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.
24 September 2014
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.
06 June 2014
twice
Paul and I went to see Once in Seattle last night.
I enjoyed this musical immensely and felt intimately connected to the actors, to the musicians and to the story in spite of the majesty and magnitude of the theater. I've used words like spectacular, epic and stunning to describe most of the shows I've seen at the Paramount; invariably, these performances are larger than life. But this love story, while moving, was a whisper. It was beautiful.
The transitions from one scene to the next were a highlight for me. The staging, movement and dance stirred me in their subtleties, and the melodies were sublime. I laughed and smiled a lot which felt so good on the heels of the sad news from earlier in the day. The actors sang and danced with one another, with their instruments and with my heart. I fell in love with music over and over again last night. Its fragrance still lingers this morning.
I can't recommend this show highly enough. If it wasn't leaving Seattle this weekend, I'd definitely see it again.
04 June 2014
a penny for your...
With a trash bag in tow, I open my door to a pitter-patter upon the rooftop and the front porch.
Crunch... crunch.... crunch.... I pad along the walkway to the garbage cans on the side of the house. Teeny tiny black pebbles litter the front drive and a beard of furry creatures line the edge of the garbage can... and the side of house... and the walkway... and the guesthouse... and the gate... and the grass... and the ground.
I feel a gag reflex come on strong, then quicken my step. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch...
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter go the tiny pebbles as they fall from the sky to the rooftop, then roll down to the porch. More furry beards. More little pebbles. They are everywhere and all around. They are on the bench and on my car. They line the shoes beneath the bench. They are INSIDE the shoes beneath the bench. SICK. I think I might puke.
My arm hairs stand on end, and I taste bile. Crunch, crunch, crunch... I hopscotch back to the house, tumble inside and clutch my hands to my chest in the refuge of indoors. I'm safe, but I feel dread over the prospect of having to face it all again in order to get the kids out the door and off to school.
My arm hairs stand on end, and I taste bile. Crunch, crunch, crunch... I hopscotch back to the house, tumble inside and clutch my hands to my chest in the refuge of indoors. I'm safe, but I feel dread over the prospect of having to face it all again in order to get the kids out the door and off to school.
The leaves on the alders outside my window have already fallen -- but not because of autumn. Instead, they have have fallen to wrath of the fuzzy little critters who are wreaking havoc upon Whidbey Island and the state of Washington: the bloody Western Tent Caterpillars.
I know what you might be thinking --- they're caterpillars, Abi.
Yes, but you have no idea. THEY. ARE. DIS. GUSTING. These are no ordinary, hungry little caterpillars. And those little black pebbles are not your ordinary little pebbles. They are poop. CATERPILLAR POOP. And it's everywhere. They are everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I really do mean everywhere.
Case in point: Inspired by friends and exasperated by our predicament, I stooped to a new low this morning. I agreed to pay blood money to my children for their help in dealing with (drowning) our Springtime visitors -- a penny per caterpillar.
I know what you might be thinking --That's highway robbery, right? Child labor and animal rights, right? I'm a cheapskate and a contract-killer, and my children are suckers, right? Au contraire!!
In the fifteen minutes between handshakes and our departure for school this morning, my kids made $3.00. THREE DOLLARS. For those of you running the numbers at home, they picked up 300 caterpillars in fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES!!
I realize there are far better and far worse things happening in the world than my little caterpillar problem. And I could be writing about any one of these things. But instead, I've chosen caterpillars. Yeah.
Perhaps there is a lesson here. Caterpillars become beautiful butterflies, right? But no, not these ones. These ones will soon become moths (so I've got that to look forward to). Hmmm. Or... isn't this a mark of the end times? Caterpillars and their poop raining down from the sky? Or... was that frogs? Wait, I think that was a movie. Hmmm. I don't know. Perhaps not.
All I know is that I have a bucket of three hundred caterpillars soaking on my front porch. Spring is in the air, summer's on its heels, and I'm too grossed out to go outside. HA!
The kids will be home in three hours. And I can't wait, because I'm putting them back to work. I just need to get to my car first.
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