The memory of this life
just might be more painful
more joyful than it actually is.
Who knew when we met that yesterday
and tomorrow would happen so quickly?
I left only knowing what I was looking for
forgetting all that I would need
taking for granted all that I had
and spent much of the time
recovering what it was I thought I had lost.
Slowing down does this to a person.
Brings the now into the forefront
as the past beckons for attention
writhing in regret and I forget…
I won’t do that again
A sure bet .
And so I sit and soak in the winter rain
and snow without a coat or boots
only the knowing that this too shall pass -
the chilly air, the frosty trees,
the eternal nights and blink-of-an-eye days -
as it always does where seasons mark
the obvious passage of time –
Keeps me warm and protected
against the elements
and memory.
My hands no longer open and close
Only my heart.
In not clasping, I don’t ever have to let go
In passing, I know there is nothing I have lost.
I indeed have everything
whether I remember or not.
I tell you this
as I tell myself.
This is not a mystery.
No slight-of-hand conducts this illusion.
I tell you this as I tell myself -
we once knew each other.
We once knew each other well.
And now we know a memory of each other
like we hold the memory of the life we have lived…
Both are gone.
And for both,
I am grateful.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Morning Poem
The accent of rain on naked trees
crescendos like the applause of a million
hands clapping in gratitude: a delicate
ocean of sound in this winter forest.
I stand dressed for sleep amidst the elm and oak,
still while they sway and dance in the rain bath.
The brilliant green of the pine
pops and points, "Look at me!"
on this otherwise dreary morning.
All the pines in fact...
their seasonal chorus.
Their time of year to celebrate
another truth of winter: life does not stop.
Life beats, booms, and thrives
when the chill blanket of winter lays itself down.
While some slow, slump and pause,
and others die, there are those
that rise up singing every singular day.
The pines, for instance.
I should stand so grand as a pine: soft
and regal in their pine needle coat,
ready for winter, and loving it.
crescendos like the applause of a million
hands clapping in gratitude: a delicate
ocean of sound in this winter forest.
I stand dressed for sleep amidst the elm and oak,
still while they sway and dance in the rain bath.
The brilliant green of the pine
pops and points, "Look at me!"
on this otherwise dreary morning.
All the pines in fact...
their seasonal chorus.
Their time of year to celebrate
another truth of winter: life does not stop.
Life beats, booms, and thrives
when the chill blanket of winter lays itself down.
While some slow, slump and pause,
and others die, there are those
that rise up singing every singular day.
The pines, for instance.
I should stand so grand as a pine: soft
and regal in their pine needle coat,
ready for winter, and loving it.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
The Bully in the Bedroom
Yesterday, I was at a meeting and had the fortune of hearing a father tell a great story about his daughter.
It had to do with being a victim, the flip-side of bullying.
She is a junior in high school. Since the beginning of the year, she had been bullied by a fellow classmate. Classic emotional abuse. For three months, the daughter came home and told her father about the cruel taunts this boy delivered practically on a daily basis.
Her father listened and provided advice but the cruelty continued as the crippling emotional toll escalated in his daughter.
Last week, after listening to her tell another story, he took her hands and said, "What I am about to say to you, you are not going to like. But I say it because I love you. How long are you going to continue to play the victim? How much more are you going to take before you stand-up to him and speak your truth? There are things you can do and say that will stop this. I support and encourage you to take this kind of action."
Three days passed, and then he got a phone call. It was his daughter calling him from the school bus, telling him she stood up to the boy, and it worked.
Seems in the middle of class, with 30 students as her witness, after listening to his jeers being whispered at her from behind her, she stood up and let him have it. The teacher rushed over. Hearing what was going on and what had been going on, the boy was escorted to the principal's office where he was placed on "red alert". Apparently, the student had several offenses already, and since the school is taking a very proactive stance on the issue, the student is finally being faced with consequences.
*****
With so much focus on bullying in the classroom, I have wondered when the news is going to focus on the bullying that happens at home. Here was a perfect example of how a parent didn't perpetuate bullying or victimization.
