in a really rare moment, we had the amazing chance to have our children and their partners gather around the dining room table with us. to say i was thrilled would be an absolute understatement. it had been six years since we had actually been together – my two children and us. it was a giant gift and i am grateful for it.
plates, pasta, wine, bread – all were merely props as i gazed around me, watching these beloved faces, listening to laughter and conversation. i tried hard to memorize all of it. these brilliant, creative seeds of tomorrow, bright lights of real humans, of good people.
the next day we hiked, just d and me, after everyone had left. we talked about our blink-of-an-eye time with our adult children, about the fun chaos in the kitchen the night before, about the teasing and the ribbing. and i found myself holding onto the filmy threads of each moment before they flew away.
the photographs will help, of course. they will be posted in our kitchen and i will pass by them, often looking at them and smiling. but inside, i will hold onto the way it all felt, the heart-stopping hunger i had felt longing for a moment together, the breath i could exhale as i sat at the same table with my children and their partners or as we all clustered together in photographs.
but i know i won’t be able to hold onto all of it. time tugs at memory like that.
and the clustered fluffs of seeds will be tugged out of the pod by gentle breezes and fierce winds. they will swirl about and land somewhere, planting. another milkweed.
and i hope there will be another table-sitting somewhere soon – all together – as these brilliant humans go about their all-grown-up lives, swirling about with gentle breezes and fierce winds at their backs.
every single bit of the dandelion that is you is unprepared for the flight of the fluffy feathery pappus of the puffball off and beyond.
though the flight of these filaments is your ultimate goal – to give lift to these children who have merely been loaned to you for a time – their jet-stream-like flight takes you by surprise, leaves you a little breathless and a little astounded as you watch them fly, dispersed by the wind. your hearts – the extra ones that were birthed in you at the time of their arrival – clench a little in the moment of their departure, wonder at the very, very big change in how you are then defined in the world.
and you realize, perhaps, that you suddenly understand how your own sweet momma (and dad) felt. the moment they retired and moved. the moment you moved away, likely to not return to live in their locale again. the moment you no longer stop by at any old time. the moment it required more planning, more travel, more arrangements to see each other.
and you try to adjust – your little dandelion heart works hard to put it all into perspective, to recognize the natural order of things, to grok that this is the way of the universe – birth, growth, independence. it is the way of the dandelion. as beautiful as it was, the yellow flower was not the pinnacle; the puffball is essential for these amazing children to go, to become, to make their mark on the world, to change things for all time.
but that same little dandelion heart sometimes just aches a little – for the days they were satisfied with lap-sitting and book-reading together, or the days you endlessly shopped together, or the days you sat on the sidelines of their game or their match or their race or their concert or their recital, or the days you simply were together – sharing space and time – sharing time in the same space.
i knew my own momma was my biggest fan – despite any disagreement we might have had along the way. she was the cheerleader of my life in the same way that i carry pompoms for my own children, in all their sharing of steep summits and challenges and bliss and angst. they will always be the first thing i think of in the morning and the last thing at night as i tuck them in with whispered prayers i poof to them like blown kisses or – maybe – like dandelion pappus in the breeze.
time will keep moving and i can feel it now.
“it’s friday again,” i look at d.
“and it’s june,” he replies.
wow.
and my grown children keep growing – in their own physical, concentric worlds. and i keep going – in mine. and when those two worlds meet – when they bump up against each other and sit still for a spell – my dandelion heart is ecstatic.
the owner of this gorgeous paw, dogga has us wrapped around it. he wrapped around our hearts the moment we saw him, a gangly puppy just three months old.
and on his least favorite day – the day the entire world around him sets off loud fireworks – he will celebrate his birthday. eleven. and where did the time go?
