we walked The Girl to kindergarten. it was spring and sunny and warm. dandelions were everywhere. on the way home, The Boy dropped my hand to toddler-zigzag around a yard where dandelions > grass by far (kind of like ours.) he bent down and picked yellow flower upon yellow flower. until he came running back to me. he held up his sweaty-dirty-little-boy fist, full of bright yellow and green dandelions and said, “woses for momma.”
the quiet and not-so-quiet moments of comforting. your child. your friend. your partner. when they see the storm coming and you are there. when the storm is raging around them and you are there. when the eye of the storm gives false pause and you are there. when the tides pull back and regain momentum and you are there. when the storm has finally passed, the debris is fierce and you are there. when the rebuilding starts and you are there. the storm – physical or emotional – does not have to be endured alone.
now, my sweet momma was pretty directive at times. she knew what she wanted and was pretty specific about it. even from the seat in her wheelchair in later days she would direct traffic or let you know exactly where she wanted to go and if you were doing it right. then there was the electric wheelchair. she got to be in charge.
it took scaling a mountain and zooming off into outer space and back to make all the arrangements that would eventually deliver an electric wheelchair to her assisted living facility. but all of that fades in the memory of her phone call. she had been practicing and practicing, trying to grasp how to make the chair go forward or turn or go backward without running into things or people. we kept telling her, “you got this!” her confidence was thin and i know she felt like she would never really be able to master that chair. until that day.
she called to say that she had gone down to breakfast. in her chair. alone. and when she got there, a woman at her table told her about how there had been an author there, sharing her newly published book, reading, autographing; it had all been quite exciting, she told my momma. my sweet momma looked at her, i’m sure smiling broadly and sitting up as straight as she could in her electric wheelchair and said, “that was me!”
never underestimate a granny gps. there’s so much possibility.
The Boy is sometimes very wise. there is this moment from years ago i carry with me, a moment in the kitchen. i was particularly upset and had been for some time. it was a time of darkness for me. my son looked at me and said (words to the effect), “mom. you are going round and round in a circle. every time you get close to the top you get pulled back down into the circle. you need to be a ray.”
as a math person, the circle and ray analogies are good ones. i can visualize these. the circle, the cycle. and a ray makes sense. starting at one point and going ever-outward. never returning to the very initial point again.
as a sun person, the ray is also good. it brings beautiful images of streaming sun through the clouds, of warmth and light. a ray always brings light; it gives light. it is light.
good words, my beautiful son. yes, indeed. be a ray. shine.
lumi is our granddog. she is our only grand-anything so far, so she, like all first grand-anythings, holds an esteemed place in our hearts. kirsten and becky adopted her the end of last summer and, in many ways, they are learning what it is like to have a toddler. well, kind of. happily, The Girl sends me photos and videos of lumi-girl, the “powderhound” (as she says). she is an amazing little dog, literally chasing their snowboards down gigantic mountains, zigging and zagging behind them. she hikes long distances uphill with them as well, as they splitboard up seeking height and good snow. many of the videos are of lumi at night, mushing into the blankets, curled up next to them, sleeping, snoring, in funny positions. she goes everywhere with them. they worry about her, accommodate her needs, love her desperately. lumi roots their little family.
and what better way to root a family, but in love. in steady, holding-fast, unconditional adoration.
The Girl and The Boy were little when i wrote and recorded this piece of music GIVE ME ROOTS, GIVE THEM WINGS. the title wording was deliberate; it was stunning to me how rooted having children made me feel and yet i knew that, even from the very start, just as i was giving them roots, i was also giving them wings. the toughest part. that letting go thing. The Girl told me today that i was high maintenance. me??? “what???” i said. she said, “have you ever MET you?” wow. straight to the gut. lol. she made me laugh. i guess as a momma i may want a littlemorelittlemorelittlemore time….
when The Girl was a baby, jenny gave me a cross-stitched picture with the words “give them roots, give them wings.” bittersweet words. how little i knew back then.
no matter any other job i have had or will have or any other work i have done or will do, i will always consider motherhood the most important. i cherish every moment of all of it, even the very hardest moments. The Girl and The Boy are out in the world, doing what makes them happy, close or far away.
they root me. yes. even as i continue to watch their wings lift higher and higher.
my sweet momma used to love to walk in the rain. matter of fact, she adored it. my poppo? not so much. but my momma would revel in it; she said it made her hair curly, which, for her, was a good thing.
we have gotten caught in the rain numerous times while out hiking. soft, gentle rain or even downpours. on the trail it just adds to the fun. the rain also makes MY hair curly, much to my chagrin. but d loves it that way….he must also love rag mops. (now, as an aside, i googled “rag mop” to make sure you would understand which kind of mop i was talking about and found this great old song. listen if you have time.)
there must be a time you were standing in the rain and everything slowed down, even the raindrops. it all became slow motion and life was about that very second, breathing in sweet-rain-dewy-air.
this morsel of a painting SLOW MOTION RAIN, soft and somewhat abstract, reminds me of those moments. slow motion rain is a little piece of EARTH INTERRUPTED IV.
heidi, in moments of stress or joy, always asks, “what’s the learning?” a good question to lead with, to sort with, a question that helps things make sense.
this Flawed cartoon, the picture of a teaching moment. good grief, there are so many! teaching moments. learning moments. every single day.
we sit for hours, plotting, scheduling, designing products, writing, working out technology quirks (or not.) somewhere in the middle of 8-10 hours, we will look at each other, glazed. “coffee!” we chorus. we move into the kitchen, maybe outside if it is warm and if that spot on the deck where we lean against the house is sunny. (it’s only april – it could still snow, so the outdoor furniture is not yet in place.) just a little moving around helps and then we are back working.
but at the end of the day – that’s a different story. we are tired, but we have to move. we have to walk. anywhere. around the hood, along the lake, out in the county in the woods. it’s amazing how much more energy i have after hiking a few miles. moving begets moving.
i’m thinking that’s true in many ways. learning begets learning. opening our minds begets, yes, more opening of our minds. faith begets faith. working out begets more working out. it’s the starting that makes it all happen. don’t wait. move.
it was the first. the very first butterfly of this season. we both stopped to watch it as it freely flitted around the path in front of us. it felt like another harbinger of spring; maybe it’s really here. a few minutes later we stopped and sat for a few minutes. we didn’t talk; we just listened to the woods. the rest was soft and rejuvenating. the quiet was punctuated by birds and chipmunks. even a raccoon came out to wander. we got back up, ready for more hiking.
i distinctly remember a day i sat in the front yard. it was summer and, just like chicken marsala in this chicken nugget, there was a butterfly that came to light on my hand. it circled around and came back, landing on my knee, my foot. it felt like a message to me, a reinforcement to quietly sit in the sun.
this world is full of chaos and confusion, deadlines and worries. looking at the furrows lining people’s brows, it is obvious that we don’t take enough time to just rest, just sit, just soak in new energy, just let butterflies lead the way. good things will come.
reverse threading 