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.

Haircuts Happen

I usually take on the haircuts in our household.  I am attached to the idea for numerous reasons:  It saves gillions of trips to the haircut place.  It saves money.  And it can be a sweet ritual at home.  

But recently, the haircut did not go so well.  I saw that it was not working, but did not immediately react...  I was sure I could just hold the trimmer differently, or hold his hair differently and make it right.  It took me a while to realize I'd forgotten to attach an essential part, without which the result is skinhead.  Sweet John sat there so innocently, looking out the window.  Clueless.  

I imagine two opposing motherly states of mind.  One is hyper-aware, alert to everything.  Sometimes painfully aware.  Reacting in a split second.  The other is a blindly persistent view, determined to forge forward, even through a sea of obstacles.  Next time, I'll be sure I'm in that first state before I pick up the trimmer.  We did get to enjoy some nice "Flock of Seagull" video comparisons out of the deal.

Home

When summer began, I was composing blogs in my head about family rituals and routines.  Then, my family up and moved.  In large part, this explains my 2-month blog silence.

It was a fairly sudden change.  Inspired, but sudden.  I alternate between thinking us brave and foolish.

I was connected to our old home.  Its walls breathed the energy of all that happened within them for 10 years.   The vision I had when we committed to a new place was full of optimism, but a little blind to what we'd be leaving behind.  Like the sweet hill we walked, biked, scootered, wiggle-raced so many million times.  Or the neighbors who have watched, and cared for, and known my kids like no new neighbors ever will.  Or my view from the kitchen of June and John dancing in the living room, Clara racing from the front door to the backyard trapeeze in one big leap, and Will battling some mirage from his post on the roof.

I could stand in the middle of that house and see out a North, South, East and West window, all from one spot.  In fact, this will be my memory of that home.  The vision in every direction.  I could see my children wherever they may be.  Not necessarily a teenager's dream, which is one reason we left.  But as the mother of four still mother-centered children, being in the center of that 360 degree view was exactly where I wanted to be.  Letting go of that position is not easy.  

Mind you, we are not moving into a suburbian McMansion, nor are we headed to gas-guzzling away from the city center.  Instead, school is now a bike ride away and Jeff's trip to the bus station is close.  We do have more land, and chickens are in sight.  And there are more spaces for preteens - and their mothers - to find a little personal space.  

But we left a place I loved.  In our 10 years there, we dreamed up our kids, and dreamed each day with them in that space.  Yet we willed the change by a dream, too.  We will come to love our new home.  And that may be the thing I've learned:  While changing our dreams and rituals and routines can be hard, the important thing is that they continue.

So, I aim to end the summer where I intended to begin, reflecting on rituals and routines.  We are continuing many, spinning some that are new, and letting go of those that no longer have a place.  For that is where we are living, and maybe that balance sits a little closer to the truth.

A Nature Table

We have a Nature Table, made by the kids' very talented preschool teacher Mikki.   I've seen ones, especially at their preschool, that seem to have a perfect flow of seasons and silk and homemade little beings.  Our table, however, is a bit of a hodgepodge.

It tends to be a magnet for "treasures" that have nowhere else to go, and for dust.  (Dust is nature, right?)  However, John has taken recent interest.  So here is what lies on our table at present:

• A fallen robin's nest
• Long pine needles
• Sawed off rings from our Christmas tree
• Shells from long-ago beach trips
• Rocks
• A stick
• A stump
• Acorns and chestnut shells
• Some stuff Will glue-gunned out of cardboard
• A felt flower

I may be the biggest Nature Table fan in the household.  Others make reference to it, even if they don't give it frequent visits.  On a hike, or a trip, or in the backyard, they'll say, "Lets put this on our Nature Table."  Then, they promptly move on.

But, it serves its purpose as yet another way to give attention to little earthy treasures.  And, as with so many things (tantrums, for example), I lean on the long-term approach.  Over time, something takes hold.  Why not let it be a rock.