this is the dogdog who traveled innumerable miles in littlebabyscion, particularly back and forth to florida while my sweet momma was ailing in her last year and a half. this is the dogdog who was in love with his babycat, bowing to his feline alpha-ness. this is the dogdog who stared at the front door – not moving – waiting for his babycat to come home after his best friend died. this is the dogdog who chewed our kitchen table legs and the trim of my mom’s kitchen cabinetry (which we cleverly replaced with trim from behind the fridge). this is the dogdog who didn’t do well in elevation, the dogdog who fell in our pond and never really liked the idea of water since. this is the dogdog who has sat with us for happy hour in the driveway in LBS with the air conditioning running. this is the dogdog who loved the giant number of ukulele band rehearsals and gatherings and parties at our house. this is the dogdog who earned himself an official, full-size european traffic circle sign in our backyard. this is the dogdog who used to eat goose poop but has lifted his palate to chips and aged cheddar and carrots and – mostly – any kind of peoplefood he is offered. this is the dogdog who adores digging holes and checks on the bunnies in the ornamental grasses. this is the dogdog who protects d – running the perimeter – when he takes out the garbage. the dogdog with amazing amber eye contact. the dogdog who will convince us to gear-it-down by retreating to the bathroom. the dogdog who anticipates our every move. the dogdog who will go on any errand at any time, who backs-up when asked (thank you to daena for this!), who has clearly-beloved people (20, his girl kirsten), who spins and speaks and shakes and gives “five” and says “love you” back and won’t touch even the treatiest treat if you tell him not to. this is the dogdog who likes to lead – not necessarily “heel”, the dogdog who barks like a maniac when his favorite dachshunds are out, who will stand in the yard – right smack in the middle of the backyard, bark and wait for an answer – like he watched 101 dalmations and knows about the bark chain. the dogdog who leaves tufts of aussie fur everywhere he goes. the dogdog who loveslovesloves his chicken-and-rice-and-peas-and-caaarits for dinner, peoplefood we now make him and package for dinner every night. this is the dogdog who lives for belly-bellies, the dogdog who runs out of gas about 8pm, the dogdog who loves sleepynightnight and its rituals.
THAT dogdog.
on his birthday we’ll do the best we can to reassure him – our neighborhood, unfortunately, is a fracas of fireworks.
i’ve seen on social media where people post suggestions – donate dogfood to a shelter instead of purchasing fireworks and other such goodnesses. i wish the people in the ‘hood would do that. there are beautiful big displays put on by the city they could attend. it would scare fewer domestic pets and certainly be less of a terror for all the wildlife.
as a person who grew up with sparklers as the end-all of fourth of july celebrations, i would think that grownups could defer to what’s best for pets and birds and squirrels and chippies and deer and, well, anything out there that doesn’t know what to do in the middle of those explosions.
but – maybe they don’t have a dogdog who has stolen their heart forever. maybe they can’t feel the fear or anxiety of another living creature. maybe they don’t feel the love. maybe they don’t care. they sure didn’t learn that from a dog.
we will be home – inside – hugging on our dogga on the fourth. wishing him a happy birthday and wishing for quiet to come outside as soon as possible.
it was somewhat inconspicuous. the heartrock just tucked in with the rest of them, quiet, unassuming. it knew it would be seen; it knew it would be recognized. it was not unexpected – particularly that very day.
because earlier in the day – that very day – just a tad bit earlier – right before lunch – in late morning – inconspicuously and quietly – my beloved girl married her best friend. and, as unassuming as they wished this all to be, nevertheless, there were six parents in the world who felt the shift of the earth, whose heartstrings were tugged, who held her and held him – both – closely – in these intentionally-unassuming but admittedly-profound moments. sans tulle and without a nod to anything traditional, our families connected the dots and joined together. and a new chapter started.
i would have been surprised not to stumble across the rock that day. i worked kind of hard at not leading toooo much from my heart, tried to be casual, mellowishly nonchalant even. but i’m sure i lost some laidback points that day. i was celebrating my beautiful and fiercely bold daughter, who was choosing this dearest guy with whom to spend life. it’s a big deal for a momma…if not from an event-ish place, definitely from a heart-place.
and that particular day, the heartrock was waiting for me. it was just a couple hours past the moment. we took a walk – a most exquisite stroll – slowly through the sanctuary and it nodded at me as i started to pass by, making sure i noticed, grounding me. i let out a deep breath, a few happy tears. it was a stunning day in aspen.
because that particular day was different. not the mountains, not the blue sky and brilliant sun, not the smell of pine and the early quaking aspen leaves, not the roaring fork river gurgling.
the axis had shifted a little and things were changed.
and six moms and dads were there to hold space as part of our hearts married.
roller-coaster-soap-opera-never-a-dull-moment-ever-changing life gifts us with people along the way.
some of them are in it – with us, as it’s said, for a season. we fill each other’s cups with the companionship of friends or loved ones, but time has a way of placing itself between people and proximity of place or heart push at the ability to spend time. schedules and responsibilities and changes interrupt the flow together and we drift.
some people are in it – with us – for specific reasons. they are colleagues, they are universe-drop-ins who walk alongside as we grow and evolve, in our work, on a walk we have chosen, a trail we have been set upon. they stop at waysides as we travel on and we lose touch.
others are just there. they may be constant companions; they may be in-and-out. but, whenever we wish or they wish, they are there and we are there. they ride the coaster with us, laugh with us, ponder with us, cry with us, get pissed with us, celebrate with us. we share stories, we share the truth, we share disappointments, challenges, impossible summits. it can be weeks, months, years and it is just as easy. they are touchstones in our lives and, likely, always will be. we spend time together and time apart, but they are never far away. they are our posse. and we could not do life without them.
