relieved I am when she joins Sam in a Star Wars jedi battle where she's shooting things and "killing them dead!" I guess it's all about balance, right? When she's not prancing around in nearly inappropriate clothing (do the designers at Disney even THINK about the fact that these expensive little fairy/princess costumes will be worn by four year olds? They don't need to show cleavage or bellies!) she is working hard to learn how to read, and is trying to convince Sam that she's ahead of him in the literacy race. Fine by me.

Will is currently under-employed, which I am not-so-secretly enjoying in that he's spending a lot of time playing with me and the kids and even gets so bored as to load and unload the dishwasher. He has found other ways to fill his time (I don't understand why he doesn't get bored playing playing computer solitaire), my favorite of which was teaching Sam yesterday how to split logs for the wood stove.

As for me, I'm 24 hours from finished with the elementary school Directory (a glorified phone book for school families). It's taken absurd amounts of my time, and more money than I dare admit to Will (but I NEED this $800 software to do the directory!) but I am quite proud of my accomplishment, and have learned a great deal about PhotoShop, InDesign, and Acrobat. I've told Will that it's "valuable skills" and "hard evidence" for when I go back to the real world, but in all honesty, it's just plain fun for me. I shall now turn to other projects like actually cleaning the house (oh glory what a mess it is right now) and perhaps even finishing the quilt I started for Violet two or three years ago. And maybe I'll even write a real essay one of these days. We shall see.

Chai, anyone?

2009-09-24T07:33:00.003-06:00

I'ts been so long since I wrote anything that I have been feeling a need to write something momentous and monumental. I don't, however, have time for grandiose screeds, so today I am just going to tell you something.

The smell of chai tea makes me think of band-aids. How weird is that?

Return of the King (and queen and prince and princess)

2009-08-17T19:08:00.002-06:00

We're home. We've even mostly unpacked. I've done loads and loads of laundry, and the house looks remarkably like it did before we left - which means stuff everywhere and no rhyme or reason to anything. The sameness is disorienting -- it's like summer didn't happen. But tomorrow I turn in all of Sam's school registration paperwork, and he starts second grade on Wednesday.

I have many thoughts from this summer, but my impressions are all inchoate. I am hoping that a week at home and some quiet time alone will help me distill my experiences. It's odd to feel so wordless. I keep stopping Will and asking for a hug; he is a touchstone that grounds me when I find myself turning and turning in the kitchen, unable to find a starting point to address the piles that surround me. Tonight he is watching the children while I work on the school directory. Perhaps I will feel more in control after I get that particular project running. We shall see.

Stinkin' bloodsuckers!

2009-08-06T19:50:00.003-06:00

And by that I mean ticks. We've got 'em, and they got both Teddy (the dog) and Will. Teddy was scarier -- she had some issues with her foreleg one day, was fine the next (after some aspirin) and the third day she woke up and pretty much couldn't walk. Will had to carry her down the stairs and we rushed to the vet. Fortunately they have a 10-minute test to check for the disease, and immediately prescribed us an antibiotic. I love modern medicine -- she was running again the very next morning. A few days later I noticed a target-shaped rash on Will's back, and after a couple visits to the doctor (they didn't see the rash the first time and I hounded him until he went back) he, too, is on antibiotics. The good news is, a three (for Will) and four (for Teddy) week course of drugs should completely cure both of them. Whew. Stupid ticks.

Not so little girl

2009-07-16T22:23:00.003-06:00

Yesterday we celebrated Violet's 4th birthday. Holy Cow! We had a Tinkerbell cupcake-cake, she got several princess-themed presents, and she proudly told Mimi and grandpa all about her new baby doll. I suppose she's meeting all the right milestones, but lately I look at and listen to her and I feel like I'm at the wrong end of a telescope. It's like she's a fully formed person, and I'm seeing a distant echo of her. I barely recognize her - she's taller and more delicate than ever before, and she uses words like preposterous and actually and definitely, even though she still can't even say them correctly. She's also working on her ability to bat her eyes and manipulate people (doesn't work on me so much) and how to drive her brother crazy with just a glance. She is everything I want to see in a young woman, but I can't quite handle it now. I am a very lucky person to have my Violet in my life. Many happy returns, little one!

Blame Canada

2009-07-13T12:33:00.002-06:00

It's July. That should mean I'm so hot I'm thinking about snow to cool down, watching the kids run through sprinklers and have water fights, hanging laundry on the line and having it crispy dry in minutes. Instead I'm sitting in front of a fire with hot tea, dodging cold gusts and sending rude thoughts north. I blame Canada for the weather. Apparently there's some sort of anomaly in the jet stream that is sending cooler-than-average weather and lots of rain to us in Vermont. I know I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, but when the bedroom is so cold at 8 a.m. in the middle of July that I don't want to get up to pee, something's messed up. Plus I'm paying bills this afternoon which isn't helping my mood. When I'm finished, though, I'm going to take my sleeping bag out to the hammock (mosquitoes be damned!) and read for an hour. Fortunately the kids seem okay with the weather and they are happily coloring the tennis court with the chalk I picked up at an art supply store yesterday.

The First Step

2009-07-12T12:15:00.003-06:00

is admitting you have a problem.

This is a picture of the various jars of jelly I have found around this house in the past couple of days. I knew about some, and found new caches yesterday. Now, I understand WHY my mother-in-law has so much jelly around: used to be she had two teenaged sons and a very particular husband to please, plus they had only a couple of weeks to accomplish what filled our whole summer, so shopping had to be very efficient. And she is a great bargain hunter. But still, I don't think we'll ever get through all this jelly, no matter how many summers we visit. Not to mention I'm still a little unsure about opening up a jar of 20 year old jam. I'm just sayin'.

Seven

2009-07-08T15:49:00.002-06:00

I'm astonished. Sam is seven. He's been seven for more than a month now. Seven years since I first met him, welcomed him with a sigh of relief that confounded Will. I look across these years and I can't remember so much of them; I am grateful for the pictures we took that captured who he was because he's so much more now, but I regret not memorizing every last moment, especially the trivial ones not worthy of a camera.

Sam is my salvation. Not on a personal level, but on a grander scale. He is, in every sense of the word, a child of September 11, 2001. He was conceived just before then, my pregnancy was clouded by those events, and that event will always be part of his culture. But my boy, my sweet child, carried me through. When I got scared or anxious about the world I was bringing him into, I promised myself that, in having a child right then, I was not only expressing my hope in the future, I was _making_ a future - one of love and family and goodness.

I remember the joy that filled me as I ran to his day care to see him, and the lightness that filled me when he lay (drooling!) in my arms. Now he challenges me and exasperates me and astonishes me, and I don't think I'm as good a parent as I could be, but I do know that my son is love and joy and heart, and I am grateful for the chance to know him.

Homesick

2009-07-08T11:21:00.002-06:00

I'm homesick. Not a lot, but I'm aching for the familiarity and ease of our home in Colorado. Perhaps it's the weather - we've had only a few whole days without rain, and I don't think any of those happened while we've had guests. We have had lovely visits with a varied bunch of people, and I have very much enjoyed cooking for them (don't I always?!) but I miss the ease of having every spice I need, neatly laid out and alphabetized (it's not OCD, just good planning, really!). I miss having a clothes dryer, even if it's just a short line in the back yard on which things dry to a crisp in hours instead of days. More than anything I miss how easy life at home is. Yes, my house gets dirty, but it's not from spiders who rebuild in fifteen minutes webs that I just swept away. Going to the grocery store is not a major undertaking that takes me away from home for 3+ hours, including nearly an hour of driving. And there are so many things to do that even a week of rain would be a welcome change of pace. Right now I'm feeling a little waterlogged.

I feel so lame for whining - I mean, who gets to go away for a summer anymore? And it is a great opportunity for our family. but we don't get out a lot (Will's focus is, as always, work) and rather than the chance for us to go out and do all sorts of neat things, this is a lot like relocating our regular life to the other side of the country, but more rustic, and with a lot more bugs.

