A New Hospitality

Well friends, Merry Christmas to you all from my living room, which, perhaps looks much like your living room: a temporary orgy of crumpled gift wrap, mangled bows, vacated boxes – and way too many of those obnoxious gray twisty ties that hold every toy hostage. Damn those earnest elves! Despite the mess, it’s pretty great, really – this kind of a morning. Comfortably full of chocolate croissants and Gingerbread coffee, I don’t have anywhere to be. The boys are downstairs giggling their pants off; they are, it seems, torturing the cat with their new spy gear: a remote controlled hummer with a pair of video glasses. Henry is getting some much-needed rest in his crib, all red-cheeked against the sheets, his adorable diapered behind parked in the air. Chad has also settled in for a winter’s nap, although not with his butt in the air. (but what a great image – a full-grown man, asleep with his butt in the air). Will Ferrell could totally pull this off, by the way). Anyhow, with my own butt parked here on the sofa, I have the unusual luxury of silly thoughts about Will Ferrell, and the option of gazing out the window all afternoon, watching squirrels strip the persimmon tree bare. The Christmas sun shines in and Ella Fitzgerald sings, “…What do I care how much it may storm; I’ve got my love to keep me warm…” I find myself “burning with love” on this fine morning, indeed.

So, just as I’m sinking further into my Christmas bliss, it occurs to me that sooner or later, I’ll have to get up, straighten the house and season the Prime Rib (I’ve already decided it will be later rather than sooner); we have family coming for dinner this evening. I know five o’clock will come all too soon, but I’m not all amped up and wigged out, as in years past. In fact, I have good news for myself: Self! We are learning a new kind of hospitality.

I don’t know about you all, but I’ve mostly known hospitality to be as such: before the guests arrive, you whip around the house in an enormous panic, barking orders at family members to do this, pick up that, right this minute, saying things you later regret; you work up a terrible sweat, as you perform at least three of the seventeen tasks on your mind simultaneously, shining mirrors, fluffing couch pillows, scrubbing baseboards on all fours, touching up wall paint, and hiding avalanching laundry baskets and any other piled-up things in the garage…and you keep all this craziness up to the very last second when the doorbell rings – because you are convinced you must. That is, you are convinced you need to eradicate every last Christmas crumb before visitors step foot in the house. You are, it seems, working to erase every shred of evidence that there are, in fact, real human beings living in your home, seven days a week – five of them, no less (four of whom are male, three under the age of eight, and one, a banana-smearing, cracker-crumbling, toothbrush-napping twenty month old who thinks yogurt is finger paint). Have you ever had a banana smeared into your sofa upholstery? How ‘bout a trail of toothbrushes winding through your house?

Anyway, recently, taking the aforementioned reality into account, I asked myself a most basic question about the flurry and frenzy that accompanies preparing for guests: why? Why this absurd effort toward presenting a life I don’t even live? Why work so furiously to disguise a reality that most folk are familiar with anyway? I mean, who doesn’t know about socks under the sofa or hairs that cling stubbornly to the bathroom sink? Who doesn’t have dust bunnies under the bed or a collection of strange and unidentifiable crumbs in the silverware drawer? How about a mysterious lagoon of syrupy substances on the refrigerator shelf? (At this point, I can only hope you are all nodding your heads yes). If you aren’t, well – hurray for lucky you!

Someday, way, way into the future (like when my sweet little birdies have flown the nesty) I might have sparkly countertops and windows you could use for mirrors (and I do fantasize about this – I mean, who am I kidding, a clean house just feels awesome); but in the meantime, I plan to give myself a monumental break. I suppose if I wanted, I could go on torturing myself (and the entire family) in the hours before guests arrive, in an effort to get my life looking neat and tidy. But here’s the thing: we’ve already established my life is not neat and tidy. So, isn’t the presentation of a pristine house, at this point in my life, an outright façade? I mean, surely anyone who has raised kids, knows there is no such thing as a tidy life. Why bother trying to fool anyone? Which leads me to the most important of my conclusions about hospitality: Not only do I expect my guests will forgive me for a less-than-spotless home, but I have come to believe that an immaculate house is not even necessarily the most welcoming. It’s true!

