lost in thought
August 4, 2016 § 6 Comments
Here, where I so often safeguard my thoughts by documenting our days, there have been broad expanses of quiet in the gentle busyness of summer distractions. It has been a time of indulgent simplicity, but also one of complicated questioning as my thoughts perpetually snag on a memory from earlier this summer.
It is a day I have hesitated to sound out but cannot exclude for its relevance to our experiences.
One evening in June, my husband and I found ourselves caught in an uncomfortable conversation with acquaintances who were guests in our home. They spoke in narrow platitudes and their conviction challenged our tolerance. I was tempted to end the evening, to name their prejudice and sit in judgment of their words.
I might have called out the offense, but their children were playing happily upstairs. Their daughter has been a kind and generous, thoughtful, friend to our daughter as she settled into our new community. And so I hesitated, wondering:
Is it better to offer a safe space for different beliefs or the illusion of a controlled environment? Could I refuse our children their friendship or were they stronger for the questions their differences might inspire?
There was no easy answer and I bristled against the trespass with a self-righteous indignation. How could we allow our child to spend time under the influence of those whose beliefs contradict our own? How could we not?
What if the greatest gift we could give our children was the ability to acknowledge the good within others to better speak through our disagreements, respectfully, with empathy? To see and be seen in a world that feels mapped by lines of hate.
I returned to these thoughts, day after day, as news stories kept these questions present in my doubts. I began to wonder what might happen if instead of responding to hate with anger we paused in our speech to listen. What if the ugliness in our world is really an echo that might dissipate in silence?
Of course my optimism might be oversimplified, but the work of offering uncomfortable kindness in place of polite performances of tolerance has created a different expectation of self.
This week, as our daughter celebrated her twelfth birthday, we included the child whose family’s beliefs are so very different from our own. I listened as the small group engaged genuinely on topics that invited conflict, but were met with genuine acceptance and realized that our children are living a kinder truth.
In the noise of so much heartache, our children (collectively) are offering empathy where others might close their heart to compassion, exercising kindness where adults so often struggle against anger. Extending patience when emotions are passionately challenged.
They are listening and learning from our hopes and fears more than any of our certainties; sounding out their own truths, choosing their own friends.
to my daughter
June 27, 2016 § 4 Comments
There are many ways I might remember yesterday, but the moment I most wish to capture, I did not see. I can speak only to the minutes before and after, admiring the in between.
You were coveting a small vase at a local art festival with insufficient funds and a determined hopefullness when you asked me if you could approach the artist with an offer for less. I wanted to tell you no; be still, be quiet, be grateful. Let what you have be enough.
Instead I gave you room enough to act. Alone.
I expected the vendor would politely refuse you, but your face told another story.
There was so much joy in your expression; exuberance as you displayed your bright, pink bag.
The artist engaged your question and indulged your request; she sold her work at a fraction of its worth and honored your sense of value in the process.
You were proud, radiant in your enthusiasm as you replayed your victory.
This kind stranger respected the gumption you demonstrated and celebrated your interest in her work by accepting your offer. You taught me a lesson in reckless trust and uncertain effort; leaping toward confidence and gambling hope.
Love, Mom
to market
June 24, 2016 § 4 Comments
Maybe it was the predictable pattern of beach days or the sudden breeze that pulled at loose ends and shuffled my sense of order, but yesterday found me gathering the kids into a different direction as we headed to our local farmers market.
Crowded sidewalks with broken lines and overlapping conversations trailed behind us like small children with sticky fingers. Fresh produce and artisan baked goods bookending handmade gifts and overpriced lemonade. We ate curled into shade to avoid hot park benches and window shopped air conditioned offerings.
Colors like street performers created a riot of music that drew the eye pushing us through currents of congested shoppers. We sampled and explored until our bellies were full and the sun slanted against our backs, each child lost to an unexpected treasure and eager for silence.
beauty marks
June 23, 2016 § 4 Comments
Before our move I tried on each piece of clothing in my closet determined to keep only those items that fit, were in good shape, and made me feel beautiful. It was an indulgent experiment, a consciously minimalist exercise in less that lightened the work of moving while creating a need to replace a few necessary wardrobe staples.
For the past year I have happily managed without many new purchases, until now. As I filled the gaps in my children’s summer wardrobe to accommodate winter’s growth, it became obvious that my own choices were sincerely lacking. I spent an afternoon drifting between stores, struggling to find clothing that was neither matronly or juvenile, only to find myself confronted with an unhappy reflection of unflattering choices.
This was what drove me to seek direction with an outsourced service based on tidy measurements and instinctive preferences. Impersonal details that might communicate greater possibility to someone uninhibited by my skewed sense of self how I might look in something unfamiliar.