Speaking of which, can anyone recommend a good book for identifying spiders?

Reprieve

2009-07-04T16:19:00.010-06:00

We were expecting our next guests - a family of seven - yesterday, but they won't be coming until Monday. I am surprised by how relieved I am. I love having people here, but we've had two days of hanging out with no projects planned (since we anticipated company) and it's been nice to just sit. Today I did get all the wash done, beds remade, and guest spaces swept, but at a leisurely pace and with a few breaks to cuddle with Will.

Below are a couple pictures from the last few days with our friends the McGourtys (from Denver) and my Aunt Peg and some friends she brought. We all had a great visit - and here's proof!

Progress report

2009-06-30T10:11:00.014-06:00

We've been here three weeks today. I can hardly believe how much time has passed. We've been in constant motion - cleaning, repairing, preparing for guests. In the evening I fall into bed and sleep so deeply I am surprised by the morning. The kids have settled in, and despite a couple comments by Sam about how he wished we didn't work so much, they have for the most part figured out how to entertain themselves even without TV or computer time.

I've come to realize how little I helped on our last two visits (understandable, given the kid-situation) but we've accomplished so much more this time around that I'm hoping there will be even less work next visit. The house was in pretty good shape when we arrived -- no leaks, which meant we didn't have to clean up the aftermath (a constant for some twenty or more years before Will fixed the roof in 2007) and the critters hadn't gotten into anything we use regularly. After the initial basic cleaning we extended our reach all the way to the end of the assembly hall, making the loft at the end accessible and the kids have spent hours up there, staircase raised (via pulley and rope) playing pirates. We've also focused on making the guest quarters nicer - a task Will initially dismissed as less important, but he now seems to understand its importance. So, to give you an idea of why I've been absent, I have some before-and-after photos of projects completed in the past three weeks.

1. Nell's room.

This is our primary guest room. It has a low ceiling and only a double bed, but it's cozy.

2. The room above the shop

We have a lot of guests coming this year, in groups of four and five. Because of that we needed a second place to put a family. Many years ago, Will's grandmother's older brother Lou (it's complicated) built a sturdy two-story cinder-block building which he stayed in during the summer. Over time the downstairs, which may or may not have originally been a tool shop, filled with stuff - hardware and tools, life preservers, car parts, boat bits, lanterns, lots and lots of rope, bits of wood too small to use and too big to throw away. It was a mess until '07 when Will organized it and cleared out at least two trucks full of garbage we took to the dump. At the same time the upstairs also had filled with leftover stuff - falling apart dressers, unused mattresses and pillows, an old fold-out couch, sheets of plywood, and, of course, varmints. At one point the chimney fell off due to snow and rot and was eventually put back up, but not before snow and rain had blown in and covered everything and rotted out part of the floor. Needless to say, it was a mess. But it is a good solid room that can hold four beds and had the potential to be a guest room. Here's what we did:

I did the cleaning, Will did the wiring and heavy lifting and making new platforms for the beds. It actually turned out pretty nice, after we took all the mildew-and-mouse covered mattresses to the dump. I still want to get replacement twin beds for the 30" camp beds that are there, but I figure we'll save some money by gradually accumulating bed frames/box springs/mattresses from craig's list.

Will also fixed the foundation of Nell's porch, and we've done lots of landscaping (cutting hedges, trimming trees, mowing/dethatching lawns) replaced rotting ceiling panels in Nell's kitchen, replaced the hot water heater at Nell's, and we went bowling one night. See, it's not ALL work.

And now it's time to go get brekfast ready for 13 people. That part I love. More soon.

The Trip Out

2009-06-19T11:28:00.007-06:00

I am pleased to say that the trip across country went well. Quite well, actually. I dreaded the idea of it -- four people plus dog in the cab of a pickup truck (pulling a trailer with another vehicle on in) for three days and nights, pushing through the night and resting only briefly one night with my step-grandma. Fortunately my fears were unfounded, for many reasons. Will is good at long-distance driving, and prefers being behind the wheel, so my anxiety about driving with the trailer was unnecessary. In fact I did little driving and the rig handled quite well, so even when I did drive it was without problems. The dog settled in happily, alternately sitting on the floor and on the seat, occasionally resting her head on a child's leg and in turn serving as a pillow for a tired kid. Will was pleased with my selection of audiobooks and we happily listened together while the kids, overjoyed at the very unusual prospect of unlimited movie watching, put their headsets on and fell mesmerized by the DVD player.

That's not to say we didn't have a few minor issues. Before we even got out of Colorado the door on the Land Rover we were hauling popped open and we had to pull over. Will fixed that and we all had potty breaks, the dog cheerfully obeying my request that she stay away from the highway, and I enjoyed a sense of familial purpose and unity that our daily lives rarely afford. I even took a picture of a cactus flower growing beside the highway.

Somewhere in Nebraska we ran out of gas -- the warning light didn't come on and we were about a mile short of an exit. Fortunately we had both a bicycle and a gas can readily available, so Will rode to the nearest gas station and returned not much later. We drove through the night to Chicago (a move I think we're both getting too old for) and were fortunate to have breakfast

with our friends Trish and Scott, then on toward Cleveland, only to run out of gas, again! This time it was too far to bike, so we called the auto club (Better World Club - even better than AAA) and they brought us five gallons of gas. Finally, to Granny Phyllis' house where we were met with hugs, birthday presents for the kids, hot stew, baths, and beds. We all collapsed, tired from two days of car-sleep. When we awoke, Phyllis had made us a breakfast feast, and both children were delighted to play with their gifts. Soon we were on our way to NY, where we were to drop off the Land Rover.

Thank goodness for my "smart" phone, because I was able to update Facebook and, more

importantly, get maps to the Land Rover destination. After unloading and seeing the delighted owner drive his new toy around, we stumbled back into the car, relieved to be almost done with the journey. We arrived at Dingley Dell in the dark, unloaded some bags by flashlight (we'd forgotten to get the electricity turned on), and headed off to a nearby motel to get some rest. Unfortunately, both places on the island have been shuttered, and at midnight I told Will to turn around; we slept in our sleeping bags on the beds we had cleared.

Monday morning we hung blankets to air out and once again hopped in the truck, this time to visit some long-lost Canadian cousins of the Bakers, who had invited us up for a mini-reuni

on three weeks after a grand affair which we missed. It was great fun to meet everyone and they were lovely hosts, even down to finding us dog-friendly lodging with a friend. After another wonderful shower and sleep in a real bed, we returned to the States to begin the task of opening up The Camp.

Slightly disoriented

2009-06-19T06:29:00.006-06:00

I've attempted to start this post several times, but can't seem to find my voice. I think it comes from a low-grade sense of disorientation. We're all unpacked, but I haven't yet found places for everything, and we keep shifting piles of stuff from spot to spot, not quite sure where it should go. Part of that comes from how much stuff already is here - cabinets, drawers, boxes, trunks are all full of bits and pieces, most of which makes little sense to keep as far as I can tell, but this is not my family place and I don't have the same attachments. Will and I cleaned before we started in on projects, and in doing the assembly hall we even opened up the long bench seat and emptied it out. We found wooden shoes, ancient ice skates, a moldy backpack from brother Goff's college days, piles of dirt and mouse droppings, mildewed computer punch cards, cap guns from thirty five years ago, swim fins stiffened by time and weather, and any matter of other stuff. We removed two barrels full of trash, and still had plenty to put back. I also sorted through the four overflowing desk drawers, and after throwing away multitudinous tourist flyers dating back to 1975 (!) and other bits and ends, two drawers were empty. I asked Will about the family's penchant for keeping everything, and he said "it's history!" That's true, but I do wish this history included less vermin poop.

Hello out there!

2009-06-15T11:59:00.002-06:00

We're here and mostly settled in, striving to get some basic maintenance chores done before guests being arriving. The big news -- we finally have a modem/internet connection! I'll do more of a post tonight (I hope) but wanted to let you know that we haven't completely fallen off the face of the planet.

A snippet

2009-06-03T18:08:00.002-06:00

Found this while going through papers today. Dates back to my time in DC.