Listen, I enjoy the aesthetic of shiny countertops and smelly candles as much as the next person, but when I am a guest in a spotless house, (especially fellow parents) part of me is thinking, why the hell can’t I keep my house this clean? I feel I am often left to marvel at the hostess and her superhuman capabilities – which is why I have made it a practice to disclose all whenever my house is uncharacteristically clean and receives a compliment. A few parties ago, a fellow mom and her four little destroyers were here, and she commented, Wow! How do you do it? How do you keep your house so clean and organized? I should take lessons from you. I laughed – loudly. Lessons? Oh no, there are no lessons here – unless, of course, you want the lesson of how to fool your guests by hiring a babysitter to take your kids to the park, while you and your significant other scrub the house from top to bottom the day before a party; I can teach you that one.

Stay with me, friends, because here’s where it gets really good. I happen to love it when I visit someone’s house and they have dried-up pasta in their stove burners or a ring of residue in their bathroom sink. I rejoice when I find pennies, Goldfish and underwear between somebody’s sofa cushions; or my all-time favorite – days old marinara sauce splattered in the microwave. Why do I love this? Because these are all clues that I am visiting fellow human beings, that we’re all very much the same: we have hardly any time to clean our houses, and a dozen other priorities besides (add an extra dozen for each child you’re raising, and another dozen or two for your career). It gets even better. Recently, I attended an elaborate party with trays of Martha Stewart hors d’oeuvres, monogrammed, linen cocktail napkins, and whatnot; it was hosted by a lovely family with two sons. So I’m off visiting the loo at this party, and I discover the most liberating secret ever: lingering beneath the scent of an Ocean Breezes Glade deodorizer, my experienced nose detected the pervasive smell of urine! Glory Hallelujah! Let me tell you how at home I felt! I left the bathroom comforted with the knowledge that it’s not just me fighting the smell of urine in the world; that I’m not the only one with little boys who whiz everywhere but the toilet bowl, marking their territory in the toilet joints, the caulking around the base of the toilet (which is positively brown now), the walls, and astoundingly, even the folds of the shower curtain.

According to Dictionary.com, the definition of hospitality is this: the friendly reception and treatment of guests or strangers. Wow…how very odd…they seem to have left out the part about cleaning your house like a maniac before people arrive. I’ll be straight though: this is a fairly new kind of hospitality for me, one of considering, how a guest feels when they are in my home, rather than what kind of life I have on display for them. And I don’t have it all down yet (if I told you I did, I’d be a very bad blog hostess, indeed). But I am working hard at it, because I truly believe if we are ever going to let people into our lives, our real lives, the ones we actually live, we’ll have to let go of our impossible standards and settle for a bit more visibility. Wouldn’t we rather be known for who are, in the end, than admired for who we aren’t?

Why are we so afraid of allowing people to see us, complete with our imperfections? Isn’t every one of our lives imperfect? We’re masters of appearance in this culture, but we are, none of us, living perfect lives, no matter how polished they might appear. And I ask you this: who wants a perfect host anyway? Or even a perfect friend? Maybe the truth is, we’re all just a little worried we’ll be judged for the dust on our bookshelves or the cobwebs in the corners of our ceilings. I say, let them judge! The good news is, most people won’t judge; but the ones who do, will do so whether we’ve polished the kitchen floor with our own sweat or left things to rot on every square inch of it (and perhaps it will be because their standards for themselves are too high). So let’s change the world, one house at a time, by lowering our own standards first! Isn’t it kind of exciting?

I’m sure later today, I’ll do a once-over on the bathroom, and we’ll recycle some boxes and wrapping paper (so my grandparents can cross the floor without spraining an ankle); but we’re not getting out the feather duster or even the vacuum cleaner. No. For the time being, we’re going to sink further into our Christmas bliss. In fact, I think I’ll wrap myself in this blanket on the sofa and have myself a snooze. Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a half-clean night!

A Merry Christmas, Indeed!

A Merry Christmas, Indeed!, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Us

Floating in the Now

This is the way I’d like to begin every morning of my life: naked, in a Jacuzzi, surrounded by a majestic silence, where only woodpeckers can be heard – where the only movement is a black hawk circling overhead, against the white of cumulus clouds and the rare but fairytale-blue patches of sky. The silence is positively holy – reminiscent of the moment in a Mass when the priest consecrates the bread and wine above the altar. I gulp the silence as though parched, and eat the bread of it like I have never tasted it before.

