Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I am so not ready
Can somebody show me where the pause button is?
This morning I was walking with my son to his classroom as I have been doing for the past ten days. The autumn air hovered around 54 degrees. I looked at him bundled in lofty fleece and khaki shorts, and thought to myself, "Good call on the extra layers."
A fellow classmate approached with a proud spring in his step and announced, "I can walk to class by myself these days."
Oh no, here it comes.
But it didn't. Wilson continued walking next to me though he did look at me. I saw the question roll over in his mind and across his brow like a subtle current shifting in a calm ocean tide. He looked ahead down the long sidewalk to the elementary school building watching the other children enter and exit with and without parents as if to measure, to count, to assess the proportion of children with parents compared to those without.
Still we walked, and he is classmate chattered away about this and that. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy counting my steps knowing full well that these might be my very last walked with my son to his classroom. Each leg up sent me whirling into space as if without gravity; my anchor gone. I placed each foot down with relief that I still remained tethered to what I have come to know is my life-rope to my purpose: I am a mother still connected by an albeit invisible umbilical cord so not ready to cut the tie...for the length has been stretched to capacity. This time, it is not up to the doctor or me to cut the tie; this cut is purely, 100% up to my son. And I am not ready.
I believe I got about 24 steps in before Wilson turned to me and said, "I can take it from here." Though he said it quietly, I heard him loud and clear. I so wanted to ask him, "What did you say?" (lovingly, of course) or ask, "Are you sure?"
But I knew he was sure. After all, he said, "I can take it from here." Not, "I think I can take it from here."
Gulp.
"Ok, my love," I said. I knelt down and hugged him, kissed his soft cheek. "Have a great day." I stood and watched him walk away from me towards the giant doors that swing out and envelope all those who enter with warmth, laughter, rules, negotiations, games, queries, telephone calls, instructions, choices, consequences, seen and unseen, known and unknown, but all in the pursuit of growth and becoming more independent.
I stood and watched as his classmate ran through the door letting it shut in Wilson's face. He turned and looked at me. Gulp. "Stay put," I coached myself. And before I said, "You can get it," he turned back and pulled it open. The door flung wide. Surprising himself by his own strength, he hopped out of the way and entered.
Bye-bye, Momma.
Bye-bye.
I stood and did not want to turn around to return to my car.
Can I stay here in this one spot all day?
Can I stay here and wait for him to make sure he comes back out in 8 hours?
Can I stay here so that when he does come out he will know that I waited for him?
Better yet can I build a memorial right here on this spot and engrave the date and epitaph: "On this day, September 14, 2011, Wilson Riley Harold Vest did bravely depart his beloved mother, Michelle Lynn Baker, for the shores of independence at 8:04 a.m."
Before I made an utter fool of myself, I turned and walked, and looked at all the other mothers whose children left them at the curb. They jumped into their cars - professionals by now - some even with young precocious preschoolers. Wow, I am so glad mine hung on a little longer.
Yes, call it selfish but I can't help it. I am so not ready for Wilson to be any older. Where is the pause button? I want to press it right here, right now, and stop time: these moments when he still asks me to play with him, these moments where he still reaches out and takes my hand, these moments when he holds my arm when I read him bedtime stories. Please don't let it end. This is way too hard.
I keenly remember the early days when he was just an infant. If only I had my wits about me then to relish the sweetness of those days. It is not fair they are wasted on exhausted and shell-shocked parents. I'd love to be able to go back with the energy I have now...but I don't suppose that goes together: new parents with newborns who have all the sleep, nutrition and support they need. Ok, maybe the rare few do.
I remember being so eager for Wilson to walk. I can honestly say mothering for me began to come more "naturally" once he began to walk. And it has been these days from Wilson turning 1 to now being 6 that have been preciously magical.
I know, I know, I've heard everyone say it only gets better. But right now, in this moment, no, it doesn't get any better than the moment leading up to "I can take it from here."
And it is precisely the beauty and stability of all those moments that lead to "I can take it from here."
Life is deeply bittersweet. I savor this moment...quietly, reverently, humorously, lovingly, sorrowfully, proudly...fully.
This is the pause.
This morning I was walking with my son to his classroom as I have been doing for the past ten days. The autumn air hovered around 54 degrees. I looked at him bundled in lofty fleece and khaki shorts, and thought to myself, "Good call on the extra layers."
A fellow classmate approached with a proud spring in his step and announced, "I can walk to class by myself these days."
Oh no, here it comes.
But it didn't. Wilson continued walking next to me though he did look at me. I saw the question roll over in his mind and across his brow like a subtle current shifting in a calm ocean tide. He looked ahead down the long sidewalk to the elementary school building watching the other children enter and exit with and without parents as if to measure, to count, to assess the proportion of children with parents compared to those without.