we stopped on the trail and i sat on a bench, pulling off the boots that were making my feet beyond sore. jen offered her socks; she offered her boots. instead of rendering her shoe or sock-less, i used her bandaids. we loaded up my feet with bandaids and i didn’t tie the boots, clomping through a few miles in the snow, curling my toes to keep them from falling off. i whined about it and i apologized for whining about it. and i promised that next week – in our next hike – i would wear different boots. two times hiking in these was enough. we talked about feet most of the way back, for there is not much we won’t discuss – at length. brad yawned through my health insurance rant, but he listened intently anyway. we cheered with dark beer and brandy-old-fashioned-sweets at a neighborhood bar next to the railroad tracks. we made plans and talked about life and the previous week, another episode in the sitcoms and serial drama miniseries of our lives. right there, listening and caring. there.
we’ll have snacks at happy hour – though it will be followed shortly by a huge dinner together. but we all love to eat and the up-north gang does it well. we’ll talk about everything under the sun and we’ll laugh. nothing is off the table as we all age together, listing the things we are concerned about. we are an all-inclusive in-service about all that stuff, comparing notes, making recommendations, giving advice. it’s totally reassuring. we know who to call if – any time of day or night – there is water in the basement or if the tv antenna falls or if we need new tires or a pair of glasses. there. they are right there.
the perch a couple nights ago was done to perfection, as were the potatoes and cabbage slabs. 20 was in his glory; his wheelhouse includes fishhhh (as he says it) and cabbage. we eat together twice a week. every week. we take turns cooking and every meal includes wine and chocolate. he goes way back – 30 years almost – and his presence is a rock for us. through thick and thin he has remained steady. we keep track of the week by our mondays and thursdays together. there.
and there are those people – who can call on the phone from far away or across town – and with whom we can pick up as if no time has passed. we can laugh about the seinfeld episodes of mutual time, we can pine for time spent, we can rue how quickly time has passed. the thing we know – no matter what – is that they – and we – are there. whether we see them or not, no matter if it has been a long while, these people are always part of the very fabric of our lives and they are vital. they remember who we were, how we changed, what we went through. they know the gumption it took to get us to where we are now. they recognize us. they are from our elementary schools, our high schools, our colleges, our first jobs, our professional ladder rungs along the way. they are the people we met on airplanes, while shopping, at tennis tournaments, across the street. they are random and superbly unique and we celebrate meeting them – wherever it was. they are in our mind’s eye standing aside us through it all, whether in person or in spirit. their souls entwine with ours.
and then there are the beloveds. people whose dna is connected to ours in some way, people whose curve-of-face resembles ours, whose expressions we know by heart, without whom we would never be who we are. they are scattered, too, around the world and, though we wish – yearn – to see them often and more often, it is not so. nevertheless, they hold the prime spots in our hearts and are always right there, a breath away. our families.
so many chances to love, to feel love. so much time spent together. so much gratitude on the coaster.
there is something so delicious about going away. we left town and the cold north for florida. it was just for a few days, but the difference in climate is stunning. when you are not – in general – wearing your 32 degrees base layer or your earmuffs on a walk or your furry boots and you have traded it all for cropped jeans and flipflops and no-sleeves, it is a joy. the sun shined down on us as we visited together – our family – a ridiculous and unbelievable four years since we had seen them. we stuffed conversations into nooks and crannies of time and cheered glasses and cooked and took walks and played thomas-the-tank-engine with the tiny two-year-old-miracle who is now in the fam as well. in the middle of it, we suddenly realized how fast it was all going. and then, it was time to board. masks on – two of like four people in the entire tampa airport – we got on the plane and zipped through the air back home.
there is something so delicious about getting home. behind us we had left dogdog in the ever-capable hands of our 20. behind us we had left the worries and angsts of the moment, of this time. behind us we had left our 32 degrees base layers and hats and gloves. behind us we had left all vestiges of our normal schedule and normal routines.
we exited the plane, stopped at the meditation room at milwaukee airport and got into a cold but completely happy-to-see-us littlebabyscion (i may be projecting here) and drove home, getting more excited each minute. 20 had soup and bread ready for us when we got there. he knows how to tend to those basic comforts – those things that reassure when you have left part of your heart behind somewhere else. and then…that deep tiredness – that happens after you have been away and have arrived back home – sunk in.
sleep came early and then we woke early. looking out the window we watched the snow fall. it’s winter in wisconsin and it looks like winter. i like that. i need the seasons to go by…it’s part of my own process as well.
