Fall Ride

When John and June and I hike, it's hard not to narrate a bit.  I tend to point out a tree or a bird or a flower.  With the older ones, however, I have the sense to keep quiet.  They don't need narration.  They need the opposite from me.  

But what a lucky half hour I had, to ride with them in silence through yellow aspens and showering fall leaves.

I could tell that Will caught the reverence, but he didn't say much.  Clara, on the other hand, actually made me stop:  "Mom, you've got to turn around."  I'd almost missed the view.

Spring Sounds: Peepers

Some time in May, the kids and I took a neighborhood walk.  We turned a corner and were struck by a sound.  

Honestly, there are so many sounds in our world right now.  I get so overwhelmed.  We are not particularly good at talking one at a time.  Many are in the habit of just making non-sense sounds: clicks, snaps, whistles, drumming, balls, rhythms, taps, shouts, calls, 1/2 songs, laughs, beats, beeps.  As I type, and Will reads quietly beside me, we both listen to our groaning dog (he's joined the party) and our too-high-to-reach smoke alarm that has been beeping, well, over a year!  We don't actually hear it any more.

But, on that walk, I sure did hear the frogs - "the spring peepers."  It seems like a miracle that on one day, they just wake up and sing.  We received their call, and felt grateful.  For spring, for taking a walk, for a sound that had been hiding away so long.  And I was grateful we all noticed.

Beauty: Pre-Spring Flowers

In good "Portlandia" fashion, I spend brainspace thinking about the pros and cons of buying cut flowers.  Here's how it goes:

• Isn't having tulips in your house in the winter kind of like buying blueberries from Chile in December?
• Were the flowers grown organically?
• How far did they travel?
• Shouldn't I forage some artistic looking sticks or cattails or pine cones instead?
• Shouldn't we spend our money elsewhere?

I do have a ritual of planting Narcissus bulbs before the holidays, which are beautiful for weeks.  Then they sit in our house for many more weeks in the form of the lump pictured above because I can't toss the green.  Jeff loves them.

In the end, I broke down and just bought some flowers already!  I opted for the sweet, delicate cheap variety:  daisies and things that keep well when they dry, though I avoided the non-native "baby's breath" that we once saw rangers furiously trying to clear around Lake Michigan one summer.

I must say that the dose of color and smell and sense of life are doing the trick.  And they are a reminder of the bounty to come.  Right outside the door.

Valentine's Day

There was a lot of red and pink in our household these past few days.  Purple, too.  On the heels of Christmas, I always look forward to Valentine's Day.  I think, "Oh, I've got plenty of time to get organized for that holiday."  As I drive from activity to activity, I dream up projects and compose beautiful cards to my husband, my kids, loved ones, people I barely know...

I didn't actually get pen to paper for my Valentines, but the kids sure enjoyed some frenzied creativity during sub-zero temperatures.  We produced quite a bit, even as some of our ambitions remain undone.  Here's what we made:

• We sent Christmas thank you notes with Valentine hearts enclosed.
• We decorated lingering white Christmas lights with deep red.
• We sent packages to grandmothers that held everything but the kitchen sink.
• June personalized watercolor hearts with her growing vocabulary of adjectives.
• John practiced drawing stick figures on hearts.
• Clara and I sewed some paper bird and heart hangings.
• Pink and white paper around the house became confetti.
• Clara filled little bottles with lavender that we harvested from our yard in, oh 2008.
• Finally, Clara invited friends over to make a flag for the senior center nearby.  Despite our most noble effort, however, we didn't manage to deliver it until after Valentine's Day...

Anyway, here is some evidence of the mayhem:

Boots and Boats

John and I recently had some time in a wet field - time to make boats and float them in puddles.

Well, to be perfectly honest, John was first drawn to the playground.  I really didn't feel like chasing him around, lifting him onto zip-lines and trying to squelch my height advantage in tetherball.  I personally prefer to spend my time making boats out of grass.  Fortunately, John is a pushover when wearing his "puddle boots."  

So, I lured him into the temporary pond.  Then I got to enjoy taking pictures and thinking about how dreamy he appeared as he made floating objects out of reeds.  Actually, to be perfectly honest again, he stomped on the "boats" the second that they hit the water.   

Anyway, I got my idyllic scenes.  And I do think John had fun with his boots, and his boats.

 

Cranberries on Cedar

Today, amidst the cold and snow, Clara and I laid a bright red strand of cranberries on my favorite cedar tree.  Brave, bold colors await a brave, cold chickadee.

Just a few feet away, our warm home feels like a messy blur of color and tone.  Yet, we have our own clear contrasts: little joys and little sorrows, affection and anger, late night quiet and mid-day screams, cuddles and kicks, vegetables and sugars, sweet costumes and temper-inducing socks, dreams and worries, fears and hopes.

