Balancing Act

There seem to be artistic fascinations in our household that define certain times.  This past summer, one such interest was rock balancing.  It seems to be a fad all over these days.  The Boulder Creek is dotted with these amazing, gravity-defying sculptures.  The back-to-basics elements mixed with herculean challenge seem to be reflective of the times we are living, although maybe people thought that about Stonehenge, too.  Anyway, here are a few rocks that captured the time and concentration of my kids this summer.

Close

I marvel at my childrens' pure desire for skin, for body heat, for the safety of family flesh.

This summer, as we took a roadtrip, John sat in the back of the car calling for whichever parent was in the passenger seat to sit beside him.  Just to cuddle.  Just to be close.  My girls, now 6 and 8, pounce on my empty lap.  I sit and in an instant, I have children fighting for my legs.

At times, my internal voice is crying out for space.  Or maybe even the food right in front of me that I can't reach due to the child in my lap.  It makes me laugh sometimes when Jeff comes home from work and raises his hands as if for help, wading, waist high in a swarm of flesh-grabbing children.

But when I really look close, most (not all, but most) of my claustrophobia comes from pressures in my head, not the weight of children.  I am worried about schedules, about managing needs, about the skills I lack, the things I'm not, the things I wish, faults, fears, my children's faults and fears, somehow connected to mine.  My own mental clutter is what limits my senses.

But, in that moment of their reaching out, what matters is my children and their skin.  It is right before me, pure, new, unscathed, beautiful.  And they are crying out for mine.

My wish is to soften, and to energize my own shell.  To make it present for them, so when they clamber for proximity, they can feel me close.  They can feel my belief in them, my love.  More my hopes and less my fears.  And they can know that they are more important than any distraction, even though the distractions sometimes take precedence.  And maybe, when they grow up, they will remember, they will still know the power of touch, and the magic of family flesh.

Waiting for Train

Twice a week, John and I bike over train tracks on our way home from his preschool.  We arrive at this spot mid-day, poised beside a busy freeway, breathing in lots of fumes.  But, often, we catch a slow-moving train.

It seems quite idyllic, a boy on a bike (actually in a burley), a train passing underneath.  The first time it happened, we stopped, waited for the train to reach us, and then stayed approximately 3000 minutes, in 150 degree heat, as each boxcar creeped by.  Numerous bikers rode by, cooing at the sweet sight of boy and train.

The next time, we could barely make out the train's light, miles away.  John begged for us to stop, desperate to see the train approach.  Again, oooo's and ah's from others whizzing by, but none of them stopped!  It's one thing to watch a sweet boy watching the train, it's another sit there and watch it, too!

So these days, I feel a bit cruel, racing home from school to beat the train-sighting.  We do indulge in many slow-paced things - making roly-poly habitats for hours at a time, pushing the two-wheeler bike until my back almost breaks, pushing a swing until I fall asleep standing up, throwing a football back and forth for multiple soccer games.  But, standing in fumes for 30 minutes to watch a train light miles ahead, not even sure it's moving, I draw the line.

Maybe more of us should stop to smell the roses, stop to watch the trains.  But, honestly, you have to be selective.  If you smell ALL the roses, and watch ALL the trains, there will be nothing else - no dinner, no naps, no clean laundry, no bike rides, no peace.

Milestone Ride

For years, I have longingly eyed a mountain bike path, one that stretches across Vail Pass.  This weekend, Will and I claimed the 30-mile span from Frisco to Vail.  It was a milestone ride to celebrate his 10 years.

The ride held all the elements of a good story:

• mystery - the path to us was new
• challenge - the climb, the cold rain
• struggle - there were 3 falls and slight altitude delirium
• determination - we paced ourselves with snack-point destinations
• joy - reaching the top of the pass
• beauty - breath-taking scenery
• euphoria - shouting to the wind at break-neck speed
• pride - we cruised into town, tired and content, just as the sun disappeared behind the mountains

As we rode, we spoke in code:  "2-5?"  "No, 3-2."  "1-4."  "2-6?"  "Yeah, 2-6."  It was his first time on a bike with more than 7 speeds.

On a grander scale, like the mountains around us, he pondered big questions:  "What is the funniest thing you've ever experienced?"  "What's the best thing you've ever done?"  "Do you talk to yourself?"  "If you could go anywhere, alone or with family, where would it be?"

At one point, Will said, "Wow - we are alone."  We were.  On that day, there were few others on the path.  But for me, the loneliness of the mountains, the rain, and the empty path felt warm because we were there together.  A mother of a fast growing 10-year old cannot wish for more.