I am become

a creature of the city

savvy in sharp corners

and fearful smiles.

Late at night I huddle

from oasis

to oasis

of street light

lest I sink

into a puddle of statistics

of rape and battery.

I scurry to the sanctuary

of my locks

and bolts.

Home in the city.

My new favorite thing

2009-06-02T20:30:00.003-06:00

As I was cleaning out one the bathroom cabinets yesterday afternoon I discovered a collection of hotel freebies I had stuffed in the back and forgotten about. Most went directly into the garbage or recycling, along with an embarrassing amount of expired medicines, empty shampoo bottles (I consolidated all the too-much-to-throw-away-but-I'm-bored-and-ready-for-new-stuff bottles), used q-tips (ick!), and random torn washcloths. One thing, though, caught my attention. You see, we have a skylight in our bedroom. I love it. From my bed I can watch storms pass, admire the stars, glory in the full moon, and wake to the sun. It's the last part that's currently a problem. As summer approaches, even though I have turned off the alarm clock and learned to ignore the excited whimpering of the morning dog, I cannot ignore the sun. It beams down on me, more intense than any other time of day. It creeps into my consciousness, between my lids, and forces me up at 6, then 5:45, then 5:30 in the morning. All of which would be fine if I didn't stay up until 12:30, but I do, and it isn't. So when I found the unused cheapo hotel eyemask in my hands, I decided to try it. I've always scoffed, thinking it looked silly and would be uncomfortable. But if it blocks the morning sun and Will's late night bedside lamp, it may be worth looking silly and feeling a little odd. And when I woke at 7:30 this morning, I rose from my bed a convert. All praise my new favorite thing - the eye mask.

Motivate me?

2009-06-01T11:36:00.004-06:00

Four days. I have four days to clean the house and pack before leaving for 10 weeks. At this point, I'm spending a lot of time sitting at my computer reading other people's blogs. I need motivation. Plus, now that I _have_ to clean, I am seeing SOOOO much more gradoo (that's a technical term) on everything than I saw before. It's hopeless. Will's at Home Depot; I need to call him and ask him to pick up some grease remover for the tops of the kitchen lights. The good news is, I'm three-and-a-half hours into a book on tape (am listening to Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman) and I don't want to stop. Perhaps that should be my motivation -- I can only listen when cleaning. Aha! I'll tell you more after I tackle the shower. And the kitchen lights. And Violet's closet. And the laundry. And . . .

Trumped

2009-05-28T14:00:00.005-06:00

Yesterday I wrote a quick post about my home improvement efforts. Today I get to show you how my beloved husband trumps all my efforts.

Our home when we bought it:

And as of ten minutes ago:

Note the new railings (not quite finished -- we have to paint them) and this weeks' work -- the new retaining wall (one week! It took me about the same amount of time to strip the fireplace).

Here's a close-up of the retaining wall (for you, Mom!)

I'll take a little credit in the fall, after I get some plants in and soften the lines a little, plus adding color. But my beloved definitely trumps me on the home improvement. Fortunately, I can cook, so I win indoors.

A Sense of Accomplishment

2009-05-27T17:16:00.007-06:00

I think that when I get the blues, I should start a project. There's something about accomplishing a goal (assuming I actually finish it, which is not usually the case) that makes me feel so much better. This month, amid the hullaballoo about going to Vermont, I decided to strip the paint off the bricks around the fireplace.

Completely silly, but I have to say, now that I am finished, I feel good every time I look at the living room. It's not really finished -- I do have some ideas of ways to make the brick more interesting -- but for now, I'm pleased.

On the road again

2009-05-19T11:12:00.003-06:00

After far too many miles in the car, I finally got a tune-up for my bicycle and Sam's and we are once again able to ride to school and back most every day. It's interesting to note how we've changed in one season -- where a few months ago Sam stretched to his tippy toes to touch the ground while sitting on his bike, he now stands confidently flat-footed. I, on the other hand, have lost a lot of conditioning, and am struggling to keep up with my young speed demon. Fortunately I have gears, which help greatly when Sam surges ahead through traffic. Drivers around our school are, for the most part, considerate and aware. Nonetheless, having Sam twenty feet away on a busy street makes me feel helpless -- I can't just reach out and grab him back if he makes a mistake, and the consequences are so dire. Every ride is a study in the loneliness of parenting; my child looks only forward, rejoicing in his freedom and growing abilities while I concentrate on invisibly keeping him safe, glad of his pleasure but painfully aware of the empty space in my arms which used to be enough for him.

Countdown!

2009-05-18T12:24:00.002-06:00

We leave for VT in just under three weeks. I finally sat down this weekend and started the lists -- "before we go", "on the way", "things to take". I'm getting anxious, largely because we have plans pretty much every day before we leave, and twice on weekends. I don't know how we're going to get it all in. The funny thing is, the date we chose is completely arbitrary, so I shouldn't be hurried or worried. But this time we're all driving (including the dog), squeezed together for some indeterminate time (Will says three and a half days, I'd rather take six) in the cab of the big gray truck. I don't look forward to the experience. Perhaps it will be fun, but I'm imagining it will be Will's Incredible Journey with Three Whiny People. We'll see. I'm downloading TV shows to my iPod like crazy, and acquiring audio books for Will. I'll make sure to take my camera so we can log (and blog) the trip. I'll try to make it funny. Hope to see you there!

Oeuf

2009-05-16T14:55:00.008-06:00

Making breakfast the other morning I apparently dripped some egg white and set a mug in the unseen mess. During the course of the day it dried, and when I later attempted to clean the kitchen I had to wrench the mug off the counter. As I turned it over to drop it in the dishwasher, my thumb slid across the egg white encrusted bottom, and zowie! The egg white was thin and razor sharp, and sliced me open. After I put a bandage on I went to Will for comfort; he just laughed at me. "Really? An egg white? Who gets cut by an egg white?"

I think I should get an award for the stupidest. injury. ever.

Junior partner

2009-05-12T07:07:00.005-06:00

My son walked the dog with me this morning. He is a joyful person, and while the good cheer did not entirely transfer to me, I certainly forgot the cold that is nesting in my throat. In the past he has had trouble keeping up with us, but today he raced ahead, kicking up clouds of dandelion fluff, finding random sidewalk treasures to share, and tossing his head back so his laughter rose through the trees. In our little private time together we sniffed lilacs and he told me how nice it is to have me all to himself. Of course, he is still a boy, and nothing delighted him more than running ahead of me and then turning around to announce, loudly, that he just farted, burped, or both.

It's Official

2009-05-10T20:48:00.001-06:00

We're off to Vermont on June 5th. We should be there by June 9th, and ready to receive visitors not long afterward. Please let us know if you're planning on joining us for any time and we'll make the beds up.

A little story

2009-05-10T20:37:00.002-06:00

My husband tells a story about a junk yard which was protected by two big, fierce dogs. When the yard was open, the dogs contented themselves with occasional menacing grimaces, but as soon as the gates were locked they became hell hounds, ready to protect the junk to their utmost. Well, one Monday the yard owner noticed that some of his property was missing (I've always wondered how junk yard owners keep track of their inventory. But that's another thought balloon), despite his vicious guards. This went on for several weeks. Finally the owner decided to visit over the weekend. When he arrived and made some noise, he was astonished to see his pooches trot cheerfully out, ready to greet their visitor. It turns out that the dogs were conditioned to be nice to visitors during business hours, and turn on the mean only after the day was over. The thieves had figured this out, and had happily taken advantage of the situation.

All of this is a round about explanation for why I was up at 6:30 a.m. on a misty moisty Mother's Day Sunday. Thanks, dog! Other than being awakened before the crack of dawn, I had a lovely day with my mom (I love you, Mom!), Dad, kids, and honey. I hope you also had a peaceful, love filled day.

Young Scientists. Sort of.