I remain inspired by the red on green and white.  Its beauty, its contrasts, and the clarity it inspires.  A nice vision for the new year.

10 Feet of Beautiful

As an antidote to my 10 Minutes of Beautiful with John, we have recently been sharing about 10 feet of beautiful.  We drive into the snowy mountains and park beside one of my absolute favorite kid trails, summer or winter.  Just being there, breathing in the forest, taking in the quiet, it is worth the drive.  

Then, the kinetics begin.  John and I spend about an hour in and around the car, "gearing up."  This includes:

• going to the bathroom, somewhere in the snow
• having a snack
• putting on a snow suit
• putting on a hat
• putting on gloves
• putting on wool socks
• taking off a snow suit
• taking off a hat
• taking off gloves
• taking off wool socks
• repeat all the above to infinity

After an hour, we stumble out of the car.  We take another half hour to fastens boots and skis to our feet.   I am generally in a state of both surrender and aggression.  I surrender that it is a John-led winter event.  Yet, on the whole, I shaped our day.  I brought him to this place.  I initiated this activity, even imposed it on him.   And amidst my patience with his pace, I am aggressive about my singular goal to make it onto the trail with skis.  

And that is what we do.  We make it out of the car.  We "ski" about 10 feet.  It takes a good long time.  I am in heaven.  John seems to be proud of himself.  Then we turn around, get in the car, and reward ourselves with hot chocolate.

Leaving, I think of Robert Frost, from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening":  

          The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, 

          But I have promises to keep, 

          And miles to go before I sleep, 

          And miles to go before I sleep.

I did get my piece of the lovely, dark, deep woods, but am honestly happy to turn to the view of little / big eyes peeking over a cup.

10 Minutes of Beautiful

John and I went for a hike today.  It is the activity that comes to my mind when I really want to be with him.  On a trail, I know that I will feel nourished and full and able to appreciate him without daily-life distractions.

We escaped to the ever-dependable beauty of Chautauqua and trekked across the low-lying trails for... about 10 minutes.  At that point, he was ready to head home to his trains.

Mind you, I took pictures that will capture those ten minutes for eternity.  (Hint: my blog so easily blurs  the time : impression ratio.)  But even just today, those 10 minutes defined my entire feeling about the day.  The experience of being in such a beautiful spot, moving in the fresh air, and watching my 3-year-old run against such a backdrop - it is like a work of art.  In the same way that just looking at a certain painting for a moment or reading a particular poem can change a person, being in that beautiful scene even for 10 minutes can change everything for me, too.

I do feel fortunate to live so close to such natural beauty.  Maybe we all do, in one way or another.  However, I do remember days living in Washington D.C., driving hours to get to the Blue Ridge Parkway for a day hike.  Carbon footprint aside, that trek was always worth it.

I am not sure that John will grow up to be a big hiker, or to have a deep love of nature, but hopefully our 10 minute hikes give that passion a chance.

Beach Poem

We were lucky to go to the beach last week.  At the ocean with the kids, I always think of e.e.cummings' poem, "maggie and millie and mollie and may".   I've traced it here before.  My endless photos of kids with beach treasures cried out for a repeat.

will and clara and june and john 

went down to the beach (to play one day)

and will discovered some clams that opened

so slightly he could imagine their mystery, and

clara befriended a tangle of kelp

whose tangles magically mirrored her own;

and june was drawn in by a huge dead lobster

that spooked her enough to back away quick

john used every muscle to lift a stone

as small as a ball and as big as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find at the sea.

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.

Ballerina Discipline

June takes ballet on Saturday mornings.  It's a little dream world.  The simplicity and the discipline is so appealing to me, partly because of the stark comparison to our everyday life:

Ballet:  Beautiful, clear music.
Home:  Music, and 100 other noises on top.

Ballet:  Fold sweet pink clothes as your get ready for class.
Home:  Throw everything, everywhere, and generally miss whatever the desired placement may be.

Ballet:  Stretch, long neck, look up, reach out.
Home:  Hunker in and scramble to move in 10 directions at once.

Ballet:  Singular focus.
Home:  Constant multi-tasking.

Ballet:  Little dancers coordinate moves, flow together.
Home:  Little "dancers" seem always to be going in opposing directions.

Ballet:  Room is virtually free of any clutter.
Home:  Not a single room is free of clutter.

Ballet:  Floor shines, reflects sweet little dancing bodies.
Home:  Floor is covered with milk and orange juice and spit up and I won't elaborate any more.

Ballet:  Everyone seems so peaceful, so poised.
Home:  Poise is not even on the priority list.  Peace is always the distant dream.

I really do love June's ballet.  She loves it, too.  Maybe even for some of the same reasons.  In fact, I have a new idea.  I think our whole family should start doing ballet.  We could experience a complete transformation.