We are in the woods (so not to worry, my friends – nobody can see my knockers). We came to this cottage tucked away in the hills of Tomales Bay to celebrate ten years of marriage. Tree covered hills are in every direction, spotted with every possible shade of green. Here on the property, tree branches are trimmed with a sage-colored lichen – a wishful sort of Christmas tree – and their trunks spotted with varying shades of lichen: bright yellow and minty green. The morning fog has gathered its body up from the bay below and hung itself out to dry in the sky over the hilltops. The keen morning air is scented with possibility.

Out in the tub, I am positively alone but for the morning-busy bird life; Chad is still in the cottage, sleeping between the impossibly soft flannel sheets. I love it when the grace of life allows for everyone’s needs to be met simultaneously. My need, though I didn’t really know it, is this astounding solitude. In the warm water, I stretch my body in every direction: this baby-holding, muscle-aching, lunch-packing, child-loving, homework helping, carpooling, bath-giving, toilet-scrubbing, art-teaching, fight-refereeing, fever-soothing, dinner-making, mess-cleaning, laundry-folding, Christmas shopping (just shoot me now) body. I let this weary body float. I let it cry a little. I let it do these things because it finally has time to do them. I shed tears of accumulated exhaustion and for the sweet relief of rest. The glory is found in this: that my body holds nothing now; but is instead being held by the generous waters. And I think to myself: How we need this sometimes: to stop holding and be upheld. How we need respite.

A little later, Chad wakes to the solitude-happy, coffee-grinding woman in the kitchen (oops – did I wake him?). Standing at the sink in the navy blue and white Kimono I found in the closet, my wet hair drips into a coffee cup. Chad comments about a poor night’s sleep. In a prompt moment of realization, I say, “But it’s alright! We have no occasion to rise to. You can nap all day if you like.” He smiles, and looks relieved. We haven’t been away from our lives even 24 hours yet, and already, I feel like a Rastafarian, strolling around the property, stroking the lichen on tree trunks, bird-watching and nibbling dark chocolate, sipping tea – all with the greatest “don’t worry be happy” sensation running all through me. For breakfast, we eat bowls of muesli – whole almonds, dates and oats resting perfectly between our teeth, nourishing our bodies in a manner unfamiliar: slow and leisurely. The thought occurs to me we could just stay here and eat muesli all day – if we wanted. And even if we don’t, I love it that we can! Oh the bliss of freedom….

Freedom to let it all go! I glance at the table, still scattered with items from last night: Chad’s watch and some Yahtzee dice lying at the foot of two half-filled wine glasses and a pepper grinder. On the rug below a pair of panties, and two knee-high wool socks, all folded in on themselves, tired and satisfied, like sleeping puppies after hard play. Our wedding and honeymoon photo albums are splayed open on the ottoman. The flashlight that led us to the hot tub last night sits on the barstool. A half-eaten baguette sleeps on the counter top next to some rather dry persimmon slices. I think from the hour we first set out, there has been a letting go. In the market, on the way up, we let go of our budget and bought a wheel of Cowgirl Creamery Cheese for seventeen dollars and a Cabernet we were told to let breathe for thirty minutes before drinking. We bought twenty dollars worth of dark chocolate bars and ahi tuna kabobs. We ate our barbequed ahi with sushi rice, cross-legged by the fire, covered in blankets, at nine o’clock at night, and lingered for hours listening to Enya. This morning, after my shower in the outdoor shower (yes, it’s as amazing as it sounds) I even let my beard go! No plucking for me, my friends! No deodorant even. And no tidying: just things draped everywhere like holiday decorations.

It feels so incredibly good not to be running the ship. We have sailed off to hidden shores and here we hide until it’s over and we have to return. The thought of returning threatens my free state with an instant list of waiting chores and undone things and the troubles of home: dirty floors, rats in the ceiling, the incessant needs of children and all the demands of life. But we won’t think about that now – because now is now, and now is all we have!

I step inside the wide open, gracious now and let go.

Thanksgiving, Three A.M.

May I declare, my friends, that it is totally disconcerting to have rats in one’s ceiling!? Imagine it. You’ve clomped regrettably downstairs after being awakened by your own teeth grinding at three in the morning. You and your aching jaw settle into the sofa in a house filled with a saintly sort of quiet and then it starts – the nightmarish sound of clawed rodent feet doing God knows what right over your head – break dancing? Seriously, people! This is an extremely active rat posse, scampering their ugly turd-shaped bodies from one end of the fifteen-foot ceiling to other. I picture them spinning on their greasy, furry backs, performing the windmill on their grotesque and plump tails, coffee grinding and all the rest... they’ve got it going on up there. I am almost envious of what seems to be a nonstop party in our ceiling. Yes, the rat hood has been at large for over a month now. Chad has attacked the problem with an impressive storehouse of ingenuity: sticky traps, holes drilled in the ceiling with rat poison, and good old fashioned slap traps smeared with peanut butter. But the rats are still with us...and other bum things -- like tonight when I was brushing my teeth before bed, a pipe under the bathroom sink sprung a leak, and suddenly I found myself wading in toothpaste water. And...the baby has the dreaded Croupe, so we had to call and cancel our Thanksgiving plans. Guess we'll be mashing our own potatoes this year.