2009-05-05T20:29:00.002-06:00

My children are fond of experiments. At the ages of six and three, however, they are somewhat ignorant of the scientific process. You know -- think up a hypothesis, develop an experiment to test that hypothesis, and use the results of the experiment to determine the validity of the hypothesis. Instead, they mix things and leave them to sit for an indeterminate time. Thus, in various locations around my house, I have: plastic cups with frothy mixtures of toothpaste, shampoo, and toilet paper; spare spice jars with sedimentary layers of cinnamon, parsley, peppercorns, and, maybe, mustard, all in water; and grass, mud, unknown substances scraped off the sidewalk, and caulk, again in a watery base. I love their desire to experiment but I think, perhaps, I need to get each child a lab book and teach them the basics of lab work. Of course, under the current system the kids forget about their experiments after a day or two and I can discreetly throw the entire container away.

The Politics of Remembrance

2009-04-22T22:06:00.006-06:00

I joined Facebook a couple months ago. It's been quite lovely, catching up with people with whom I lost contact as much as twenty years ago, and keeping a near-daily eye on friends I don't call as often as I should. In turn I can apprise the world of my status -- although my stay-at-home life is dull enough that I can't really justify frequent updates. The whole affair is simple and casual; it's an online cocktail party, no real intimacies required.

That is why I'm surprised by how self-conscious I am of each individual action online. People are so quick to count themselves as an online friend, but with none of the responsibilities I associate with friendship. There are even contests to see who can have the most Facebook friends. Fuddy-duddy that I am, I am more selective. People friend me, and I hesitate to include them. What if I'm having a bad day? If they are part of my circle, do I feel comfortable including them in venting my frustration? What is the purpose of including them, if I don't feel any attachment? And yet . . .

Not long after I joined FB (so hip using the initials!) I was friended by the man I dated through college. In counting all my loves, outside of my marriage that one was the most significant. I had occasionally Googled him, wondering where his life had gone after I left (wondering, really, if his life had changed as radically without me as mine had without him), but had gotten only glimpses of people who might be him -- a comment by a guy with a similar name on a photography forum, a listing on LinkedIn. Then suddenly he was there, asking to be my friend. He included no greeting. It was like a wave across a crowded room to someone you kind of know, but with whom you aren't really connected. Impersonal. Cheerful. Almost, well, obligatory. "Hey, remember me? We went to college together." There was no hint of the three years we spent together: sunrises watched and concerts attended, fights over politics and religion, creative late-night cooking, shared intimacies and explorations across several countries.

I accepted his friend request immediately. I eagerly read his now-open profile, admiring his beautiful children (they could have been mine!), unsurprised at his career (I helped him get started), mildy curious about his wife (isn't that the woman he once described to me as a "crazy stalker"?). I then spent the following week dizzy with memories and regrets, relief and confusion. Underlying it all was the question of why he had reached out. I found I was self-conscious - exaggerating each update for effect, not sure what to say in front of such an audience. Finally I asked, got a bland answer, and have pretended to ignore his presence since then. But I still know he's there, and I self-edit because of it.

On the other side, there are marvelous people out there with whom I would love to reconnect, but I hesitate, unsure if they would remember me. How devastating - to have someone I admired so, who figured so strongly in my life, not know who I am. Haven't books been written about this very subject?

So, I lurk. I watch, and wonder, and think about these people I know, and am careful about what I say in this strangely public private forum. I, who am so very bad at politics, am learning.

Easter (Dust) Bunnies

2009-04-13T13:25:00.002-06:00

I hosted an Easter egg hunt for the kids on our block yesterday. When I originally invited the neighbors over, several of us moms were standing in our front yards turning to face the spring sun, twisting like sunflowers to catch the warmth on our faces. I envisioned the kids racing across three or four yards, searching under bushes, in flower beds, and on top of porch railings to find eggs cleverly hidden while their families breakfasted. Instead, the forecast called for chill winds and rain, and we moved the festivities inside.

This, of course, meant I had to clean the house so the adults could stand around guarding their coffee cups while children zipped by in a frenzy intermittently fueled by sugar in various forms. And on Saturday, as I marshalled my cleaning troops, I came to the most unfortunate of realizations: when hiding Easter eggs, one has to clean the spots usually hidden. So, for Easter, I replaced all my dust bunnies with candy-filled eggs. And after having ten kids running madly around the house is, again, a comfortable mess. But at least it's still clean under my couch.

Wake-up call

2009-04-07T16:18:00.006-06:00

My little girl wandered into our room at 4:30 this morning to use the bathroom. All went well until she discovered the toilet paper was not in its usual place (the holder broke and Dad has yet to fix it). So at about 4:35, she started crying at me, "Momma, I can't find the toilet PAP-ER!"

Alarmed out of a confusing dream into an even stranger reality, I attempted to address the situation without actually rising. From underneath my pillow I first suggested she look on the windowsill. That was, loudly, declared an unacceptable response.

I suggested she check the floor. That, even more loudly, also was not acceptable.

Still clinging to the absurd notion of bedrest at 4:40 in the morning, I, also rather loudly, suggested she use tissues from the two boxes on the back of the toilet.

Will made some noise about Violet needing to quiet down.

Violet responded to us both by going into full-on, fire-truck quality, emergency wailing.

I did not handle the emergency well.

I dramatically threw the covers back, stormed into the bathroom, flipped on the light (I would have done so with flair, if light switches were only less pedestrian), grabbed the toilet paper from it's perch next to the tissues, and forced it into her hands with a less-than-polite comment. Then I flounced back to bed (turning the boring old lights off on the way) and buried myself under the covers. Violet silently wiped and pulled her jammies back on, then lay on the floor on my side of the bed and quietly cried the kind of intermittent, hurt tears she will someday shed by herself in a locked bathroom.

I asked Will to (gently) put her back in her bed. Then I proceeded to dramatically, angrily, not sleep for another fifteen minutes. Finally I got up, checked on Sam, and crawled into bed with V, who cheerfully turned and gave me a big hug before (triumphantly?) turning over and going back to sleep.

As a result of this early-morning tableau I am tired and cranky, and fairly certain that Violet won. Not just because of that hug in the dark, but because, when I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning and went to the bathroom, I couldn't find the toilet paper.

Vegetable love

2009-03-29T23:00:00.002-06:00

I love having cut flowers in my home. There is a Navajo saying, "I walk in beauty", and having fresh flowers in my home reminds me that beauty truly is all around me. Usually I buy my own flowers at the grocery store, but I am occasionally graced with a bouquet by my husband. Last week he brought home a wonderful spray of yellow orchids which looked like Victorian dresses blowing on a clothesline.

My favorite bouquet from him, however, had no flowers. I don't remember the occasion, but I treasure the memory of him presenting me with an artful arrangement of vegetables. It sounds odd -- well, it was odd -- but it was lovely. Red onions mixed with tall white leeks, and they were off set by a couple of long-stemmed, purple-edged artichokes. Instead of baby's breath I received a spray of broccoli. It even smelled good in a hearty, savory way. It took me several days before I took the whole thing apart and used its beauty in a whole new way -- supper.

Making People Happy

2009-03-29T22:50:00.005-06:00

I spend a lot of my time trying to make the people around me happy, but tonight I have been unsuccessful. I should go to bed and get a fresh start tomorrow, but I don't know that I could sleep through the dark noises in my head.

For me, one of the hardest parts of parenting is the knowledge that a failure on my part could have disastrous consequences for my children. That, combined with a near-constant sense that I am doing things wrong, leaves me spinning in circles, trying to both please and discipline, constrain and encourage my children. Sometimes I wonder if as adults they'll use their hindsight to quietly diagnose me with bi-polar disorder.

I should be making dinner

2009-03-25T17:57:00.003-06:00

but I haven't been to the grocery store in five days, and I don't know how to make dinner with what I have left in the fridge and cupboards. I've been trying (as have we all) to save money, and one way was to use some of the bounty from my cabinets. We've made it a couple of weeks that way, but unfortunately, that now means creating dinner using ingredients like: two limp refrigerator carrots, cheddar cheese sticks, a can of water chestnuts, three unopened jars of curry powder, Cheetos, a can of baked beans, and random segments of deep-frozen lamb that would take hours to defrost.