Having been raised in a physically and emotionally violent household, I experienced first hand the tacit condoning of behavior that in a very simple way can be viewed as parental bullying. Friends and family alike turned a blind-eye when they witnessed the abuse. When I went to friends, my school and my family for help, I was often told not to speak about my mother that way as she was a well-respected business person in the community.
A respected business person isn't necessarily a well-equipped parent.
One form of socially accepted "bullying" is sibling bullying. How many times through the millenia have parents condoned the aggression of one sibling towards another? Parents, for the most part, make excuses saying, "Oh, that's just what siblings do." Family and friends laugh it off, in essence justifying the aggressive behavior of the perpetrator and the wounded behavior of the victim.
In the case of children who witness domestic violence, often the perpetrator is kind to the children. This sends a very confusing message to the children but in essence teaches the children to keep quiet. "Daddy is nice to us. He plays with us. He is a nice man. If only mommy wouldn't make him mad, he would be nicer to her too."
This also teaches children to make friends with bullies at school or to at least keep quiet when they see bullies acting out at school. Among other things, it teaches them to walk away and keep the silence.
Granted, all too often when a child tries to intervene on behalf of a sibling or a parent when there is violence in the house, he or she is wounded.
But when the abused parent laughs off the abuse, or doesn't at least tell the children that what they are witnessing is wrong, the victim parent sends a message to the children saying what they are witnessing is o.k. Is acceptable. Is in fact, normal.
Unfortunately, when family dynamics are looked at closely, subtle bullying is very acceptable, like in the case of siblings who fight all the time. This kind of bullying is often perpetuated by the inappropriate aggression of one sibling towards the other/s.
It is easy to point fingers at the obvious transgressions of adults and children who are physically violent. It is not so easy to look at and shift the dynamics at home where, in truth, bullying starts and victims are refined in and with silence.
Unfortunately, finding excuses for behavior is easy. Parents teach their children to accept excuses when they say, "Daddy had a hard day that is why he is not present, that is why he is not kind. Let's be extra good today." "Mommy had a hard day. She is not able to play with you right now." The list goes on.
How often do we make excuses for ourselves when we fall short of our own goals?
Excuses have become intrinsic to our coping skills. And we pass this on to our children in so many obvious, but more importantly, subtle ways.
I believe each of us has reasons that drive our actions in any given moment but never should they be used as excuses for avoiding consequences. So many parents role model this for their children. Parents might be held accountable for their actions at work but when it comes to their children, each of us at one time or another feed our children excuses to justify why we can not or will not do something.
Children then learn to take excuses. Children learn to let a person be mean to them because it can always be said, "Hey, little Joey gets hit at home. That is why he is mean at school. We need to be nicer to little Joey."
Yes...and no.
I have heard parents brag that their children were friends with the bully at school. "I am so proud of my son. He had the ability to make friends with the kids that no one else would friend at school."
Yes...and no.
I believe each of us deserves compassion and understanding but never at the avoidance of consequences. I have watched families be ripped apart by the cruel actions of parents who never were held accountable for their actions. Yes, mom and dad deserve empathy but when mom or dad step out of line, they need to be held accountable.
Why?
Because being held responsible teaches our children that accountability isn't terrible. Appropriate consequences are actually good. They are necessary. It teaches "victims" that they do not have to be victims, that it is safe and necessary to speak up. And it teaches the "perpetrators" that by changing their actions they can actually enjoy friendships that are not based in intimidation.
There is a saying, "Say what you mean without being mean."
It is possible to stand up to a bully without being a bully.
That kind of action comes from dignity and self-respect.
Dignity and self-respect are taught at home.
Dignity and self-respect are taught by parents who are willing to be honest about how they are feeling, who are willing to take responsible action, who talk to their children about hardships, who validate their children's emotional and physical experiences, and who give sound, viable advice and who actually role model that in their lives.
Indeed, the bully and the victims in the classroom are relevant and need our attention, but because of society's tacit agreement to turn a blind eye to our own actions at home, the bully and the victims in the bedroom are who I am most worried about.
It had to do with being a victim, the flip-side of bullying.
She is a junior in high school. Since the beginning of the year, she had been bullied by a fellow classmate. Classic emotional abuse. For three months, the daughter came home and told her father about the cruel taunts this boy delivered practically on a daily basis.
