It begins.
A magnificent maple tree towers in the expanse of our backyard. Mighty arms stretch skyward, and offer fists full of chestnut, gold, green and tangerine to the clouds. A raging gale blows, leaves pirouette from above and fall to the ground below. A bountiful harvest of hand prints scatter green grass until it is no longer so. Soon we will rake, and we will rake, and still the leaves will fall.
A storm returns. A flame is kindled. A bittersweet glow from the hearth, breathes warmth inside while heavy rain thunders upon the roof. The cleats, socks and shoes that once littered the front porch -- now soaked through -- rest beneath the wood stove. A cornucopia of laces, canvas and leather patiently wait to be warm and dry once more.
Night falls midday upon this sleepy Wednesday afternoon. The rain abates, tall trees sway, the windows rattle, the doors wiggle, a distant siren wails, and I'm reminded how kept and surrounded we are. With a rustle, a shimmy, a twinkle, a glow and then a shift, this day most certainly declares, autumn indeed has returned.
15 October 2014
08 October 2014
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
It was Spring. And I was in fifth grade. Or maybe it was sixth.
Early in the week, my friend Allison invited me to go to her house to play Friday after school. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, and they said yes(!!).
All week long, I looked ahead to Friday with expectation and great anticipation; it couldn't come quickly enough. And once Friday finally came, I was ready. I picked out the perfect outfit for the occasion. I suffered through the school day, then hastily set about the kid-sized hallways of my elementary school to find my friend.
Allison greeted me with a smile as I approached, then she explained that plans had changed. She had invited our friend Michelle to come over instead. I saved face, said it was no big deal and walked home alone.
In the safety of my house, I dropped my backpack and crumbled to the floor in tears. I felt heartbroken, devastated and so, so sad. I cried and cried and couldn't stop. I gasped for air, then cried some more.
My dad returned home shortly after I did and found me in a puddle of tears.
"What's wrong?" he asked, and I sobbed in response.
Eventually, I choked out words to explain what transacted in the space between the school bell and our stairwell. My friend -- I thought she was my friend -- chose someone else instead of me. My dad hugged me awkwardly, wiped away my tears and told me not to cry.
"It's okay," he said, and he wiped away the tears that followed.
It's Fall, and somehow, I'm 37.
In the dark of this morning, I stir from sleep. My nose and toes are cold, and I hesitate to pull the covers off of my head. Should I or shouldn't I, I consider, then peel my comforter back just a bit.
Four fifty-five, I read in fuzzy red numbers through bleary eyes. Paul is on his way out the door; he's up early. Me too, I guess.
I find my paper and pen, push up pillows and rest against the headboard of my bed. I turn on my light, and I write down sloppy, jumbled thoughts that weave in and out of this and that.
Nightshades... a dull headache... a workout... my to-do list... my reunion -- it's this weekend, and I've decided not to go. "I'll definitely be there for the 30-year," I write. "My kids will be in college. Holy shit."
And then, out of nowhere, my stream of consciousness and random train of thoughts stop at rejection. Julie. Emily. Joy. Lynn. She chose someone else instead of me... and then I'm on to the next topic.
But the dull ache of this early morning remains in the low clouds of this afternoon. And in the warm and cozy of my blanket and my life, tears prick. I'm reminded of the heartache I endured one Spring afternoon nearly 30 years ago. And in the years that have followed, I have been both chosen, and I have been passed by.
I went to the gym this morning.
I've gone 3-4 days each week for the last month-plus, and doing so has brought me great pleasure and joy. This morning, I ran and jumped and pressed in and pushed through. I heaved and sweat and worked some things out. I left the gym with a smile on my face, with a little self-love and with expectation and great anticipation of my return on Friday.
And the funny thing is, although my family and I have been members of this club and swam at the pool for the last several summers, it's only been in the last month that it even occurred to me to workout in the gym.
I visited this gym one fall morning four years ago and left in frustration. It felt dark and old, the hours were all wrong and... I'm not even sure. But that morning, I cut my workout short and immediately looked for an alternative. I paid for a subsequent membership to another club and then another, because at the time, this one wasn't quite right. But this morning, and for 3-4 mornings each week over the last month-plus, it has been exactly right.