I need to pitch a new reality TV show to some network. I'd call it "What's for Dinner?" and send a celebrity chef into a randomly chosen home, giving him or her 45 minutes to create a nutritious, balanced, tasty meal with whatever is in the cupboards/freezer/fridge of the house in question, and regardless of the state of the kitchen (What? You have to work around dirty dishes in the sink? There are no sharp knives? Welcome to the REAL world). It'd be particularly fun (challenging) to send gourmet chefs into households in food desert areas (under-priviledged neighborhoods where food is only available from convenience stores or big-box stores) and see what they can do. All recipes would then be published for real families to use.

Ultimately, a second review of the deep freeze turned up some hamburger, which, when combined with the tortilla chip crumbs from the back of the pantry, chopped up cheese sticks, slightly fermented salsa (vegetables -- with a kick!) and some canned (white northern) beans should be able to pass as nachos. Dinner, anyone?

Autodidact

2009-03-25T16:22:00.007-06:00

Violet desperately wants to do everything her big brother does, and he currently is focused (rather, is being reluctantly forced by us and his teacher to focus) on reading and writing. She's watched and listened, and the other day presented me with a picture on which she wrote her name and Sam's (his is backwards). I get no credit, but I sure do take pride in my little self-taught child.

I'm a morning person

2009-03-18T08:57:00.002-06:00

Much to my night-owl husband's dismay, I'm a morning person. And not just a morning person -- I like to be up when everyone else is sleeping. There's something about a sleeping house that is remarkably peaceful. Since getting the alarm clock, er, dog, I've expanded to enjoying a sleeping city. This morning, no thanks to the time change, we walked again in the dark. At long last we were accompanied by the scolding of robins and crows who were unaccustomed to our company. I was delighted; robins are the first sign of spring, and their song cheers me like nothing else. In addition, we witnessed garbage trucks trolling the alleys -- a sight that thrills me now that I have children who get excited by heavy machinery -- and groggy bathrobe-clad people taking the recycling bins to the curb. My personal symphony also included the rumble of freight trains announcing in long wails their arrival and departure through the rail yard. Sometimes I am privileged to hear the roar of lions or trumpeting of elephants from the zoo near our home. Today I did not, but as soon as I returned home I was treated to the cacophany of a waking family.

Mini-mirror

2009-03-14T11:51:00.010-06:00

I never imagined what spending my days with a three year old would be like, let alone one who is dangerously observant. I love Violet's company, but every once in a while she does something I hate: she behaves like me. Sam did this too -- "Mommy, if you don't do this, then you will be in time out!" but from him it was cute and obvious. Violet is more subtle. I recently have been hugely frustrated with the molasses-in-January-like response to morning promptings to get up, dressed, fed, and out the door. My (unfortunate) response has been to get much louder (and, dare I say it? meaner) about the whole thing. Lo-and-behold! Violet has recently been expressing her anger by yelling. Her childish temper tantrums have evolved into more grown-up temper tantrums. Her play also mirrors my behavior. She has found a compact mirror and uses it as a telephone while she "works" around the house on her (toy) computer or, even worse, she feels the need to clean the floors and has even put off going somewhere or doing something with me because she needs to finish cleaning. What am I teaching this child?

Complicating matters is my desire that both children see past the very 1950s life we have right now (Dad working, Mom cooking, cleaning, and caring for the family) to understand that all household jobs can be done by everyone in the family regardless of gender. I save basic repairs (tightening loose screws on chairs, minor plumbing, fixing broken toys) for myself to do in front of the kids, and I believe everyone in our family needs to learn the basics of "homemaking". Sam is well on his way with cooking; he makes our scrambled eggs many mornings, both kids are great help with baking projects, and both have chores. Will obliges when I insist that he clear his own plate and occasionally vacuum, do dishes, and help fold laundry. Yet I won't let Violet help clean the toilets. So far I have put her off with explanations of the danger of the chemicals I am using, but really it's the fact that I don't want her to grow up feeling that it's a GIRLS job.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the kids a disservice by staying home with them. They do get healthy meals and have incredible opportunities (especially summers in Vermont and whole weeks at my family cabin) and I get to spend a great deal of time with them. But they don't always appreciate what, and who, they do have. Perhaps I would make better use of my time with them if I had less of it, instead of wandering the internet aimlessly while they make mud pies in the back yard. Plus, I could afford a maid . . .

There's no real way to know if we're on the right path. In the meantime, I do occasionally get a good laugh out of my mini-mirror. This morning as we got dressed, Violet came into my bathroom with a light-blue oval block. She raised her left arm, and sliding the block up and down her armpit, earnestly told me that it was, "What do you call it, Mommy? Deodorant for tree-years old". She doesn't miss a thing. Except the other armpit.

Morning commute

2009-03-12T22:44:00.004-06:00

I quit my job two years ago this month. I suppose it's an odd anniversary to celebrate, but, like most anniversaries, it marks a life-changing event. Actuarial tables indicate that marriage, moving, and job changes are the most stressful things in American life, and I can believe it. I also believe that it has taken me this long, and may take a little longer, to undo some of the mind-pretzels I bent at the end of my career. I am finally able to acknowledge how unpleasant I was at the end -- how my bitterness must have affected those around me. And I now allow myself to take pride in how hard I worked, and even believe that it made a difference. I may not have been terribly effective at single-handedly fixing everything I touched, but I learned a tremendous amount -- and not just accounting! That said, I'm not yet ready to return to that world. I'm afraid to try. I'm afraid that I will make the same mistakes, and bumble through, and lose confidence, and nearly break myself again.

All this went through my head this morning as I drove away from a sleeping family in the pre-dawn light. I met my dearest friends downtown for breakfast, and to get there I had to join the worker-bee commute. Few people in this world have such a lovely morning drive. I faced west, the sun behind me outlining eastern clouds in pink and orange and shades of gray that are too beautiful for a name. Before me lay drifts of mountains fading into banks of gentle morning clouds, the tableau rendered in black and white by winter's hand. Standing tall -- behind the leafless branches arching above, but proud before the mountains -- were skyscrapers made of dawn light, sparkling in the rising sun. And above, a sleepy yellow moon drifted downward, relieved of duty by Apollo.

This view was once familiar to me. I never took it for granted, but my morning commute now involves sweat pants and a lone set of stairs. Dog walks have reopened my eyes to the dawn, but I face east, and trade the mountains for the sun.

So today, I cracked open my window and breathed deeply until my nose chilled, and then watched the dance around me of cars and people and bustling hurry-hurry between trains and buses, weaving cyclists and cell phones into the tapestry of a city whose walls rose above me and blocked out the grandeur of both mountains and sunlight. And I missed it, the sense of purpose; the heads-down idea that if you just get there a little faster something will change and you will have made a difference. I missed it for a little while, and then I had breakfast, and came home, and quietly, slowly, without rules or deadlines, crossed a few things off my list before picking Violet up from school. And I decided that my fear, for now, is okay. I don't need to join the dance yet. And when I do, I will remember to look up to the sky and the mountains, even if it means bumbling some of the steps.

Another Little Poem

2009-03-11T21:05:00.007-06:00

My apologies to those who read real poetry, but sometimes I can't help myself.

March Moon

tonight the moon shone

so bright

her seas were no longer visible.

The street lights,

outdone,

hung their heads

and stared sullenly down.

In the spaces

between their yellow glares

I was lighted all in silver

and for a few steps

felt ethereal

like a fairy

from my childhood dreams.

A snippet of poetry

2009-03-10T11:38:00.012-06:00

I sometimes jot down poems on whatever pad of paper is handy, and then lose them in the mix. Here's one I found today.

At Night

You sleep with such abandon!

I am amazed by your travels

across blanket-hills

and rivers of sheets.

I find you twisting and turning

within the canyon walls of your bed frame

sprawled across mountains of friends

who watch over you.

I marvel at your nocturnal journeys

wondering what strange dream countries

this child -- who never leaves my embrace --

visits alone.