Her father listened and provided advice but the cruelty continued as the crippling emotional toll escalated in his daughter.
Last week, after listening to her tell another story, he took her hands and said, "What I am about to say to you, you are not going to like. But I say it because I love you. How long are you going to continue to play the victim? How much more are you going to take before you stand-up to him and speak your truth? There are things you can do and say that will stop this. I support and encourage you to take this kind of action."
Three days passed, and then he got a phone call. It was his daughter calling him from the school bus, telling him she stood up to the boy, and it worked.
Seems in the middle of class, with 30 students as her witness, after listening to his jeers being whispered at her from behind her, she stood up and let him have it. The teacher rushed over. Hearing what was going on and what had been going on, the boy was escorted to the principal's office where he was placed on "red alert". Apparently, the student had several offenses already, and since the school is taking a very proactive stance on the issue, the student is finally being faced with consequences.
*****
With so much focus on bullying in the classroom, I have wondered when the news is going to focus on the bullying that happens at home. Here was a perfect example of how a parent didn't perpetuate bullying or victimization.
Having been raised in a physically and emotionally violent household, I experienced first hand the tacit condoning of behavior that in a very simple way can be viewed as parental bullying. Friends and family alike turned a blind-eye when they witnessed the abuse. When I went to friends, my school and my family for help, I was often told not to speak about my mother that way as she was a well-respected business person in the community.
A respected business person isn't necessarily a well-equipped parent.
One form of socially accepted "bullying" is sibling bullying. How many times through the millenia have parents condoned the aggression of one sibling towards another? Parents, for the most part, make excuses saying, "Oh, that's just what siblings do." Family and friends laugh it off, in essence justifying the aggressive behavior of the perpetrator and the wounded behavior of the victim.
In the case of children who witness domestic violence, often the perpetrator is kind to the children. This sends a very confusing message to the children but in essence teaches the children to keep quiet. "Daddy is nice to us. He plays with us. He is a nice man. If only mommy wouldn't make him mad, he would be nicer to her too."
This also teaches children to make friends with bullies at school or to at least keep quiet when they see bullies acting out at school. Among other things, it teaches them to walk away and keep the silence.
Granted, all too often when a child tries to intervene on behalf of a sibling or a parent when there is violence in the house, he or she is wounded.
But when the abused parent laughs off the abuse, or doesn't at least tell the children that what they are witnessing is wrong, the victim parent sends a message to the children saying what they are witnessing is o.k. Is acceptable. Is in fact, normal.
Unfortunately, when family dynamics are looked at closely, subtle bullying is very acceptable, like in the case of siblings who fight all the time. This kind of bullying is often perpetuated by the inappropriate aggression of one sibling towards the other/s.
It is easy to point fingers at the obvious transgressions of adults and children who are physically violent. It is not so easy to look at and shift the dynamics at home where, in truth, bullying starts and victims are refined in and with silence.
Unfortunately, finding excuses for behavior is easy. Parents teach their children to accept excuses when they say, "Daddy had a hard day that is why he is not present, that is why he is not kind. Let's be extra good today." "Mommy had a hard day. She is not able to play with you right now." The list goes on.
How often do we make excuses for ourselves when we fall short of our own goals?
Excuses have become intrinsic to our coping skills. And we pass this on to our children in so many obvious, but more importantly, subtle ways.
I believe each of us has reasons that drive our actions in any given moment but never should they be used as excuses for avoiding consequences. So many parents role model this for their children. Parents might be held accountable for their actions at work but when it comes to their children, each of us at one time or another feed our children excuses to justify why we can not or will not do something.
Children then learn to take excuses. Children learn to let a person be mean to them because it can always be said, "Hey, little Joey gets hit at home. That is why he is mean at school. We need to be nicer to little Joey."
Yes...and no.
I have heard parents brag that their children were friends with the bully at school. "I am so proud of my son. He had the ability to make friends with the kids that no one else would friend at school."
Yes...and no.