I read a meditation in bed this morning that could have been written just for me. "Leave when it's time to go," its author, Melody Beattie, writes. "Trust the rhythms and cycles life," she implores. "You don't have to hold onto messengers after they've taken you where you were trying to go. You don't have to stay in a classroom after you've learned the lessons and finished that course... Say goodbye with love and gratitude in your heart. And go on down the road."
This life is ever-changing, ever-expanding. It breathes, it grows, it dies, and it returns to life with new vitality, creativity and gusto. Seasons come and go. Friends do also. We inhale. We exhale. We repeat. Things that once fit, won't always, and things that didn't fit, may someday. We may not know it all, but we do know this, and we can take it to the bank. And perhaps in so doing, we can trust a little more, let go, choose love and surrender.
One Spring morning just over 10 years ago Maya and I were back in Denver to see my dad. We went with him to visit a church he had never attended before. My dad and I sat side-by-side with Maya sleeping in her car seat beside me. We sang, read, prayed and listened through the service. And when the time came to turn and greet your neighbors, the two women in the pew before us, turned around to say hello.
"ABI?!" the younger woman inquired incredulously. She beamed, bear-hugged me, and when she finally let go, she explained...
"It's Allison!"
Early in the week, my friend Allison invited me to go to her house to play Friday after school. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, and they said yes(!!).
All week long, I looked ahead to Friday with expectation and great anticipation; it couldn't come quickly enough. And once Friday finally came, I was ready. I picked out the perfect outfit for the occasion. I suffered through the school day, then hastily set about the kid-sized hallways of my elementary school to find my friend.
Allison greeted me with a smile as I approached, then she explained that plans had changed. She had invited our friend Michelle to come over instead. I saved face, said it was no big deal and walked home alone.
In the safety of my house, I dropped my backpack and crumbled to the floor in tears. I felt heartbroken, devastated and so, so sad. I cried and cried and couldn't stop. I gasped for air, then cried some more.
My dad returned home shortly after I did and found me in a puddle of tears.
"What's wrong?" he asked, and I sobbed in response.
Eventually, I choked out words to explain what transacted in the space between the school bell and our stairwell. My friend -- I thought she was my friend -- chose someone else instead of me. My dad hugged me awkwardly, wiped away my tears and told me not to cry.
"It's okay," he said, and he wiped away the tears that followed.
-----
It's Fall, and somehow, I'm 37.
In the dark of this morning, I stir from sleep. My nose and toes are cold, and I hesitate to pull the covers off of my head. Should I or shouldn't I, I consider, then peel my comforter back just a bit.
Four fifty-five, I read in fuzzy red numbers through bleary eyes. Paul is on his way out the door; he's up early. Me too, I guess.
I find my paper and pen, push up pillows and rest against the headboard of my bed. I turn on my light, and I write down sloppy, jumbled thoughts that weave in and out of this and that.
Nightshades... a dull headache... a workout... my to-do list... my reunion -- it's this weekend, and I've decided not to go. "I'll definitely be there for the 30-year," I write. "My kids will be in college. Holy shit."
And then, out of nowhere, my stream of consciousness and random train of thoughts stop at rejection. Julie. Emily. Joy. Lynn. She chose someone else instead of me... and then I'm on to the next topic.
But the dull ache of this early morning remains in the low clouds of this afternoon. And in the warm and cozy of my blanket and my life, tears prick. I'm reminded of the heartache I endured one Spring afternoon nearly 30 years ago. And in the years that have followed, I have been both chosen, and I have been passed by.
-----
I went to the gym this morning.
I've gone 3-4 days each week for the last month-plus, and doing so has brought me great pleasure and joy. This morning, I ran and jumped and pressed in and pushed through. I heaved and sweat and worked some things out. I left the gym with a smile on my face, with a little self-love and with expectation and great anticipation of my return on Friday.
And the funny thing is, although my family and I have been members of this club and swam at the pool for the last several summers, it's only been in the last month that it even occurred to me to workout in the gym.
I visited this gym one fall morning four years ago and left in frustration. It felt dark and old, the hours were all wrong and... I'm not even sure. But that morning, I cut my workout short and immediately looked for an alternative. I paid for a subsequent membership to another club and then another, because at the time, this one wasn't quite right. But this morning, and for 3-4 mornings each week over the last month-plus, it has been exactly right.
I read a meditation in bed this morning that could have been written just for me. "Leave when it's time to go," its author, Melody Beattie, writes. "Trust the rhythms and cycles life," she implores. "You don't have to hold onto messengers after they've taken you where you were trying to go. You don't have to stay in a classroom after you've learned the lessons and finished that course... Say goodbye with love and gratitude in your heart. And go on down the road."