Go fly a kite

2009-03-09T11:37:00.004-06:00

What is it about flying a a kite that is so enchanting? The kids and I went to the mountains this weekend to hang out with my folks. We originally had planned to go skiing again, but glorious weather does not make for glorious skiing, so instead we found activities to do near home, one of which was pulling out a kite from the back of the toy cabinet. For once the day had just the right amount of wind, and the kite jumped and pulled immediately into the air, riding the breeze before an advancing snow storm. This kite is simple and easy -- a multi-colored parafoil with twenty-foot streamers in every color behind it. Sam soon had it flying high, looping and dodging with each shifting gust. Everyone in the park stopped and watched: toddlers pointed and practiced saying "kite"; teenagers in angst looked up and smiled; and passersby stopped to ask where they, too, could purchase a kite. I sat on the brown grass singing "Let's Go Fly A Kite" to Violet while Sam raced around, letting out ever more string, glorying in having "the highest kite in the world!" Finally, when it was so high we could barely see it, the wind began slowing, and I could see sheets of snow marching down the valley, bringing winter back. I got the task of reeling our bird back in, with Sam offering encouragements like "We're doing a great job. See, Mom, this doesn't take too long!" When, at last, we were back on earth, we strolled between snow flakes back to the house where hot chocolate waited.

A Quiet Little Rant

2009-03-02T20:37:00.004-07:00

I used to fill my days with noise -- music, talk, windows open to the world. For the past few weeks, though, I've been choosing not to turn on the radio in the car, or while folding laundry in an empty house, or in the morning in the few minutes I have to catch the news before the whirl of children and dog and husband and breakfast and lunches to pack and so many other things begin to twist around me. I am the eye of my family storm.

In seeking to create a quiet space around me, I feel increasingly assaulted by the piped in noise in every public space I come to. I'm sure we've all heard the rants against blaring TVs in airports and at gas stations. But what about restaurants, grocery stores, telephones on hold, and other places? I took the kids to a movie last Saturday at a recently built outdoor shopping complex, and was annoyed by the strategically placed speakers along the street, pumping some generic rhythmic music toward my ankles, as if my feet could be hustled along by the latest pop star. It seems not even the sidewalk is safe anymore. Don't get me wrong -- I love my iPod with an immoral love, and having my personal tunes with me has been a salvation on more than one occasion. But in those circumstances I am in charge of the genre, volume, and company with whom I share said music. And I am amazed, sometimes, how turning a noise source off -- even sweet classical music -- can bring a sense of relief, as if the music has been literally pressing uncomfortably against me.

I understand the marketing behind a fast beat, or the idea that people feel more festive in a musical atmosphere. But there are times when all it does is jangle the nerves and raise the volume. Attending a recent birthday celebration at a restaurant, I asked the staff to lower the music. No one else in my party could hear the drum beat that caught my attention, but, particularly since it was jazz and not rhythmic, it played into the frantic interactions at the table. Once off, everyone slowed down, and throughout the restaurant people quieted and eased back a little in their chairs.

As an armchair anthropologist, I wondered how many of our daily interactions would ease a little if we didn't have the added element of someone else's idea of tunes. My three-year-old daughter understands this -- when she's grumpy, she orders me to turn off the radio. The quiet soothes her, and often I, too, find myself winding down to the sweet sound of nothing.

What if . . .

2009-03-01T15:25:00.003-07:00

Not sure why, but I am consumed with nostalgia and "what ifs" right now. A strange convergence of college-era music rolling through iTunes, contacts by numerous past-people on Facebook, and a travel twitch has me meandering through memory gardens this month. Perhaps some of it is the fact that I don't feel anchored in my current life. Nothing around me is what I imagined. I'm not even sure I imagined this far. The other day I was pulling laundry out of the washer and the sound of pebbles, coins, and pen parts falling back into the metal tub reminded me of a social studies experiment from third grade. In it, our teacher placed a metal trash can on a desk, had us close our eyes, and began pouring BBs from another container into the trash can. I don't remember the specific lesson -- something about "this is how many times over the world can be destroyed by the nuclear weapons stockpiled by the United States and Russia" -- but I remember how the noise just kept thundering on and on and on and on. Another vivid memory from that time is a scene from some post-apocalyptic made-for-TV movie in which a child suffering radiation poisoning begins shitting blood into a sink he has to use as a toilet as his mother holds him and tries not to weep. I remember those two things so clearly, but much of the rest of my childhood is cloudy. I do know I wrote awful short stories about life after "the bomb", and dreadful poems about the need for world peace; but I don't think I ever expected to have a future. So here I am in the now, and I don't know what to do. How do I follow a path I can't see? I guess I continue stumbling forward, knowing I will get somewhere. It's just hard, because looking back, I see all those other turns, and I wonder, "what if?"

How My World Has Contracted

2009-02-25T11:50:00.005-07:00

I just spent 45 minutes going around the block. Granted, we went three times 'round, but still, it took 45 minutes. V was on her tricycle singing a variety of songs, most of which went something like "bumpy bumpy bumpy bumpy -- Mom! Did you like that song? -- Bumpy bumpy bumpy . . ." I took the dog, who was nearly frantic with impatience at going the speed of a three-year-old. Ironic, considering she, too, likes to stop for no apparent reason and for random intervals of time, and with no concern for who might bump into her. Fortunately for us all it is a perfect spring day, with just a few clouds in the sky, lovely sun, and random strangers to cheerfully greet along the way. Nonetheless, I couldn't quite settle into a walking-with-a-kid groove. I kept thinking how far my world has contracted. I rarely go more than 20 blocks from home; a trip to the grocery store alone is an adventure; strangers' blogs have become my window on the world. It's a far cry from backpacking through Europe alone, using my last Deutsche Marks to buy a cup of tea, an orange, and the International Herald Tribune in a dreary train station in East Berlin and casually avoiding the random stranger who wanted me to come home, cook and bear children for him (I think -- it was all done in drunken early-morning sign language). My walk today made me nostalgic for who I was then. But then V turned around, smiled, and told me that she sang that song just for me. And my world, small as it is, was enough.

February Doldrums

2009-02-23T10:06:00.002-07:00

I have slid, again, into February doldrums. The weather is surprisingly nice (for February), but going outside still feels like going into climate Purgatory -- neither winter or summer. We're all getting sick of each other's company, and my resolve to protect the kids from the mind-suck of computer games and television is slipping. Plus I'm beginning to get anxious about prepping for our summer in Vermont, which will be fun but requires quite a bit of planning. Speaking of which, I am off to research mosquito netting.

It smells like rain tonight

2009-01-22T22:16:00.002-07:00

We have been relishing warm summery days this week, regardless of the specter of global climate change. Tonight, however, the wind is blowing from the north and carrying the scent of rain. A late dog walk gave me time to watch the clouds roll over my city, reflecting the street lights and dimming the sparkle of the last wistful Christmas lights on a few scattered homes. Rain is always welcome in our dry land, but in January the smell is surprising. Winter deadens the senses -- cold air holds no scent, and fresh snow brings a stilled hush to the streets. Rain is a promise of spring and awakening, making me pull the dogs restlessly, as if we are hurrying toward something instead of traveling in long circles out and back home again. By the time the storm arrives the north wind may fix that, chilling and changing the rain to snow, settling us back down into winter; bringing forth scarves and gloves and frosty noses. Until then, I walk just a little longer, hoping for a lilac breeze to sweeten my dreams.

A deep and abiding peace

2009-01-20T11:23:00.003-07:00

I am at peace. For the first time in years, I feel that my country is mine again, and I no longer have to wait for the next incident of horrific abuse of power to come to light. I didn't know, until this morning, how anxious I was; how distressed our "leadership" made me. Now, again, I can be proud to be an American. I thank all the gods there are.

Tick Tock

2008-11-11T19:52:00.001-07:00

Clocks make me anxious. Their implacable measurement of time creates deadlines I have no way of eluding. Bed time, meal time, time to leave the house – all are boundaries by which I mark my days, rushing from one to the next, hurrying to meet appointments already past or rushing up so swiftly that I cry out in frustration, snapping needlessly at those around me, as if the endless march of seconds is somehow their fault.