I believe each of us deserves compassion and understanding but never at the avoidance of consequences. I have watched families be ripped apart by the cruel actions of parents who never were held accountable for their actions. Yes, mom and dad deserve empathy but when mom or dad step out of line, they need to be held accountable.
Why?
Because being held responsible teaches our children that accountability isn't terrible. Appropriate consequences are actually good. They are necessary. It teaches "victims" that they do not have to be victims, that it is safe and necessary to speak up. And it teaches the "perpetrators" that by changing their actions they can actually enjoy friendships that are not based in intimidation.
There is a saying, "Say what you mean without being mean."
It is possible to stand up to a bully without being a bully.
That kind of action comes from dignity and self-respect.
Dignity and self-respect are taught at home.
Dignity and self-respect are taught by parents who are willing to be honest about how they are feeling, who are willing to take responsible action, who talk to their children about hardships, who validate their children's emotional and physical experiences, and who give sound, viable advice and who actually role model that in their lives.
Indeed, the bully and the victims in the classroom are relevant and need our attention, but because of society's tacit agreement to turn a blind eye to our own actions at home, the bully and the victims in the bedroom are who I am most worried about.
Friday, November 11, 2011
A splendid re-emergence
There isn’t much to do in the face of illness or death. I just sit in its presence: not waiting but being.
As winter takes hold, the trees that danced with red, yellow and orange leaves just six days ago reveal their bare nakedness: the humble skeleton of strength that births spring, holds life and pauses with death. Such pride it takes to stand utterly bare in the face of all others. Still tall. With purpose. Still offering shelter to other living creatures.
The squirrels scamper around without apology. The birds burrow deep into hidden nooks.
One tree in particular has a vicious vine wrapped all the way around it, from base to treetop. A strong vine: thick, determined. I want to cut it off the tree, saw right through it. It is nothing but a noose. A self-determined noose.
Who knows how long it will take to tear down this tree. Gracefully, the tree pays it no attention. It continues to grow. But the vine will be the death of the tree one day. Some day. And I don’t like it.
The vine reminds me of some people who have entered into my life with malicious intent. People I welcomed into my life unsuspectingly. Who would presume that people have agendas of taking away the happiness of other people? I mean, I thought that was left for politicians and serial killers.
Unlike the tree, I am free to walk away from people who are not kind. Thankfully, I am free to choose my friends, and free to request from friends and family both that I be treated a certain way. But this tree, it isn’t free in quite the same way. This tree lives with whatever comes, and nobly makes the best of it.
Perhaps there is a lesson there.
For the past three days I have been home recovering from a stomach bug of some sort. All my plans and intentions for the week fell away as I had to rest in order to recover.
Honestly, there has been a part of me that asked, “Why this week? Why, when I had so much momentum, did I get hobbled by illness?”
The truth is this: momentum is always there. Sometimes it is hindered by circumstances beyond our control, ie. a vine or an illness. However, like the tree, I keep growing whether I intend to or not. The key is to see this and honor it and make the best of it rather than falling victim to thoughts of failure.
As I say that, the reddest Cardinal I have ever seen just lighted upon the tiniest branch of the dormant vine tree. The purpose of the tree is still there. The tree is still needed whether it has leaves or not, whether the vine is wrapped around it or not. Similarly, though my external activity might not look exactly like I had intended for the week, my purpose has not changed. My activity has altered to accommodate my current circumstance but my purpose has not.
For the first time in my life, I see this so clearly. My purpose, like the tree, does not alter even though my activity might. I am here doing the very things in life I am called to do. A tree goes dormant in winter to conserve and create energy for the upcoming spring. I am like the tree. Conserving. Generating. Cultivating. Readying myself for one splendid re-emergence. Thankfully mine is just a matter of days….
As winter takes hold, the trees that danced with red, yellow and orange leaves just six days ago reveal their bare nakedness: the humble skeleton of strength that births spring, holds life and pauses with death. Such pride it takes to stand utterly bare in the face of all others. Still tall. With purpose. Still offering shelter to other living creatures.
The squirrels scamper around without apology. The birds burrow deep into hidden nooks.