All the same, I find myself down here on the sofa feeling rather thankful-ish. True, it’s officially Thanksgiving now, though the rest of the town doesn’t know it yet (it being still pitch black). And true: I am down here making the best of it all, nursing a glass of organic wine and nibbling (yes, like a rat) on a Sharffenberger Nibby bar (no, my friends, I am not cheating on The Lumpy Bumpy Bar – I appreciate the concern, but chocolate and I have an open relationship). What really gave me the thankful bug, though, was what I saw when I turned on the television to drown out the noises of the crazy legs posse. Truthfully, I was actually just getting ready to throw a mini pity party about being up at three with an aching head and all when I turned on the TV. Instead, I found myself captivated by a World War II documentary, called “The Colour of War.” Suddenly I found myself a witness to starvation, towns on fire, prison camps, and families torn asunder. The history channel really foiled my plans for a proper pity party! Tell me: how do you feel sorry for yourself over a rat in the ceiling and a case of insomnia when you see these emaciated, hollowed out, pale little Polish children dying in the streets; when you are listening to a narrator read letters German fathers have written from the war field to their children at Christmas time? I picture James, Charlie or Henry lying in a gutter like that, or having a father at war and suddenly, it’s all I need to feel grateful for the moment.

Here’s the thing: it’s not just history making me feel grateful; it’s that other versions of this documentary are taking place in the world, right now, as I crunch the divine cocoa nibs in my Nibby bar. There is war torn ugliness and the unimaginable suffering of children and adults alike right here on this very globe we all share. I feel both disturbed and grateful all at once: disturbed at the reality of a suffering so great I don’t know how to even imagine it; and grateful for safety: that the people I love are all snug in their beds right now, and I am here safe and sound in my woolly blankets on the sofa, awake or not, with nothing to fear but a pack of punk little rats.

So, it’s quite easy, really, to name all the good things in my life – the things that make me feel all thankful-ish inside. Beyond clean water, food, safety, shelter and love, which are not to be taken for granted, I leave you now with a stream-of-consciousness-four-in-the-morning-list of extra good things I am thankful for: chocolate (shocking, I know), the vegetable garden, the sound of my children giggling, Vicodin, my laundry-folding husband, Pandora radio plus music, in general, Wilson (my acupressurist), Point Reyes seashore, oysters on the half shell, Aleve, lime flavored sparkling water, Yosemite in the winter time, Chad's sense of humor, my college years, endorphins, the ability to walk, poetry, books, libraries, hiking trails, Eatwell Farm, Rachel Gomez’s parties, art projects, being alive, friends who laugh with me, wine, friends who cry with me, Anne Lamott, food, Charlie hugs, my kids’ friends, fall leaves, photography, coffee houses, writing, our house, Chabot Elementary School, Mochas, the joy of cooking, Holy Cross Community, the city of Berkeley, our Boy Scout Troop, Chad’s job, Julia Childs, hot lavender baths, photography, the granola-loving folk who keep me in business, and last but never least: the people who love me: my Chad, my boys, my parents, my big old extended family, my friends, and finally – YOU: the people who read my words and make me feel that they matter! AND NOW: I want to hear your thankful lists! Off the top of your head, go! Hit the comments button and share! And happy Thanksgiving!

Wintry Light and Wonder IV

Winter Light and Wonder IV, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintry Light and Wonder III

Winter Light Wnder III, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintery Light and Wonder II

Winter Light Wonder II , originally uploaded by shanalope.

Winter Light and Wonder I

Winter Light Wonder I, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Disco Mama

Okay, so despite the new, (and regrettably)

feather-able hair, I decided to go with this

awesome afro wig. I rocked the disco and

the disco rocked me.