Two days a week I have mini-vacations – time when my children are being cared for by others. I fill that space with errands but often find that without the fuss of car seats, stopping to select and pocket random small rocks, discussions of “why I am eager to leave the store/bank/restaurant now that my task is completed and I understand you’re still investigating something I don’t begin to comprehend but can we please leave now?” I have time to sit for a few unexpected minutes. Once I filled that space with books or radio or writing lists, but now I sit, reaching for stillness, and appreciating that found time for the gift it is.

On vacation, the mere act of removing my watch slows me down, liberates me from self-imposed structures of hours and minutes, allowing me to savor a few extra moments of dark sleepy night-time storytelling with my son, or a mischievous demand for just one more bed-time song from my daughter. Not hemmed in by a morning alarm, I find myself more readily leaning into my husband and chatting into the night about upcoming schedules and not-so-distant plans, or talking more quietly and intimately about our dreams.

This week I had to take my watch in for repair, and I won’t see it again for four whole days. I feel naked and mildly panicky, worried that I’ll miss something. I don’t know why, since I have the cell phone, the computer, the car, and two clocks in the kitchen (one of which is on the oven and reads 350 when I bake, which confuses my husband to no end). I wonder if not having a watch on my wrist, physically tying me to the passage of time, will change my perception of the week. I know I put everyone to bed nearly an hour early tonight, but I can’t tell if that was due to the darkening sky or some less pleasant motive. I decided this evening, though, to believe that not having a watch means I am on vacation, and I will practice relaxing instead of fighting the rigors of a timely life. Perhaps this is a lesson for me: what a blessing to sometimes step outside of time, to find a place where there are no consequences for a late night, or a long morning walk, or an extra story or two.

Change of seasons

2008-11-10T20:11:00.002-07:00

Winter stopped by today. We have been graced with a slow fall, drifting from green to yellow and red, with a glorious blue background each day. Yesterday our front yard was a frenzy of leaf raking and neighborly child labor, with a brief break for homemade chocolate chip cookies to recharge. Today the cool gray sky warned us to break out coats and mittens, which my children willfully disregarded, much to their chagrin fifteen minutes later. We warmed up in a bundle on the couch, in front of a slow fire in the new wood stove and relishing a rare weekday movie. I have become sleepy with the cooler weather, slowing my frantic efforts to tidy the house and instead melting into my easy chair with ancient magazines which are no longer relevant but lightly pass the time. I can barely bring myself to go outside, preferring instead to peruse recipes for slow-cooked food like bread and hearty roasts. I get more time with my children, too, who are drawn reluctantly inside when it becomes too dark to distinguish one child from the next. Instead of digging up my front yard, my son sits in front of the fire, mesmerized by the flames. If I approach carefully, I sometimes can get quiet insight into his day, which is otherwise summed up with a careless "It was good" which leaves me aching for the hours I don't see. Winter is a time for reacquainting ourselves, I think, after sharing our days with the neighborhood. The intimacy of darkness brings us close.

Waiting with bated breath

2008-11-02T20:01:00.002-07:00

I'm having nightmares. Friends being kidnapped and murdered, children being hurt. My sleep is so deep I can't swim up, and the dream is past by the time I wake, so that I am only bemused and anxious, rather than free to cry and release the tension which shakes my bed. I believe I'm translating concern about the election into creative fear, but I don't know for sure where my anxiety comes from. I pray it is over soon. Forgetting the unpleasantness of the flyers in the mail (what a waste of resources and money, I think, as I dump them into the recycling bin), and the ceaseless ads, and the light political jabs over the dinner table, I just need to know what comes next. I don't like stories that never conclude, and this has been endless. I think I've been telegraphing my unrest to the children and the dog; we all have short tempers right now. Perhaps, after the 4th, we will sleep again, and find harmony in each other's company again. I wait. We all do.

Walking after dark

2008-07-21T21:47:00.003-06:00

We have a new dog. This is an exciting development in our household, although Teddy has fit in so well as to make her arrival almost a non-event, except that the back yard fence is finally being rebuilt (to my great pleasure). I tell you only because I now find myself walking the neighborhood at a time of night when I in the past allowed myself to lapse into the doldrums of television.

Evening walks are a sensory experience. Without the definition of daylight, my relationship with my environment becomes much more tactile - previously duck-able branches and leaves part my hair as I forge through them; I cannot time my passage through the sprinkler; plants easily identified in the morning are instead appreciated solely for their scent, thrown across the grass by ungainly dog and leash. Streetlights throw japanese leaf prints on the sidewalk, dappled art disrupted but undisturbed by my passage. I find myself lost just yards from home, disoriented by unfamiliar landscaping. Fortunately Teddy guides me, lurching against her lead, home.

Solitude

2008-06-20T05:41:00.003-06:00

V came into my room at five this morning. She's been doing that -- demanding bed space at first light; trying to play games while my eyes are still crusted shut. At first I was resentful, but after she fell back to sleep I realized she'd given me a gift. Solitude.

I don't often get time to myself. Granted, the younglings play by themselves a fair bit, but their games sparkle with brilliant ideas that need monitoring by less inventive folks. Otherwise we'd have a yard pocked by randomly spaced, ankle-twisting holes filled with stew (made of water, grass, mud, leaves, bugs, ashes, soap, and other things I dare not contemplate); leprechaun traps (bricks, rocks, pointy sticks and nails); and interspersed with found and then forgotten "treasures" such as broken tail lights, bits of jump rope, bottle caps tied on strings, and many, many small rocks. My children have deep white trash roots I can only attribute to my husband. It's all his fault. Really.

But this morning my inventors are asleep, and I have solitude. As I lay in bed contemplating my own wakefulness, I began listing all the things I could do while they slept: grocery store, respond to email, empty the dishwasher, make more lists. Then I got up, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on the porch to watch the sunrise reflected on the trees. First, the ends of certain branches shone orange and pink, then a shaft of light hit a blooming rose in the neighbor's yard, turning it from pink to burning magenta. It rained last night, and the air is cold on my toes. I savor these early morning goosebumps against the prediction of several ninety degree days in a row. My green tea is grassy and fresh on my tongue, and the robins are serenading me, in hopes that I will sprinkle the lawn and draw worms to the surface for them.

I breathe, and put off obligations for a few more minutes. Solitude is a gift. I will cherish it.

A gift given

2008-05-15T16:56:00.003-06:00

Several weeks ago I gave a friend a tin of oatmeal raisin cookies I had made. As always, I made far too many and was happy to share. Her family enjoyed the cookies, she returned the tin a couple days later, and I put it away. Today as I was attempting to clean my kitchen I moved the tin and realized there was something inside. Instead of giving me cookies in return (which I specifically asked that she not do), my friend had put in several articles she thought I'd enjoy.

She was right; there was one article on knitting, one on architecture, and a recipe for home-made chai. All suit me quite nicely, and it was a delightful respite to sit on a stool in the middle of the kitchen and read through random snippets I would otherwise never have found. It also got me thinking; gifts given are a mirror in which the recipient can better see how others perceive them.

Once I gave my mother a necklace depicting a dancing goddess. To me the goddess reflected my mother's indomitable spirit. I don't quite remember what I wrote in the accompanying note, but I do remember how surprised my mother was. She doesn't believe herself to be the person I see. Perhaps that is a family trait -- I think of myself as rather stodgy, but the articles I received reflected someone with wide interests, a zest for spice (literally), and a certain amount of creativity.

I like how you see me. Thank you.

Here comes the rain again

2008-05-12T21:11:00.004-06:00

The rain clouds have blown in again. From the second floor windows I watched the western mountains fade behind falling gray sheets. I was startled back to home by swirls of new seeds rattling against the window, mimicking recent snow. Silhouetted by the storm, tree limbs, still bare, stood jagged like black lightning reaching upward. I waited, hoping for thunder.