One tree in particular has a vicious vine wrapped all the way around it, from base to treetop. A strong vine: thick, determined. I want to cut it off the tree, saw right through it. It is nothing but a noose. A self-determined noose.
Who knows how long it will take to tear down this tree. Gracefully, the tree pays it no attention. It continues to grow. But the vine will be the death of the tree one day. Some day. And I don’t like it.
The vine reminds me of some people who have entered into my life with malicious intent. People I welcomed into my life unsuspectingly. Who would presume that people have agendas of taking away the happiness of other people? I mean, I thought that was left for politicians and serial killers.
Unlike the tree, I am free to walk away from people who are not kind. Thankfully, I am free to choose my friends, and free to request from friends and family both that I be treated a certain way. But this tree, it isn’t free in quite the same way. This tree lives with whatever comes, and nobly makes the best of it.
Perhaps there is a lesson there.
For the past three days I have been home recovering from a stomach bug of some sort. All my plans and intentions for the week fell away as I had to rest in order to recover.
Honestly, there has been a part of me that asked, “Why this week? Why, when I had so much momentum, did I get hobbled by illness?”
The truth is this: momentum is always there. Sometimes it is hindered by circumstances beyond our control, ie. a vine or an illness. However, like the tree, I keep growing whether I intend to or not. The key is to see this and honor it and make the best of it rather than falling victim to thoughts of failure.
As I say that, the reddest Cardinal I have ever seen just lighted upon the tiniest branch of the dormant vine tree. The purpose of the tree is still there. The tree is still needed whether it has leaves or not, whether the vine is wrapped around it or not. Similarly, though my external activity might not look exactly like I had intended for the week, my purpose has not changed. My activity has altered to accommodate my current circumstance but my purpose has not.
For the first time in my life, I see this so clearly. My purpose, like the tree, does not alter even though my activity might. I am here doing the very things in life I am called to do. A tree goes dormant in winter to conserve and create energy for the upcoming spring. I am like the tree. Conserving. Generating. Cultivating. Readying myself for one splendid re-emergence. Thankfully mine is just a matter of days….
Saturday, October 29, 2011
In the Palm of My Hand
I woke up this morning facing east. The sun had risen and the leaves were falling. Falling. Fall is nearing it's end here in the Blue Ridge, and it is happening fast.
Outside my back door is a forest rising up from a small ravine. My back porch looks at trees mid-trunk, about the 20' mark. The tops of the trees tower and sway another 20' sometimes 30' above me. Crazy vines climb and swirl around the stands of Black Walnut, Tulip Poplar and Oak. Here and there a wild splash of vibrant red among the yellow, green, brown and orange dying leaves catches my eye as they wiggle and dance with the wind. Still, they hold on amidst a shower of falling leaves looking like an impressionist painting set into motion.
I woke up this morning looking out at all this color and imagined building a home with a wrap around porch. I imagined tall Pampous grass planted at the front stoop and saw it sway in the imaginary wind. I imagined large terra cotta pots of maroon decorative grasses with colorful Lantana cascading down the sides. And then my mind wandered to my house in Santa Fe: not just my house but the house I lived in when I was married - our house.
At the back gate stood a huge oak barrel. I filled it with dirt and planted exactly what I had just imagined. Every day I watered it, and grass, Lantana and vine Geranium grew and spread and greeted those who entered with colorful abundance.
The flagstone walk way winded it's way through Lavender, catmint, various salvia, Jupiter's Beard and Echinacea. At it's height, the garden was a gracious wonderland in an otherwise ungracious land.
In the midst of this memory, I came back to the present as the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated four red leaves. Quietly as if to say, "Look here. The sun still shines on this gray day, and look, look. Look now because in a second, it will be gone." And sure enough, the clouds blew over again dimming the highlight to the muted but still beautiful palette that I woke to only 30 minutes earlier.
And just as the rapid passing of clouds shrouded the sun, in what seems to be the same speed, the garden and our marriage were gone.
What I held in the palm of my hand for those brief seven years wasn't only all a beautiful lush garden. It was also a stark and desperate time against which I struggled to keep the encroaching desert at bay. But with limited natural resources, water and family being among them, my garden and the garden of our marriage succumbed.