This life is ever-changing, ever-expanding. It breathes, it grows, it dies, and it returns to life with new vitality, creativity and gusto. Seasons come and go. Friends do also. We inhale. We exhale. We repeat. Things that once fit, won't always, and things that didn't fit, may someday. We may not know it all, but we do know this, and we can take it to the bank. And perhaps in so doing, we can trust a little more, let go, choose love and surrender.
One Spring morning just over 10 years ago Maya and I were back in Denver to see my dad. We went with him to visit a church he had never attended before. My dad and I sat side-by-side with Maya sleeping in her car seat beside me. We sang, read, prayed and listened through the service. And when the time came to turn and greet your neighbors, the two women in the pew before us, turned around to say hello.
"ABI?!" the younger woman inquired incredulously. She beamed, bear-hugged me, and when she finally let go, she explained...
"It's Allison!"
24 September 2014
chop wood, carry water
Three weeks ago, I was dirty, sweaty, smelly and beside myself with joy.
Right now feels like that too.
My kids are at school, my belly is full, my dishwasher runs, the heater at my feet is almost too hot and this sleepy, sloppy chair couldn't be any more uncomfortable.
And in the way I often do, I've sunken into this chair in search of the little red, common threads that hold these things together.
Chelan.
I went for a walk one morning while we were camping.
Halfway through the walk, I stopped at a dock to do sun salutations overlooking the lake. I remember thinking thank you with my arms held high, drinking in the utter bliss of that single moment in my life. I felt it over and over again that week -- sitting around the campfire, washing my feet in the lake, systematizing my little camp kitchen, watching my kids play cards with new friends, scrubbing dishes in the dark, and waking up to the sunrise.
While we were in Chelan my life was simple. There was nothing to do, but to feel my dirty feet on the earth beneath me and to be there. My daily chores made me happy, and to breathe fresh air all day and all night, was heaven. I feel weepy just thinking about it.
Today.
I woke up early to pounding rain, an hour before my alarm and just shy of sufficient sleep. While it was still dark outside, I scratched out my morning pages. No rhyme, no reason, no structure, no syntax, just words on loose-leaf pages. I read for a while, then went to work out. My kids were ready and dressed when I returned home, and we traveled together to school.
My friend, Tohnia and I walked and talked and even cried a little in the rain. We hiked up hills, breathed fresh air and moved our legs. I stopped to pee in a port-a-potty (gross), and then we walked more. Tohnia gave me a book and a hug before we parted, then I returned home to a hot shower, a warm lunch and my space heater.
This week, I've had meetings, met with clients, packed lunches, scrubbed toilets, folded laundry, made dinner, chauffeured children and on and on and on. And right now, I'm sitting here -- still. I've sunken into my chair in the midst of a crazy busy week with so much before and so much to come. Right now, it's just me and my laptop, and I have that feeling once more. So content and connected I could cry.
Chop wood, carry water, my friend Elly often says.
Elly speaks of the daily chores and the simple, constant things we do as we move about our days and our lives. We chop wood, we carry water, and we stay connected. I love that. And as I think about that lake and about that walk and about this day, I can almost feel the common thread between the tips of my fingers. I feel connected, awake and alive.
Right now feels like that too.
My kids are at school, my belly is full, my dishwasher runs, the heater at my feet is almost too hot and this sleepy, sloppy chair couldn't be any more uncomfortable.
And in the way I often do, I've sunken into this chair in search of the little red, common threads that hold these things together.
Chelan.
I went for a walk one morning while we were camping.
Halfway through the walk, I stopped at a dock to do sun salutations overlooking the lake. I remember thinking thank you with my arms held high, drinking in the utter bliss of that single moment in my life. I felt it over and over again that week -- sitting around the campfire, washing my feet in the lake, systematizing my little camp kitchen, watching my kids play cards with new friends, scrubbing dishes in the dark, and waking up to the sunrise.
While we were in Chelan my life was simple. There was nothing to do, but to feel my dirty feet on the earth beneath me and to be there. My daily chores made me happy, and to breathe fresh air all day and all night, was heaven. I feel weepy just thinking about it.
Today.