as the flakes get larger and i write this i know that today is a home-day. i just need to stay home, do the laundry, look at the lists i left, process leaving family-i-love behind. tomorrow i will go out. tomorrow is soon enough.
today i just need to absorb the “welcome home” and listen to the quiet snow fall.
i wonder if the tree looked in the mirror and counted rings, pondering the impetus behind each one, the reasons for the wrinkles of years, ever-forming, ever-widening. it is doubtful that the tree gazed, searching the rearview mirror for clues, connective tissue, remembrances of angst or sublime moments. it seems more likely that the tree just accepted each concentric ring, the truth of time. it seems more likely that the tree recognized the steady strength it gained for each ring, the rootedness each ring-wrinkle brought to it.
it would seem that this could be a good lesson from nature for us. the natural, raw, untouched passing of time shown on our faces, each beautiful in aging. we could acknowledge the years and the easy and the hardships. we could bow to the accumulation of moments, time flying by as we gather minutes in our embrace. we could turn toward each other, accepting and without judgment, full of grace and care, measuring only our love for each other, unbiased by wrinkles or rings, color or patina. we could tenderly touch the faces of our beloveds and marvel.
but have no illusions. you cannot purchase them in december. at no time – when i have gone searching the stores in december – have i been able to find them. for they are already all gone, scooped up by zealous ornament-gatherers, present-wrapping-embellishers, holiday-magic-creators.
so if you want them – these delicate snowflakes that sort of resemble the ones people used to make of string and flour or glue and glitter – you need to plan ahead. you must be ahead of the curve, at the front line of festivity-planning, your dollar bills in your hand as you troll the stores, scooping.
i purchased numerous packs of these one year. it was a time of transition for me. i had realized that i, actually, didn’t really like tons of bright red and green together and that christmas was fraught with all kinds of stress for so many people, including me, and i just wanted to simplify a little bit.
it started years ago when i decided not to ornament-decorate the tree. we kept it a little more natural with just white lights and it felt serene when – late at night – we’d turn off the light fixtures in the living room and just sit, keeping vigil with the tree. we are still trying to keep tranquility at the center. i’ve added tiny pine trees – sans anything. we’ve added branches and white lights. and we’ve added snowflakes and silver balls.
one of these days i would like to have a big retro tree. i’ll add all the ornaments of history to it – a tree full of salt dough stars and bells and paper mache snowmen, treasured gifts from family and friends, former students and choir members, memories to spark stories for hours. though i haven’t hung it in years, i can see the rogers christmas house ice skating ornament clearly in my mind’s eye. and small pine, a reminder of the sweet story my children and i loved.
and one of these days i would like to have another big retro tree. it will be decorated with old delicate mercury glass ornaments of my sweet momma’s and poppo’s. i remember these, as i take them out of the box, like it was yesterday. i remember decorating the tree on abby drive and my dad painstakingly adding tinsel, one strand at a time, christmas carols playing in the background. i was a child and lots of it was magical, but even then i could feel the holiday stress, expectations, frenetic energy.
the last time both of my own beloved children were home together for christmas was 2014. they have been living far and wide on mountaintops and in big cities and, with limited time off, haven’t been able to make it. we’ve celebrated on the phone, on facetime, on zoom, and we watch them open presents from our couch. a couple times we had real-life moments in chicago with our son and last year we sat with him on a restaurant patio, clustered under gas heaters in 17 degrees in january, having dinner and watching him open gifts in a time of pandemic. it is with great anticipation we wait for his arrival later this week, an opportunity to hug on him and his boyfriend.
sometimes i wonder if my children would both be more likely to be home here together if their dad and i were still married. i know that holiday magic might be far less magical in a less-than-perfectly-perfect household. the thought brings sadness to my core. i struggle, just like so many, some who are living “traditional” lives, some in unconventional lives, some in times of challenge and some with everything they ever needed. nevertheless, i – like moms everywhere – want the magic to continue, want the dreamy holiday and the warm cocoon of love and celebration. i want to create the quintessential stuff of snowflakes and big family dinners and gingerbread and sugar plums. and i – like moms everywhere – know that i can only do the best i can.
the stats on a blogsite show the individual blogs that have been read. this morning – the day i am writing this for today – there was a post from 2018. i talked about roots and wings and children and yearning. i quoted my daughter stating that i was “high maintenance” and laughed it off back then, comparing myself in my mind to other moms through the years whose behavior i have witnessed as indeed much higher maintenance. for, though the words of desiderata ring true for all of us “do not compare yourself with others, for you will become vain and bitter….for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself” we still do it. we still compare and measure and wish and feel ourselves come up lacking. i also wrote in that post that if wanting more time with one’s children was high maintenance, then i supposed that the adjective fit. que sera sera.