Still we walked, and he is classmate chattered away about this and that. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy counting my steps knowing full well that these might be my very last walked with my son to his classroom. Each leg up sent me whirling into space as if without gravity; my anchor gone. I placed each foot down with relief that I still remained tethered to what I have come to know is my life-rope to my purpose: I am a mother still connected by an albeit invisible umbilical cord so not ready to cut the tie...for the length has been stretched to capacity. This time, it is not up to the doctor or me to cut the tie; this cut is purely, 100% up to my son. And I am not ready.
I believe I got about 24 steps in before Wilson turned to me and said, "I can take it from here." Though he said it quietly, I heard him loud and clear. I so wanted to ask him, "What did you say?" (lovingly, of course) or ask, "Are you sure?"
But I knew he was sure. After all, he said, "I can take it from here." Not, "I think I can take it from here."
Gulp.
"Ok, my love," I said. I knelt down and hugged him, kissed his soft cheek. "Have a great day." I stood and watched him walk away from me towards the giant doors that swing out and envelope all those who enter with warmth, laughter, rules, negotiations, games, queries, telephone calls, instructions, choices, consequences, seen and unseen, known and unknown, but all in the pursuit of growth and becoming more independent.
I stood and watched as his classmate ran through the door letting it shut in Wilson's face. He turned and looked at me. Gulp. "Stay put," I coached myself. And before I said, "You can get it," he turned back and pulled it open. The door flung wide. Surprising himself by his own strength, he hopped out of the way and entered.
Bye-bye, Momma.
Bye-bye.
I stood and did not want to turn around to return to my car.
Can I stay here in this one spot all day?
Can I stay here and wait for him to make sure he comes back out in 8 hours?
Can I stay here so that when he does come out he will know that I waited for him?
Better yet can I build a memorial right here on this spot and engrave the date and epitaph: "On this day, September 14, 2011, Wilson Riley Harold Vest did bravely depart his beloved mother, Michelle Lynn Baker, for the shores of independence at 8:04 a.m."
Before I made an utter fool of myself, I turned and walked, and looked at all the other mothers whose children left them at the curb. They jumped into their cars - professionals by now - some even with young precocious preschoolers. Wow, I am so glad mine hung on a little longer.
Yes, call it selfish but I can't help it. I am so not ready for Wilson to be any older. Where is the pause button? I want to press it right here, right now, and stop time: these moments when he still asks me to play with him, these moments where he still reaches out and takes my hand, these moments when he holds my arm when I read him bedtime stories. Please don't let it end. This is way too hard.
I keenly remember the early days when he was just an infant. If only I had my wits about me then to relish the sweetness of those days. It is not fair they are wasted on exhausted and shell-shocked parents. I'd love to be able to go back with the energy I have now...but I don't suppose that goes together: new parents with newborns who have all the sleep, nutrition and support they need. Ok, maybe the rare few do.
I remember being so eager for Wilson to walk. I can honestly say mothering for me began to come more "naturally" once he began to walk. And it has been these days from Wilson turning 1 to now being 6 that have been preciously magical.
I know, I know, I've heard everyone say it only gets better. But right now, in this moment, no, it doesn't get any better than the moment leading up to "I can take it from here."
And it is precisely the beauty and stability of all those moments that lead to "I can take it from here."
Life is deeply bittersweet. I savor this moment...quietly, reverently, humorously, lovingly, sorrowfully, proudly...fully.
This is the pause.
Friday, September 9, 2011
In memoria: 10 years gone
It is Friday, September 9th, 2011. I have just learned that emergency responders in NYC have not been invited to the memorial this Sunday marking the 10th anniversary of the 9/11.
I don't really want to remark on that other than I feel very sad about that, and this sorrow runs deeper, down the river that was etched in my spirit and heart that day 10 years ago.
On the one-year anniversary, I attended a service at the Lensic Theater in Santa Fe, NM. As I left, people were handing out names of people who died that day. I got the name of Michael Debrenzio. My friend got the name of Angela Pena. Within the moment I read Michael's name, I felt my hand touch a hot railing, and felt my legs crumble with nerves and fear as I tumble-stumbled down endless stairs unable to see through the dense smoke.
A flash of imaginative insight, I rushed home and wrote this poem. I offer it in remembrance.
No I will never forget that day nor will a million or so other people. I will spend the day skipping stones on the river with my son remembering and creating new memories.... May each of us cultivate memories of love and trust to juxtapose the many obvious and subtle memories of pain and deceit. We are free to do that...exactly that.
*************
FROM THIS DAY FORWARD
BY
MICHELLE BAKER
written September 18, 2002
Angel Pena
81st floor
nylons running
heart racing
teeth chattering
as she glanced out the window
just in time to see
an airplane
eye level.
The air condition was on too high
and she wanted to turn it down
but there were no controls from within her office.
She sat there
frozen
disbelief guiding her fingers
to the tear in her hose
and in the next instant,
she was gone.
Michael Debrenzio
stairwell of the 2nd tower
trudging up the stairs
cursing to himself
the electronic voice
that spoke the words
that lead him to his death -
the words that lead him out of his office
in the first place -
racing down flights,
bringing him and his office mates
to an abrupt halt ,
about face,
to ascend again
the path he sped down.