The Blahs

Some days, everything just feels all wrong – doesn’t it? Nothing goes well. Nothing seems right. You wake up with an agonizing crick in your neck, and can’t turn your head to the left without howling. You schlep around in your slippers all heavy-like. And emptying the dishwasher, you break a glass (probably because you were moving all robotic-like, trying to keep your neck straight) – then you cut yourself cleaning it up. Minor cut, but still! After breakfast, you discover a zillion hole-punches in the carpet – infuriatingly tiny circles everywhere you look and you keep gathering them up and they just keep showing up – because they’re white and the carpet’s white, too.

On these days, folding laundry makes you weepy; but putting it away has you outright sobbing. And so does accidentally shrinking your nicest shirt – the kind of shirt you save for Bunco Night. And you can’t pack a lunch to save your life; it’s all muddy up there in your brain. And the new light in the bathroom makes you look all orange and blotchy, (just what you need on a morning like this) and like you have a bizarre skin disease – and well, you do: a totally uncalled for case of adult acne. How unfair is adult acne!? I mean, seriously?! Like acne didn’t torture us enough in our delicate teen years? Apparently, the initial attack in your youth wasn’t satisfying enough for the bloodthirsty hormones; no, they have to launch a surprise attack in your mid-thirties, when your hair is turning gray and wiry by the second, and you have those saggy, hot dog boobs (your reward for nursing three babies); and let’s not forget the stretch-marked, jelly tummy (your other reward). And…you seem to be growing a beard, to boot.

Then there’s the hair. Oh Good Lord! Can nobody look at my hair today? Please?! Not only does it seem to be falling out, (people are always picking it off of my sweaters and such) but I can’t style it to save my life. So this morning, I got out the orange sewing scissors and chopped away at it, in a pathetic attempt to make it look like the sassy J.Crew model in my catalog (you do impulsive stuff like this when you’ve been taken captive by hormones). And now it appears I’ve given myself feathers…you know, as in Charlie’s Angels? What really gets my goat is I tried so hard for feathered hair like this in the sixth grade and could never achieve it. And now, here it is, totally unsolicited! All I can say for that is: thank the kind Lord I was invited to a Disco party this weekend.

Have I mentioned the mood? Oh Sweet Mary, Mother of God – the mood! The mood is all blah blah blah, and poor-me-like. My friend, Beth, calls this condition “the blahs.” I definitely have the blahs. Really – you’d think there’s been a death or at least a robbery or a broken washing machine or something over here. Nope. Just a cruel mood launching a cockamamie campaign in my brain – against everything sane, stable and true – kind of like The Glenn Beck Program (sorry, Dad). And the wingnut little hormones driving the campaign like to whisper lies in my ear – lies like I have no friends; like I have been forgotten; and like my lunch-packing skills have permanently abandoned me – as have, apparently, my laundry skills. Lies like I make a terrible housekeeper (which is only a teensy bit true). When Chad hears me reciting the lies list, he likes to say: “Wait, you forgot: you’re a horrible mother and you have six chins.” (He knows the list all too well). “Thanks, Honey,” I say, and I sincerely mean it, because Chad’s witty act of finishing my list actually serves to expose the classic absurdity of the mood for what it is: nothing more than a one-sided, irrational rant, like a radio personality with insanely low accuracy ratings, trying to brainwash me, and recruit me to the crazy side. And Lord help me, but sometimes it works; sometimes the blahs win.

Don’t you hate it when you have a case of the blahs and someone you know, who’s all rainbows and sunshine and waterfalls, someone who seems to always have her ducks (and moods) in a row says stupid stuff like, “Aw, cheer up! Life is good,” or “It’s okay, it’s not so bad,” (to which I want to say, “Oh but it is…you see, my children have no lunch) or my least favorite, “Gotta look for that silver lining!” Please! These determined moods have no sliver lining! The blahs is not the time for carpe diem, my friends! (And if you read my last post, you know I really do believe in seizing the day…. just not this one). No, the blahs are the blahs….they’re like a big, loathsome, greedy, insatiable entity all of their own, say like – Java the Hut. When I get the blahs, I like to invite them in a bit, the way a yogi does with distracting thoughts during meditation. People who meditate (let’s just call them what they are – saints) say that when unwelcome thoughts interrupt their pursuit of mindfulness, that if they let the thought come, and acknowledge it, rather than fight of off, it will leave on its own. Coming at these moods like a Samurai warrior has never really served me, anyway. And swung at them I have – with the sword of self-determination. But it never works: I seem to get sliced into smaller bits of myself that I can’t piece back together again.