Today was my third attempt in as many shipments. The first two forays into this new experience were frustratingly disappointing. Sizes were a little off, but fabrics were hopefully delightful. Prices were reasonable and styles were novel to my daily uniform of denim and cotton. Colors and design elements began a new conversation in form and function, need and pleasure.
There have been a couple close misses, tops or dresses I wanted to keep but could not rationalize for poor fit or inconvenient practicalities, but today’s dress was a beautiful disaster. I fell in love with the lightness of the fabric as it spooled through my fingers. A whimsical design that felt immediately romantic for the ribbons of flowers and birds that chased the length of a skirt with slits cut discreetly along each leg.
For a moment, I wanted to keep the object that lulled me nearer a fantasy so I smiled as I twirled for my daughter. It was as I was smiling that she noted my wrinkles then quickly qualified them as something good; a sign that I smile so much.
In that simple acknowledgment I felt more beautiful than the elegant pattern I knew I would fold neatly to return; the dress that I wouldn’t wear for the ill-fitting design of a top too small and a style more impulsive than timeless.
I’m keeping, instead, the lines on my face and a new smile for a stolen moment of dress-up. A snapshot to hold safe this memory for another time. Grateful for the keepsakes of old smiles in telltale laugh lines.
disappearing acts
June 22, 2016 § 2 Comments
It has been thirteen days since we first disappeared beneath the sun. If I am absent among my words, I am more present in the minutes given to conscious distraction.
Weekend meals with old friends stick to weekdays stretched across an almost empty beach. I have fallen in and out of new books and squandered an afternoon among dreams.
Time feels both endless and fleeting as days blur and minutes unwind in extravagant simplicities. Watermelon cubed and chilled pasta salad, white bread that presses pleasantly in hurried bites; sunset dinners and afternoon ice cream cones.
My tidy list of summer promises and curiosities sits forgotten beneath open faced books and notes that loop around fragmented wonderings. Calendar dates like photographs not yet developed.
one day
June 9, 2016 § 3 Comments
I spotted the beach last weekend and wondered if both children might discover a new sense of familiarity this first summer away from old routines. Each season since our move brings memories that awaken a disoriented contentment, a loneliness for something uncertain or a guilty exuberance over an intangible certainty. Home is a memory of something simultaneously old and still unknown.
I wanted only an hour of their time, without guarantee they might one day return. It was all I asked for – time enough to explore a new idea for possibility over permanence.
I suggested both children consider the unfamiliar beach an experiment and reinforced my encouragements by traveling light. Faded towels and hastily filled water bottles, sunscreen and a last minute football. No books that might stretch on through shifting sun patterns or sketchbooks that would demand extra care. No elaborate sand tools or snacks. I left the unused, inexpensive inflatable rings buried in my bag as a leftover intention from another day.
A gesture of optimism or guilty bribe.
The beach was quietly busy with comfortable stretches of space between clusters of children; room enough to bury our feet long past the edges of our towels without our conversations reaching our neighbors. Toddlers wielded clumsy shovels against misshapen castles and teenagers waded past the reach of adult reminders.
My children settled into a solitary excavation of distracted amusement. Hours fell comfortably like the sand that dried against our skin and I held my thoughts while stealing photographs of their uninhibited joy least they change their minds and ask that we return home.
In the end we stayed until the temperature threatened good sense, both children bartering our leave with promises to return. One day for another and more to come after. A new pattern emerging in the sand.
to my daughter
June 7, 2016 § 3 Comments
Some days I want to gather memories into one of the many eclectic containers that litter corners of your room, your personality like bits of confetti that stick to my days making everything more interesting for your company. Little moments that cannot be strung together but only collected into a cacophony of sentiment.
Over the past week I have held turn of phrases over, delighting in fragments of humor and gentler expressions of fiery certainty. The way you cocked an eyebrow when I suggested a chore to demonstrate responsibility; the tilt of your chin as you rebutted with a demur, “we both know that won’t last.”
Or maybe I could capture the way you spontaneously unearthed painting supplies to capture a movie because you couldn’t quite sit still and touching paint to paper helped you fall further into the story line; cloaking yourself in colors as the sound lead your hand to create.
There’s catching you long past bedtime cleaning your room by balancing everything precariously from the tip of your walking stick and the way you bundled your stuffed animals curiously into a noose. I understand the moment is temporary and that the structure of your organization cannot be decoded, but there is a simple gesture of appreciation in the illusion of order.
Most definitely I would gather your language. Early speech struggles still interrupt eloquent exclamations and I may never outgrow the way you structure what everyone else sees from a perspective just askew enough that we still piece together your meaning first by shades of colorful interpretation. I must write these before they are lost to poor memory.