I woke up early to pounding rain, an hour before my alarm and just shy of sufficient sleep. While it was still dark outside, I scratched out my morning pages. No rhyme, no reason, no structure, no syntax, just words on loose-leaf pages. I read for a while, then went to work out. My kids were ready and dressed when I returned home, and we traveled together to school.
My friend, Tohnia and I walked and talked and even cried a little in the rain. We hiked up hills, breathed fresh air and moved our legs. I stopped to pee in a port-a-potty (gross), and then we walked more. Tohnia gave me a book and a hug before we parted, then I returned home to a hot shower, a warm lunch and my space heater.
This week, I've had meetings, met with clients, packed lunches, scrubbed toilets, folded laundry, made dinner, chauffeured children and on and on and on. And right now, I'm sitting here -- still. I've sunken into my chair in the midst of a crazy busy week with so much before and so much to come. Right now, it's just me and my laptop, and I have that feeling once more. So content and connected I could cry.
Chop wood, carry water, my friend Elly often says.
Elly speaks of the daily chores and the simple, constant things we do as we move about our days and our lives. We chop wood, we carry water, and we stay connected. I love that. And as I think about that lake and about that walk and about this day, I can almost feel the common thread between the tips of my fingers. I feel connected, awake and alive.
06 August 2014
am I wrong?
I was supposed to be at dock yoga this morning.
But Cole is home today. He sits across the room with sad, blood-red puppy dog eyes instead of in the woods with his sister and his friends at Marimba Camp. For a fourth day, he woke up to slime in the corners of his eyes, goopy eyelashes and crusty eyelids glued shut. Consequently, both his and my plans for this day, for this week have been derailed.
Last week, I shared the dock with a travel writer for Sunset Magazine. She was charming, grateful and kind -- in town doing a story about the Island.
"I hear you are a big-time, fancy writer," our instructor spoke up after class. "You know all kinds of people say they are writers, but I heard you are a REAL writer. You've even sold stuff to the New York Times?" She had.
And this week, I've been in the company of another real writer, a great writer (the New York Times even says so) -- David Sedaris. In his book I'm reading, he writes, "States vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don't want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don't want to marry a homosexual, then don't. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor's options? It's like voting on whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas."
Well, should they?
A friend of mine called me a loser recently. He was having an impromptu gathering at his house -- fresh crab, tons of people, community, conversation... I opted out to eat dinner at home, alone. I read and wrote and went to bed early. "It was so cool," Paul and the kids exclaimed the next morning. Oh, what a feast you missed out on, they scolded. And I've been scolded before.
We were created to be in community, I've been told across coffee tables, from pulpits and even in bed. And in spite of my preference for the couple over the crowd, I've been reprimanded more times than I can count because of the parties and potlucks I've skipped.
I skipped yoga this morning, stayed home with my kid and went for a walk instead.
"Jesus, name above all names..." a siren sang in my ears as I walked in the crisp, cool of this morning. I felt moved, and I cried. How can one name level me to tears, I contemplated as I walked an old familiar road and listened to that song.
I thought of a satirical essay I read in Mr. Sedaris' book yesterday. It made me laugh and made me sad and made fun of that same name. A name that has changed my life, made me weep and taught me love, kindness, compassion and sacrifice. A name that has also been used for judgment, arrogance, ignorance, and hatred. So misused and misunderstood.
I think my feelings hurt, but gratefully, my eyes don't.
But Cole is home today. He sits across the room with sad, blood-red puppy dog eyes instead of in the woods with his sister and his friends at Marimba Camp. For a fourth day, he woke up to slime in the corners of his eyes, goopy eyelashes and crusty eyelids glued shut. Consequently, both his and my plans for this day, for this week have been derailed.
Last week, I shared the dock with a travel writer for Sunset Magazine. She was charming, grateful and kind -- in town doing a story about the Island.
"I hear you are a big-time, fancy writer," our instructor spoke up after class. "You know all kinds of people say they are writers, but I heard you are a REAL writer. You've even sold stuff to the New York Times?" She had.
And this week, I've been in the company of another real writer, a great writer (the New York Times even says so) -- David Sedaris. In his book I'm reading, he writes, "States vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don't want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don't want to marry a homosexual, then don't. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor's options? It's like voting on whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas."
Well, should they?