So…when the blahs come knocking, I let them in, because I know eventually they will pass on. I crack open the door and give them a head nod, as if to say, Go on, take a seat, I’ll get the music. I like to play them sappy, drippy, dark night of the soul kind of music – like Bruce Springsteen (Ghost of Tom Joad in particular) or Damien Rice or Dido. I like to drink extra tea and read T.S. Eliot. I like to light smelly candles and climb under woolly blankies. Or, if it’s a really bad case of the blahs, I like to up my carbon footprint by buckling up the baby and heading twelve minutes across town to the drive through Caffino, for a very special double Mocha, handed mercifully to me, directly through my car window. It’s a small miracle, really, that a woman (especially one with a monkey of a nineteen month old) can obtain a Mocha in this manner. Or, there’s my other favorite trick: stopping into Trader Joe’s for a Lumpy Bumpy bar. Wait: don’t tell me you haven’t heard about Lumpy Bumpies! Seriously? Well, just imagine a glorified Snickers bar, (only smaller, unfortunately) packed in its own pretty, bright orange box, sold for way too much money a pop. And take it from Ms. Blahs here, Lumpy Bumpies do satisfy.

Sometimes, though, in these moods, I go for the free antidotes: I slump down on the couch next to Chad and say, with as much gravity as I can muster, Poor, Poor Shanny, and I shake my head back and forth all slow and dramatic like. Chad laughs hysterically when I do this – and wraps me up in his arms, and calls me his Shanalope. He strokes my knee, and other things. I think this is my favorite of the antidotes – my sane, rational, amusing husband, who grounds me and soothes me like an NPR segment.

I will say it’s nice and cloudy today.* I like it when these kinds of days are overcast because, otherwise, the sun feels positively taunting and rude on a day like this; it feels like, “Ha, ha! The universe is bright and happy and you – what’s wrong with you – why you all pouty?” Okay, so I found a little silver lining. Big deal.

*For the record, I started this piece on Tuesday, which was perfectly overcast.

Web Design

Flower Power

Feast of All Souls

Today, on the Feast of All Souls, I light candles

for each of our dead relatives and prop their photographs against the towering votives. Their faces look back at me: Nonna Maria, with braids pinned to the top of her head, holding a fat hen at each hip; sweet, skinny Granny Anderson, all poised in a pink, silky blouse with her lips pressed purposefully together; my dear and precious Grams, in her royal blue button earrings and that gorgeous head of white, fluffy curls. As I study the dead, I give particular attention to thoughts of my own mortality. That we have only one life, of undesignated length, is really not that morbid a thing to consider; it’s just true. It’s not that I ponder on how I will die, or even when; but rather I am compelled to give great consideration to the way I'm living now. I ask the question: am I living the kind of life I will be happy to look back on later? Suppose there really are (as a dear friend of mine once suggested) videotapes of our lives, archived for our viewing pleasure in the afterlife. Will I be reclined in one of God's armchairs, watching my life roll across the screen with a feeling of satisfaction? Will I be screaming things at myself on the screen, the way you yell at an actor when they’re about to do something really stupid? Will there be spans of my life that I will wish I could go back and redo? Scenes I’ll want to rewind? Or fast forward? Which ones will they be? Which choices and habits will I be kicking myself over? Which opportunities will I be sorry I did not take? Will I be left with the feeling that I made a contribution of lasting value?

It’s not completely fair, of course, to ask such questions, with hindsight often being 20/20. And I get that we are often doing the best we can with the knowledge we have. I also know, that no matter how hard we try – no matter how many hours of yoga we do, how many times a day we pray, how many vegetables we consume, how many nature hikes we take or roses we smell, no matter how many kisses we give – that there will be some tapes we'll want to turn off, and some we'll enjoy watching. Because life is like that; it's a mixed bag. And we human beings are mixed bags, too. Nonetheless, I am inspired to add to my bag any prized wisdom, any valuable lesson, any fruitful experience, any sage advice or any good habit, that will ensure a more meaningful, a more purpose-filled, a more thoroughly good and useful life.

Some believe we are reincarnated – that once we die, we can come back to earth again -- as say, a cat. And how sweet that would be: the chance to be a mostly napping, sometimes nibbling, often rolling onto one’s back in the hot sun, only to sleep some more, kind of creature. Sign me up! But I am not inclined to believe that way. While I am always willing to be surprised and resurface with a set of whiskers, for now I am going to assume that I get this one, blessed, limited-time offer to live for real.