Tired and worn,
weary with worry,
The financials weren’t working out
and then two men passed him,
begged him and the others to turn back around.
But the computer says it’s ok to return to our desks.
Fuck the computers. Who ya going to listen to? A computer or a fellow human?
The computer. It’s programmed to know.
We are programmed to follow those things that are programmed to know better.
Onward Christian soldiers
into the Valley of Death
where the innocent will fear no evil,
raising their pens to their foreheads,
wiping the sweat of duty from their brows
at the command of Hal.
We, the people,
rise up
and fall back down
each time a siren beckons our attention
to turn and run
then high-tail it back
to our assignments
chasing the tide of orders
because we weren’t meant to leave in the first place,
we weren’t meant to abandon our designs of fate,
spiraling outward and inward,
snaring us in our own short-sightedness,
blinded by our own progress,
evolving beyond common sense
so that our fates
lie in the fiber optics
of a generated voice
placating our fears
with scripted rationale.
I taste fear.
I tasted it from 3000 miles away.
Fear stained the insides of my mouth
as I bit down on the bold reality
that life is brittle
and there is nothing I can do
to stop the mayhem
that entangles us in this web of emotion.
Tragedy and love collide
breaking us in twos, threes and fours,
shattering us
into the tiny particles we are
floating about in a space
that can hold absolutely everything
and does
and has
and will continue to do so
from this day forward
Amen.
In the silent glow
of aftermath,
I consider
the irony
the loss of those lives
has shed upon my hushed heart –
In the desert,
rain has fallen for two days -
the quiet tears of God
and all angels
that know
the sun can not rise
if it does not set.
I don't really want to remark on that other than I feel very sad about that, and this sorrow runs deeper, down the river that was etched in my spirit and heart that day 10 years ago.
On the one-year anniversary, I attended a service at the Lensic Theater in Santa Fe, NM. As I left, people were handing out names of people who died that day. I got the name of Michael Debrenzio. My friend got the name of Angela Pena. Within the moment I read Michael's name, I felt my hand touch a hot railing, and felt my legs crumble with nerves and fear as I tumble-stumbled down endless stairs unable to see through the dense smoke.
A flash of imaginative insight, I rushed home and wrote this poem. I offer it in remembrance.
No I will never forget that day nor will a million or so other people. I will spend the day skipping stones on the river with my son remembering and creating new memories.... May each of us cultivate memories of love and trust to juxtapose the many obvious and subtle memories of pain and deceit. We are free to do that...exactly that.
*************
FROM THIS DAY FORWARD
BY
MICHELLE BAKER
written September 18, 2002
Angel Pena
81st floor
nylons running
heart racing
teeth chattering
as she glanced out the window
just in time to see
an airplane
eye level.
The air condition was on too high
and she wanted to turn it down
but there were no controls from within her office.
She sat there
frozen
disbelief guiding her fingers
to the tear in her hose
and in the next instant,
she was gone.
Michael Debrenzio
stairwell of the 2nd tower
trudging up the stairs
cursing to himself
the electronic voice
that spoke the words
that lead him to his death -
the words that lead him out of his office
in the first place -
racing down flights,
bringing him and his office mates
to an abrupt halt ,
about face,
to ascend again
the path he sped down.
Tired and worn,
weary with worry,
The financials weren’t working out
and then two men passed him,
begged him and the others to turn back around.
But the computer says it’s ok to return to our desks.
Fuck the computers. Who ya going to listen to? A computer or a fellow human?
The computer. It’s programmed to know.
We are programmed to follow those things that are programmed to know better.
Onward Christian soldiers
into the Valley of Death
where the innocent will fear no evil,
raising their pens to their foreheads,
wiping the sweat of duty from their brows
at the command of Hal.
We, the people,
rise up
and fall back down
each time a siren beckons our attention
to turn and run
then high-tail it back
to our assignments
chasing the tide of orders
because we weren’t meant to leave in the first place,
we weren’t meant to abandon our designs of fate,
spiraling outward and inward,
snaring us in our own short-sightedness,
blinded by our own progress,
evolving beyond common sense
so that our fates
lie in the fiber optics
of a generated voice
placating our fears
with scripted rationale.
I taste fear.
I tasted it from 3000 miles away.
Fear stained the insides of my mouth
as I bit down on the bold reality
that life is brittle
and there is nothing I can do
to stop the mayhem
that entangles us in this web of emotion.
Tragedy and love collide
breaking us in twos, threes and fours,
shattering us
into the tiny particles we are
floating about in a space
that can hold absolutely everything
and does
and has
and will continue to do so
from this day forward
Amen.
In the silent glow
of aftermath,
I consider
the irony
the loss of those lives
has shed upon my hushed heart –
In the desert,
rain has fallen for two days -
the quiet tears of God
and all angels
that know
the sun can not rise
if it does not set.
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