joyce maynard used to write a column – called domestic affairs. she shared a 1985 column on sunday, writing about the attempt to make christmas perfect and the bitter reality of its imperfection and its crazy-making. it is a roller coaster of emotion – this holiday season. and there are times that i sit and wonder, trying to magicalize it for my family, for my children, now adults, who i love with all my heart. i have wanted to help the universe dazzle for their holiday, to make each christmas perfect. yet i know that they won’t be. perfect, that is.
i look around me, around our life. sometimes i think that the raucous sounds of holiday music and cookie-baking and a turkey in the oven and wrap all over the floor are the only things that would make it ideal. and sometimes i know – deep in my heart – that all i want, really, is to love and be loved, to share a little time and know that my presence makes a tiny difference – in the unique way of a snowflake – in the lives of all those i adore.
there is a magazine i look at most every day. it is a simple-magazine publication and features container gardens of all sorts. each time i page through it i see something new, get ideas, wonder about unique re-purposing, changing old typewriters or baskets into succulent planters or large-animal feed scoops or galvanized tubs into fence pots. the photography shows beautiful plants in all seasons of growth and it makes creative juju pick up pace.
we walked slowly through the daniel stowe botanical garden with our daughter and her boyfriend, enjoying every second. the greenhouse was steamy and we got misted as we walked. gorgeous orchids punctuated the tropical plants. we stopped to read information, take pictures, admire textures and the colors that looked like dr seuss had taken crayons to everything.
the monstera deliciosa (or aptly-named swiss cheese plant) captured our attention. nature has a way of making sure that rainwater and dew are properly retained yet the leaves are not perpetuating algae or molds, fungus or disease. amazing. instead, waxy fronds or holey swiss-cheesed leaves let the droplets roll off, keeping them open to sunlight. each plant has its own system for balance, all depending on its ever-changing circumstances.
the day at the garden was over too soon; visiting is like that. there were only a few days and it’s hard to fit months and months of not-seeing into bits and pieces of 72 hours.
i now know why my sweet momma always had lists when i called or visited with her. there were things she wanted to know, needed to know, that she didn’t want to forget to ask. there were tiny and big questions about my daily life she wondered about – the extraordinary and the mundane, my feelings about things happening in the world, curiosities she had about my comings and goings and adventures and challenges and transitions. she just simply wished to hear my stories, have a window into my life. without being too invasive, without crossing the ever-changing-invisible-tightrope-line, she wanted to share in it, be a part of it. i get it.
kc, my bonsai gardenia plant, is difficult, “one of the most loved and challenging plants”. i never know if i am watering her enough or too much, if her brown-edged leaves are due to too much attention or too little attention. she has not had a bloom, though she did have two hopeful buds. she is not easy, but she is beautiful and particular and i am determined. charlie, my heart-leaf philodendron, the other plant that was also a lovely gift from my beloved daughter, is easy. she grows no matter what. she is healthy and thriving. she is green and lush and i can practically see her smiling. charlie is the opposite of kc. treasured plants on our garden table in ever-changing light and seasons as they grow, so much like the diversity of real living, i talk to them every day; i appreciate and adore them. they are lessons.
and it occurs to me that these two beautiful plants, both on the table in our sunroom, are – indeed – the spectrum definition of motherhood, the nature of every single cherished relationship, the easy-hard, the fragile-resilient, the holding-on-letting-go, bursting blooms and foliage or the missing of blooms, the learnings, the balance of unconditional love. perhaps a good addition would be this happy swiss cheese plant, a reminder to let it all roll off and keep on keeping on.
he’s the lock screen on my phone. that babycat. every morning i tell him “good morning”. every morning, still, i get a pang looking at his green eyes and the white stripe on his black-fur-face. he is sooo missed.
i made the bed the other day and found tiny white hairs scattered on the comforter. it made me wonder if he had stopped by. i know dogga misses him too, and babycat was dedicated to his dog, so maybe he did come by, just to reassure him.
these pets of ours. vital parts of our hearts, they enhance life, entertaining us, grounding us, loving us unconditionally.
as empty-nesters they are what receive our daily attention, our daily nurturing, our daily worrying. their absence is profound. though gigantic statement of love, it is a great loss felt each day when a furred member of our family is gone.
i would like to believe that babycat is somehow still around. i’d like to believe that he knows – that he’s still adored, that we pine for him, that dogdog sometimes still seems to be waiting for his return. that his life – absolutely – changed mine and, for that, i will evermore be grateful.
reverse threading 