A friend of mine called me a loser recently. He was having an impromptu gathering at his house -- fresh crab, tons of people, community, conversation... I opted out to eat dinner at home, alone. I read and wrote and went to bed early. "It was so cool," Paul and the kids exclaimed the next morning. Oh, what a feast you missed out on, they scolded. And I've been scolded before.
We were created to be in community, I've been told across coffee tables, from pulpits and even in bed. And in spite of my preference for the couple over the crowd, I've been reprimanded more times than I can count because of the parties and potlucks I've skipped.
I skipped yoga this morning, stayed home with my kid and went for a walk instead.
"Jesus, name above all names..." a siren sang in my ears as I walked in the crisp, cool of this morning. I felt moved, and I cried. How can one name level me to tears, I contemplated as I walked an old familiar road and listened to that song.
I thought of a satirical essay I read in Mr. Sedaris' book yesterday. It made me laugh and made me sad and made fun of that same name. A name that has changed my life, made me weep and taught me love, kindness, compassion and sacrifice. A name that has also been used for judgment, arrogance, ignorance, and hatred. So misused and misunderstood.
I think my feelings hurt, but gratefully, my eyes don't.
23 July 2014
bingeing and purging
We're nearly halfway through the summer, and as luck (grace) would have it, each of my children is at camp this week.
I thought about cleaning house as I often do on Mondays, but the sun was shining and my book suddenly got good. So that was that.
Yesterday, I walked and began with ballet. I beheld breathtaking views of the Seattle skyline from Kerry Park for a long while. With eyes wide and mouth slung open, I huffed and puffed and hiked the regal neighborhood hills of Queen Anne. I went gallery hopping and sipped a latte in Pioneer Square. I returned to the Island, watched a bit of soccer practice then went to yoga outdoors. I spent a blissful day on my own, on my schedule, at my pace and left to my own devices. Blessed solitude.
And today, it's raining -- the torrential sort.
For the last six weeks, I've played and lazed for long days in the sun. I've spent a lot of time with my kids, and it's been mostly good. But in this momentary lull of today's tempest, it hard not to note an arrhythmia. For six weeks, I've also been a little out of sorts and unclear; I've been creatively constipated.
Today, is the first full day I have been home with neither the constant nor eventual companionship of at least one of my family members. I woke up with no where to be, with no one to host and with neither obligation nor desire to spend the day out of doors. I rolled over in bed this morning and felt poised and compelled to write.
I've never been more grateful for rain.
But with freedom comes responsibility. And with camp comes the necessity of sack lunches, which I neglected to pack last night. So before I'd even brushed my teeth, I began this day with a lunch pail and ziplock bags... and with the laundry I neglected to fold and put away last night... and with the dirty dishes I left in the sink. Ah, blessed solitude.
And Cole and I danced the getting-out-of-the-door dance -- Have you brushed your teeth? Did you grab your lunch pail? I think you might want your rain boots today. Will you grab your raincoat? Good morning and I love you, by the way.
-- I can't find it, he says.
-- You can't find what?
-- My raincoat. (It hasn't poured rain in months.)
-- OK, look in dad's car, and I'll check your room.
And that's when I realized that this summer, I've also been in denial.
The search for the missing raincoat this morning, took me to a sore spot in my home I have successfully avoided since Spring.
I wish I would have been of the mindset this morning to photograph what I found when I ascended Cole's stairs (it wasn't his raincoat). This is where I would insert the image to document the magnitude of the mayhem. Let's see if I can paint a picture instead.
Imagine -- if you will -- utter chaos.
The place was ransacked -- clothing strewn about and Legos littered everywhere. The floor, the bed, the chair, the dresser, the desk, the corners, the crevices -- they were covered in toys and trash and wrappers and crumpled papers... Empty hangers, hamper and drawers relieved of both dirty and clean clothes... A sleeping bag, a sleeping pad (why? don't ask me), an overturned lamp... another one. Books and magazines... Legos and more Legos... A half eaten sandwich. An unidentifiable smell. An unidentifiable stickiness... (marshmallows, of course).
It was anarchy. Armageddon. Play land pandemonium. It was a jaw-dropping, stomach churning display of destruction and consumption far exceeding usefulness, anxiety invoking and sickening. I was speechless -- appalled and on the verge of dry-heaving -- as I came back down stairs.
-- Mom, I found it!! (It was in the studio -- naturally).
Paul took Cole to camp, and I spent the next four hours of this perfectly good writing day in purgatory.