The sun has danced in and out of the clouds this morning, and its rays have acted as a spotlight on different sections of my backyard. Now a hot spot of yellow glows just beyond the tiny red leaves that were illuminated just minutes ago. The wind picks up plucking one of the red leaves from it's tiny hold, and sends it soaring. I feel sad and elated all at once. By a stroke of luck I saw this leaf's last grip on life, and now I watch as it ascends, its last show of glory before its death and final return to the rich earth below.
I imagine the glimpse into my garden and my family's beautiful home and marriage was exactly that: a look at a highlighted moment that in its breath held all the beauty of the days of abundance; a remembrance of what I, we, held in the palm of our hands and what by the sheer forces of nature tore from our tiny but also intrinsic hold.
Every day, every moment is like a leaf in the palm of our hands. It's a fine line between understanding that things naturally pass, that if we grip too tightly we crush the leaf and lose its beauty, and if we don't hold on at all, we never fully know what it is we had to begin with.
I am grateful for the natural time of the season - that it allows me this moment to take in the final curtain call until the last leaf is holding, standing as it were, before its brave and humble farewell.
Outside my back door is a forest rising up from a small ravine. My back porch looks at trees mid-trunk, about the 20' mark. The tops of the trees tower and sway another 20' sometimes 30' above me. Crazy vines climb and swirl around the stands of Black Walnut, Tulip Poplar and Oak. Here and there a wild splash of vibrant red among the yellow, green, brown and orange dying leaves catches my eye as they wiggle and dance with the wind. Still, they hold on amidst a shower of falling leaves looking like an impressionist painting set into motion.
I woke up this morning looking out at all this color and imagined building a home with a wrap around porch. I imagined tall Pampous grass planted at the front stoop and saw it sway in the imaginary wind. I imagined large terra cotta pots of maroon decorative grasses with colorful Lantana cascading down the sides. And then my mind wandered to my house in Santa Fe: not just my house but the house I lived in when I was married - our house.
At the back gate stood a huge oak barrel. I filled it with dirt and planted exactly what I had just imagined. Every day I watered it, and grass, Lantana and vine Geranium grew and spread and greeted those who entered with colorful abundance.
The flagstone walk way winded it's way through Lavender, catmint, various salvia, Jupiter's Beard and Echinacea. At it's height, the garden was a gracious wonderland in an otherwise ungracious land.
In the midst of this memory, I came back to the present as the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated four red leaves. Quietly as if to say, "Look here. The sun still shines on this gray day, and look, look. Look now because in a second, it will be gone." And sure enough, the clouds blew over again dimming the highlight to the muted but still beautiful palette that I woke to only 30 minutes earlier.
And just as the rapid passing of clouds shrouded the sun, in what seems to be the same speed, the garden and our marriage were gone.
What I held in the palm of my hand for those brief seven years wasn't only all a beautiful lush garden. It was also a stark and desperate time against which I struggled to keep the encroaching desert at bay. But with limited natural resources, water and family being among them, my garden and the garden of our marriage succumbed.
The sun has danced in and out of the clouds this morning, and its rays have acted as a spotlight on different sections of my backyard. Now a hot spot of yellow glows just beyond the tiny red leaves that were illuminated just minutes ago. The wind picks up plucking one of the red leaves from it's tiny hold, and sends it soaring. I feel sad and elated all at once. By a stroke of luck I saw this leaf's last grip on life, and now I watch as it ascends, its last show of glory before its death and final return to the rich earth below.
I imagine the glimpse into my garden and my family's beautiful home and marriage was exactly that: a look at a highlighted moment that in its breath held all the beauty of the days of abundance; a remembrance of what I, we, held in the palm of our hands and what by the sheer forces of nature tore from our tiny but also intrinsic hold.
Every day, every moment is like a leaf in the palm of our hands. It's a fine line between understanding that things naturally pass, that if we grip too tightly we crush the leaf and lose its beauty, and if we don't hold on at all, we never fully know what it is we had to begin with.
I am grateful for the natural time of the season - that it allows me this moment to take in the final curtain call until the last leaf is holding, standing as it were, before its brave and humble farewell.
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.
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