My husband and I once drove across New Mexico, racing a distant storm. He, accustomed to the overhanging green tunnels of vegetation on the East Coast, found the desert empty and dull. I, in turn, reveled at the grandness of it all, breathing deeply as if my very being had been constricted by vines and leaves and was, for the first time in eight years, finally able to expand again. I find the obvious beauty of maples and oaks gaudy and ordinary; but the hues of sand and stone and prairie undulating over a hundred miles, require attention to appreciate. That day, as the storm rippled across the horizon flashing clouds pink above bright threads of lightning and blowing golden oases of sunlight across the land below, Will finally saw through my eyes.

I always have loved a storm. When I was a girl I would wait anxiously for the late summer storms that rolled through, pushing the leaden summer heat before them. First the leaves of the cottonwoods would shiver over silver like can-can dancers throwing up their skirts, then tendrils of cool air would slip past, until the rain broke and I would make my way slowly to shelter, stomping momentary puddles whose mud oozed between my toes, to finally sit at the edge of the porch under the mist of deflected rain and count the number of times the thunder crossed the sky.

My personal blessings

2008-05-11T19:12:00.003-06:00

My first child was conceived right around Sept 11, 2001, and as I carried him I carried also the burden of knowing I was bringing a child into a world where such horrors could happen. I often wondered if we were doing the right thing. However, at night when I woke to the shimmy of Sam's personal tango, a popular song whose refrain was "everything's gonna be all right" played in he back of my mind, and I took comfort in that message. I often find reassurance in the random lyrics of song.

Months later I watched him sleep, stretched out on a lambskin on the living room floor, and I saw a conversation play out on his unconscious face. First a smile, then an intense look of concentration, and finally a silent laugh that spread to the ends of his fingers. I believe even now that he was talking to angels.

I think my sweet boy is a new soul. He's never been through the wringer. The responsibility of guiding him to adulthood, helping him find a road with maybe a few less bumps, is daunting. But having him in my life is such a blessing. As I once told my friends as we despaired, I have a daily reminder of all that is good in this world, no matter what darkness lurks at the edges of our reality. Thank you my sweet boy, for always showing me the light.

The taste of a pear

2008-05-10T11:00:00.000-06:00

Years ago a character in a mostly forgettable movie asked someone to describe the taste of a pear. I have pondered that question for years, never quite satisfied with the answer I come up with. Color descriptions are obvious. Red is hot or spicy or loud. Blue chills and darkens to ice and loneliness. Green is picnics on just-cut grass. Descriptions of scents are basic -- musky, or flowery, fresh or stale, even just plain bad. Whey, then, is taste so difficult to describe? Why is every unfamiliar meat described with "tastes like chicken"? Perhaps because taste is so personal, so ephemeral. Or maybe because it is sensual -- the only one of the five senses that happens only when you take some object inside yourself. But none of that answers the question: What does a pear taste like?

After far too many years of pondering, I recently had two epiphanies, and I'm wondering which sounds right to you? And if I haven't gotten it, what's your answer?

A pear tastes like the first kiss with someone who makes your heart race. It starts soft, sweet, and tender, but before you pull away it catches, changes texture and becomes more assertive, perhaps messy, and requires two hands and a laugh as you look upward and stop for a moment to savor before you lean back in for more.

A pear tastes like dawn on a mountain top. You're not quite sure what to expect, and you look out and see glimpses of what's coming and you take a lightly perfumed breath inward. Then suddenly it's light and everywhere you turn there's something new and it's all lovely and you begin recognizing the shapes around you, and each one is delightful and familiar and yet somehow new.

She's crafty!

2008-05-07T21:49:00.008-06:00

Now that I am not part of the corporate world, I find I make projects for myself. This week -- repairing the seats of the dining chairs I inherited! Tearing them apart I found cotton batting, grass (for padding) about seven thousand tacks per seat, and disintegrating burlap webbing. Each one made me sneeze (and itch) for hours, but I'm feeling mighty proud of my work. They are actually more comfortable than before! Now I just have to motivate myself to do the remaining four (out of six). Perhaps I'm taking credit a little early. Anyway.

Before & After

This week's flowers

2008-05-07T21:46:00.002-06:00

Pink tulips were the first flowers my husband ever bought me. No wonder I like them so.

invisible wings

2008-05-07T20:59:00.003-06:00

Yesterday my little girl was swinging on her belly and she overbalanced and scraped her faced across the ground before she recovered. I was inside, and then outside before the first scream segued to the next, only to laugh as she spluttered dirt out of her mouth and shrieked at the indignity of it all. After much cuddling and tentative face washing and several attempts to put a bandage on just the right spot (all were eventually torn off as ineffectual), she forgot she was hurt.

In my mind I have a long, long white wall, on which are hung many "Bad Mommy" plaques, one for each lapse in judgment or self-control or completely unavoidable incident which damages my children. I did not award myself the Bad Mommy yesterday, although one could argue that letting my girl play alone outside, unsupervised, was a bad choice.

The bell

2008-05-04T09:39:00.003-06:00

We gather slowly, pulled like the tide from our jobs or homes or errands, bringing whatever we were holding when the time came--small children, dogs, briefcases. We enter the asphalt courtyard like supplicants, gazing almost longingly at the pale edifice of the school building, then shrinking from the brightness, turning away yet unable to withdraw. In summer clusters of people find sparse shelter in pools of shadow under the three trees; in winter they line the leeward walls, humbled by cold wind.

The mingle of people grows, each quietly intent on the individual business of waiting. Early in the year there are tentative glances, like at a high school dance, but the connections become stronger and after a few months there are hushed groupings: of neighbors, class parents, awkward strangers drawn into proximity by common experience. Still--through the light conversation that passes the time--eyes glance at windows or doors, expectant, hopeful.

And then the jarring shrillness of the bell, the old clapper style that beats relentlessly on a dome and seems to go on forever and as it echoes away we all sway backwards under the awesome wave of children that erupts from the school. The shrieking joy and pulsing energy seethes, rushing around parents who stand like stones at the edge of the sea, gulping the air as if we could somehow recover our own youth if we just breathe in their essence deeply enough.

Slowly we collect our children and their daily flotsam--papers, jackets, half-empty lunch boxes--and we trickle away, leaving the pavement unmarked except for the painted outlines of games we no longer know how to play.

Waiting for Spring

2008-04-10T17:00:00.000-06:00

I woke this morning to a muffled, dim room. Snow blanketed the skylight, and the sun was merely a rising brightness in the eastern sky. Everything was grayed further by a cloud of snow that blew in spirals and starbursts against the windows. I dragged myself onto the treadmill, resigned once again to a cold wintry day, and feeling sullen about the weather. Trudging along I wished spring would finally come, bringing consistent sun and gardening opportunities. I may have been a little bitter that my beans had frozen overnight.

While I paced, however, I remembered a weekend morning not long ago. I had (as usual) overbooked myself, and woke up already desperately behind. So when my little one padded into my room at dawn and peered over the edge of the bed asking "Mama, you 'wake?", I got up, dressed, and the two of us snuck out while Sam and Dad slept on. I intended to make a quick run to the grocery store, then blaze through several other errands before breakfast. But when we hastily stepped off the porch, the sweetness of the new morning slowed each step until I stopped at the end of the walk, holding my child, and savored the first taste of spring. Rain had softened the grass and released a fresh earth smell that had hibernated until that morning under brown grass and patches of snow. The sun was gentle, still leaving traces of pink and orange along the eastern horizon, and some robins -- the first harbingers of spring -- were diligently trotting across the lawn, pausing only to glance our way before listening again to the wakening worms. And above it all came a glorious chorus of birdsong from every tree in the neighborhood. No church has ever felt so holy.

I didn't stop long that morning -- I had work to do -- but I did take the time to appreciate a moment of grace. And this morning, as my heart began beating faster and I lumbered along, I remembered to stop anticipating the next task and appointment and phone call, but instead to take a deep breath and live now, even if there is snow on the ground and I'm going to have to replant my beans.