Enough, I said through gritted teeth to no one in particular as I indiscriminately purged. With minimal regard to sentiment or frugality, I swept piles and heaps from the surfaces of Cole's room into 13-gallon black garbage bags. I'm not sure if I was madder at him or at myself.
You see, this is not a first for us; these are the steps to another one of Cole's and my dances. For a long while I just picked up after him -- constantly. I would clean up, and he would mess up. I would get mad and stressed, and he would get busy at being a highly-spirited kid. So, I tried to teach the young man to fish (and blissfully unaware, he left the fish out in the sun to rot and die). So I purchased more containers, which he eventually upended and turned into galaxy destroyers. I have encouraged... and I have threatened... and I have desperately tried to teach my son the virtues of responsibility and respect along with cleaning-as-you-go and putting-back-what-you-bring-out.
And I have realized the less time I spend in Cole's microcosm of chaos, the less mad and stressed I feel. So when I could no longer keep up, I backed up, backed off and assumed a hands-off style of parenting where that bedroom is concerned. (And clearly, that's working out really well for me).
Twenty six gallons of waste, four loads of laundry and another 13 gallons to Goodwill later, Cole's room is clean, and I'm finally writing.
To be frank, 1.) I feel clearer today than I have in weeks. I don't think I realized how much I needed a break and to play by myself and to write and to bring momentary order to the disorder in the bedroom above mine. 2.) I am at a loss. I know that what I did today was hardly a solution. It was like gingerly placing a band-aid on an infected war wound.
But it's gotten me thinking.
The longer I live, the more subscribe to the philosophy that less is indeed more. I've attempted to live this out and to impart it to my children. At times I have felt relief and found success, but other times, I have failed miserably. And I feel gross and full and stuck... and constipated.
I have tried to stand up to the seductive voice in this culture that whispers, more, MORE. Believe me, I have tried to simplify in this age of bigger, newer, faster, sleeker and stronger alongside our generous family and friends who just love to give, and get rid of and to give more. Christmas, birthdays, Wednesdays... there must be another way.
Because here's the thing: my son wears two shirts. TWO. He has (had) at least FORTY! This is a problem -- his problem AND my problem.
This problem calls for moderation, yes? Isn't it a means by which to step beyond the ugly cycle of bingeing and purging?
I'd love to hear for sure from the therapist, the mindful, the spiritual, the super-parent or the everyday anybody. I've lived and parented at unsustainable extremes, and I know for sure I'm done with that. Beyond that, I'm not so sure.
I thought about cleaning house as I often do on Mondays, but the sun was shining and my book suddenly got good. So that was that.
Yesterday, I walked and began with ballet. I beheld breathtaking views of the Seattle skyline from Kerry Park for a long while. With eyes wide and mouth slung open, I huffed and puffed and hiked the regal neighborhood hills of Queen Anne. I went gallery hopping and sipped a latte in Pioneer Square. I returned to the Island, watched a bit of soccer practice then went to yoga outdoors. I spent a blissful day on my own, on my schedule, at my pace and left to my own devices. Blessed solitude.
And today, it's raining -- the torrential sort.
For the last six weeks, I've played and lazed for long days in the sun. I've spent a lot of time with my kids, and it's been mostly good. But in this momentary lull of today's tempest, it hard not to note an arrhythmia. For six weeks, I've also been a little out of sorts and unclear; I've been creatively constipated.
Today, is the first full day I have been home with neither the constant nor eventual companionship of at least one of my family members. I woke up with no where to be, with no one to host and with neither obligation nor desire to spend the day out of doors. I rolled over in bed this morning and felt poised and compelled to write.
I've never been more grateful for rain.
But with freedom comes responsibility. And with camp comes the necessity of sack lunches, which I neglected to pack last night. So before I'd even brushed my teeth, I began this day with a lunch pail and ziplock bags... and with the laundry I neglected to fold and put away last night... and with the dirty dishes I left in the sink. Ah, blessed solitude.
And Cole and I danced the getting-out-of-the-door dance -- Have you brushed your teeth? Did you grab your lunch pail? I think you might want your rain boots today. Will you grab your raincoat? Good morning and I love you, by the way.
-- I can't find it, he says.
-- You can't find what?
-- My raincoat. (It hasn't poured rain in months.)
-- OK, look in dad's car, and I'll check your room.
And that's when I realized that this summer, I've also been in denial.