I also know some folks who are super focused on the afterlife, like it’s where all the real living takes place. My grandma has always referred to the glory days in Heaven -- like we’re all gonna be square dancing and eating ice cream floats, and ice skating across streets of gold. And maybe we are. I don’t know. Nobody knows. But the eternity of later, the unknown eternity of later, for me, is not enough to void out the significance of the present moment. I don’t know what happens after. I only know what is happening now.

I watch with wonder the flickering flame of each candle poised in a line across the buffet, the wicks dancing for only their allotted time, and not a moment longer. They do not know how long they will be burning or when they will be extinguished. I don’t know if my life will be cut short, like the life of my friend's dad, who tragically died of a brain tumor last week;* or if it will linger sweetly on and on, like my great grandmother who lived to be 104. Therefore, not knowing, I must proceed with my life -- with every living, flowing, breathing, beating, pounding, pumping ounce of me. In the words of Mary Oliver: Tell me, what will you do with your one wild and precious life?**

*This piece was written in memory of Dick Gabel, who just recently died of a brain tumor

**This quote comes from my favorite Mary Oliver poem, The Summer Day

Rainy Web

Skelly

Morning Blue

Beach Feet

Connect

Boy Dancer

Indeed there are more shades of pink than I ever knew, it dawns on me – a woman with three sons in a dance studio. A rainbow of pink ribbons decorates the five to seven year old heads waiting for class to start – every head except for Charlie’s, my dancing son. It’s our first ballet class at the new studio, one recommended by a friend. There are more boys at this studio, she convinced me, her son being one of them. But so far, it’s a cluster of earnest little girls in pink and purple leotards and see-through wrap-around skirts. Charlie is sporting his own fair share of dancer’s bling: a long-sleeved turtleneck leotard, poppy red spandex with two rows of black sequins running diagonally across his six-year-old chest. Over the leotard, a pair of black Danskin leggings clings to the most compact, most adorable, five-year-old rump this side of the Bay; a pair of black, leather ballet shoes completes the outfit. (This outfit, all the way down to the leotard, was custom designed by Charlie). He has furthermore flattened his hair into a side part with generous amounts of water and gel, Leave It to Beaver style. Charlie lifts his feet off of the carpet into an erratic twirl. I am positioned, knees locked, in front of the classroom window, trying to steal a good look at the dance instructor, who is not visible, conducting class from the one blind corner of the room. Who will receive my dancing son? Will Charlie be cherished and understood? Could he be crushed? How hard it can be to entrust our children to strangers.

Charlie suddenly gives voice to something else I’ve been anxiously considering for the past fifteen minutes: I don’t see any boy dancers, Mama – just girls so far; he punctuates his observation with a grand jete¢. Charlie seems unbothered but my stomach tightens anyway. Yup, just girls so far, I answer, trying to mimic his nonchalant tone. But I confess: I’m worried. I want this to be a good fit – well, no – a perfect one. I want Charlie’s story to be an easier road than say, Billy Elliot’s (a reference I’ve been getting a lot of lately when people hear that Charlie is dancing).* As parents, I don’t know if we can help but sink our entire hearts into our children’s endeavors. We naturally long for them to be happy and embraced, free and fulfilled, hell — even famous. And the very idea of their suffering exposes every raw nerve that runs the distance around our parenting souls. I love it that Charlie dances. I love it because I was a dancer myself. I love the art of dance: watching bodies lift, fold and melt into music. But mostly, I love it because he loves it. A meteoric joy explodes from the center of his being when the music plays and my son’s limbs expand and stretch into space. But let’s be honest: there are plenty of people who find it odd for a boy to be enrolled in dance class. And it’s just a simple fact that most dance classes, with the exception of hip-hop, are filled with girls – especially ballet classes. I think Charlie may have summed it up best on the way to class this evening, when, with a satisfied sort of conviction he remarked: Mama, not everyone knows it’s okay for boys to dance. We just have to teach them. As a dancer, Charlie has encountered teasing from his peers. On his first day of dance class ever, a little girl ran over to her mother, screaming like Charlie was a mouse: Mommy! That boy is not supposed to be in here. This class is for girls! School kids, too, have laughed, finding it funny or weird that Charlie dances. But for the most part, with a little guidance from the adults, kids seem to adjust to the idea. Adults, too, have their various responses.