There was a moment only last week when you caught a music video for an artist you like and you mused over an inner turmoil when the visual presented contradicted the strength you had inferred in her talent; pieces of overly sexualized imagery that felt disjointed invited an impromptu conversation on objectification and body image.
I wonder what color your passion for individuality might inspire. Consistently inconsolable over the injustice of “girl colors” you intentionally choose objects in shades that challenge generic assumptions of femininity for creativity. Gladiator sandals to pair with your animal print blanket shaped into a toga and held by a turquoise belt and anchored by a backwards baseball cap to hide a nest of tangles.
These moments only hint at larger truths; you are profoundly insightful and playfully uninhibited, cautiously aware and tenderly curious. Flecks of spirit are ever present pieces of self; prisms that catch the light as you shape your lines of thought.
Beautiful fragments that leaving me scurrying to remember fleeting minutes of days that pass too quickly into years.
Love, Mom
good & bored
June 6, 2016 § 3 Comments
Summer vacation has officially begun, but my calendar is long forgotten. Impromptu evenings with old friends and spontaneous indulgences bookend long days of sunshine squandered in a restless independence. These hours of curious emptiness are a season of their own.
Gone are the lost years of infant naps and toddler busyness, extravagant vacations or overly choreographed afternoons; it is a time of work and rest as we complete tasks and slip guiltlessly into distraction. This first week we labored, collectively, over enclosing our yard then slipped quietly into gentler distractions.
Both children have begun resting later into the morning and playing at old interests; exploring new spaces and toying with creative endeavors. In their contentment my husband and I have had time enough to linger, together, between the bustle of booths at a farmers market, but also to delight in stolen moments of easy confidence with each child, separately.
I am planning less, moving beneath the sun in search of active stillness and cool pockets of shade. It is a time of searching without ambition and delighting in uncommonly beautiful discoveries. A season that invites boredom for the magic of exploration.
fenced in
June 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
My husband and I have been a bit off, short on patience and disconnected. We jump from irritation to assumption, quickly without looking for the best.
Mostly, we were just tired and distracted. Busy and empty.
Then, we took on a project. As the homes adjacent to our property sold, we recognized a timely need for a fence. Months of our pup commandeering neighboring yards had us worried about alienating strangers with unfortunate bathroom breaks.
So, with lots of space between us, we built a fence around us. Together.
It began with help. Someone stronger than me to balance my husband’s muscle as they set about hefting an auger through feet of clay; establishing space for concrete footings. The days that followed were long days under an unforgiving sky. Tedious work timed to weather forecasts and threats of impending rain.
That first day I began anticipating my husband’s steps and working ahead of his requests. It’s something we don’t often do.
As parents of older children and adults with divided responsibilities, we’ve moved past the early days of courtship. We rally in moments of celebration and appreciation, frustration or harm, but the uneventful days can be overshadowed by a self-centered rote performance of needs with fleeting respites to indulge wants.
We move through meals and household tasks, errands and a myriad of responsibilities without much thought for offers to help or opportunities to ask. Beneath a burdensome sun and under a time restraint, with an end in sight and physical pieces that needed assembly there was an easy assumption of shared effort and an immediate demand for partnership.
My husband and I took the opportunity to voice messages of appreciation as we exercised grater patience in partnership. At day’s end we’re more understanding of each other’s sore muscles and tender emotions, our own strength and the generosity of one another’s help.
Insofar as this is a journal of our days, it must also be said that our children have matured into their own place of partnership in these memories. Our son shouldering greater responsibility to physically demanding tasks and our daughter growing into more independent efforts to assist with practical necessities. Each offering help without hesitation or expectation of acknowledgment.
full circle
May 27, 2016 § 2 Comments
This morning both children paused patiently to accommodate an end-of-the-year photograph. Long after the bus had delivered them to their last day of school, I was drawn to the image; remembering a photograph from their first day this past August.
In both pictures our son looks rooted to an easy confidence in complete uncertainty. That first fall morning he did not yet have a class schedule for his new school, but he was undaunted. Today, despite lingering anxiety over final exams, he stood unhurried in a moment of delayed sentiment for the significance of the moment.
The greater difference was our daughter.
Leaning against our son this morning, our daughter had shed the tender discomfort of last fall. In August she stood burdened with supplies she held tightly in a backpack pressed securely to her chest; an armor of necessity to ward off sadness and uncertainty. Today her posture was open, unguarded; a genuine mess of ease. The baseball cap that has become her signature accessory and her binder slung haphazardly, cutting the length of her torso as she leaned into a playful posture of amused contentment.
We’ve come full circle, but it’s so much more than milestone photographs and school year celebrations.
Our children are settling into their new community, making our house a home, but they are also becoming more of themselves. This past year they have settled into discomfort in a way that has demanded they look inward for a sense of self they might have previously found in others.
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