The search for the missing raincoat this morning, took me to a sore spot in my home I have successfully avoided since Spring.
I wish I would have been of the mindset this morning to photograph what I found when I ascended Cole's stairs (it wasn't his raincoat). This is where I would insert the image to document the magnitude of the mayhem. Let's see if I can paint a picture instead.
Imagine -- if you will -- utter chaos.
The place was ransacked -- clothing strewn about and Legos littered everywhere. The floor, the bed, the chair, the dresser, the desk, the corners, the crevices -- they were covered in toys and trash and wrappers and crumpled papers... Empty hangers, hamper and drawers relieved of both dirty and clean clothes... A sleeping bag, a sleeping pad (why? don't ask me), an overturned lamp... another one. Books and magazines... Legos and more Legos... A half eaten sandwich. An unidentifiable smell. An unidentifiable stickiness... (marshmallows, of course).
It was anarchy. Armageddon. Play land pandemonium. It was a jaw-dropping, stomach churning display of destruction and consumption far exceeding usefulness, anxiety invoking and sickening. I was speechless -- appalled and on the verge of dry-heaving -- as I came back down stairs.
-- Mom, I found it!! (It was in the studio -- naturally).
Paul took Cole to camp, and I spent the next four hours of this perfectly good writing day in purgatory.
Enough, I said through gritted teeth to no one in particular as I indiscriminately purged. With minimal regard to sentiment or frugality, I swept piles and heaps from the surfaces of Cole's room into 13-gallon black garbage bags. I'm not sure if I was madder at him or at myself.
You see, this is not a first for us; these are the steps to another one of Cole's and my dances. For a long while I just picked up after him -- constantly. I would clean up, and he would mess up. I would get mad and stressed, and he would get busy at being a highly-spirited kid. So, I tried to teach the young man to fish (and blissfully unaware, he left the fish out in the sun to rot and die). So I purchased more containers, which he eventually upended and turned into galaxy destroyers. I have encouraged... and I have threatened... and I have desperately tried to teach my son the virtues of responsibility and respect along with cleaning-as-you-go and putting-back-what-you-bring-out.
And I have realized the less time I spend in Cole's microcosm of chaos, the less mad and stressed I feel. So when I could no longer keep up, I backed up, backed off and assumed a hands-off style of parenting where that bedroom is concerned. (And clearly, that's working out really well for me).
Twenty six gallons of waste, four loads of laundry and another 13 gallons to Goodwill later, Cole's room is clean, and I'm finally writing.
To be frank, 1.) I feel clearer today than I have in weeks. I don't think I realized how much I needed a break and to play by myself and to write and to bring momentary order to the disorder in the bedroom above mine. 2.) I am at a loss. I know that what I did today was hardly a solution. It was like gingerly placing a band-aid on an infected war wound.
But it's gotten me thinking.
The longer I live, the more subscribe to the philosophy that less is indeed more. I've attempted to live this out and to impart it to my children. At times I have felt relief and found success, but other times, I have failed miserably. And I feel gross and full and stuck... and constipated.
I have tried to stand up to the seductive voice in this culture that whispers, more, MORE. Believe me, I have tried to simplify in this age of bigger, newer, faster, sleeker and stronger alongside our generous family and friends who just love to give, and get rid of and to give more. Christmas, birthdays, Wednesdays... there must be another way.
Because here's the thing: my son wears two shirts. TWO. He has (had) at least FORTY! This is a problem -- his problem AND my problem.
This problem calls for moderation, yes? Isn't it a means by which to step beyond the ugly cycle of bingeing and purging?
I'd love to hear for sure from the therapist, the mindful, the spiritual, the super-parent or the everyday anybody. I've lived and parented at unsustainable extremes, and I know for sure I'm done with that. Beyond that, I'm not so sure.
my morrocco
I heard from an old friend.
I'm not sure if you remember me, he wrote.
Way back when, he was a senior in high school,
and I was his Admission Counselor.
I know we weren't supposed to have favorites,
but without a doubt, he was mine.
How could I forget?
He didn't have a lot, but I believed in him anyway.
I said yes when others said no.
I fought for him.
And sixteen years later, he came to Washington.
He told me that it mattered. That I mattered.
He told me he is healthy and happy and traveling and in love.
He told me he earned a PhD, and he is now a professor of Literature.
And I wept.
Oh, how I wept.
It turns out I was right.
And I couldn't be prouder.
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