Since Charlie started dancing nearly a year ago, I confess I might be likened to…oh, say….a lioness, ready to take on any resistance Charlie receives with my protective roar. I am relieved to report that I haven’t had to exercise my roar much. Forgetting the sideways glances we get stopping off at Safeway in the red leotard, people have been pretty decent. Nice even. Outside of those who know and love Charlie, and who rejoice in the obvious blessing of his discovery, people seem to fall into several camps. First, there are those who take it upon themselves to volunteer encouraging remarks: Good for him or If he likes to dance, that’s great; or still my favorite, You know, I heard one of Barack Obama’s cabinet members is a classically trained dancer, and he’s a successful individual (after googling this random fact, I discovered there really is such a man; his name is Rahm Emanuel, aka: Rhambo). Other folks don’t utter a word, but quietly observe, their eyes following the length of Charlie’s slender, costumed body, perhaps trying to sort out what it is they think about a boy dancer in sequins. Still, there are those who prefer to maintain strict segregation of gender roles, as if there are rules; as if, as males and females, we come with separate manuals at birth that dictate the things we should and should not be doing. He didn’t enjoy soccer? they want to know, and, what about baseball?

One acquaintance, obviously uncomfortable with Charlie dancing at all, cautioned me: Well, at least make sure you never let him do ballet! They make ‘em wear those funny tights. I had to break it to this person that not only has Charlie chosen ballet, but also that those “funny tights” he’s referring to, may in fact be half the reason Charlie dances at all. He adores his dance pants! The pants are not even mandatory; but he insisted on them. I refrained from offering a description of the sequined leotard to our friend because despite my lioness ways, I am not trying to launch an attack; just trying to do as Charlie so innocently (but wisely) suggested – teach people that it’s okay for boys to dance. Even so, it’s possible I may have revealed the very tips of my lioness fangs when I gave the speech Charlie and I have rehearsed half a dozen times, which goes something like: Who dances the prince in Swan Lake or the Mouse King in The Nutcracker? Men, whose biceps so often lift the twirling ballerina (or the male dancer) in a pas de duex, are essential to ballet (pas de duex is a French term which translates: dance for two). Don’t even get me started on Mikhail Baryshnikov or George Balanchine, to whom entirely separate speeches have been devoted. There’s also the broader speech – the one about how women everywhere are firefighters and black-belts, just as men everywhere are dancers or nurses; the speech about how we love what we love…whether we’re girls or we’re boys. And how we must do what it is we love.

At last, the door opens and the previous session’s dancers flood out in a sea of pink and black, emptying the room but for two people. Throughout my life, I’ve counted certain moments as pure, twenty-four carat grace, shining for no good reason on an ordinary human being like me – with all of my miserable fretting. This time, the grace is twofold. First off, I recognize one of the adults as Carol, a woman in our church community (a woman I trust will nurture Charlie’s dancing spirit). And secondly, Miss Carol’s assistant is a poised, dancer whose impressive deltoids are bulging out of a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off; he is – God bless him – a man! A male dancing instructor is even more fabulous than the one or two male classmates I’d been hoping for; and the ideal role model! And from the way Charlie’s enlarged brown eyes are boring into this Herculean, twenty-something powerhouse in his retro Flashdance gear, I daresay he would agree. After a brief welcome, class is ready to begin and my dancer files in with the all the rest. The door closes on Charlie and I position myself by the window again, where I can ogle at my son on the dance floor.

I hope that if I accomplish anything as a mother, it will be to unite my children with what they love, even when the way is challenged. Like any parent, I am prepared to do whatever it takes to support him on his destined path – whether he is stage bound or headed for the science lab. But how much better if the path is paved in grace.

*Billy Elliot is a movie starring a young, boy dancer; see the trailer at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoiVEyCosEE

Kitty

Last Day of Summer

Vegas

Purple and Pensive

Blue and Free

Cleaning for the Party

This morning,

cleaning for the party

I found:

a Hot Wheel in the dishwasher

a round brush in the rock garden

a spider in the curtain folds

jacks in the fire place

many marbles

many buttons

cutips behind the wastebasket

a plastic pony on the porch

pipecleaners in the grass

a headless rubber snake

two rocks and a penny in the washing machine

a green tomato on the patio

a line of ants

the last of a broken beer bottle

popcorn under the sofa

a flea

way too many wires

my missing toothbrush on the wine rack

two dusty 7lb weights

and a pair of underwear... on the bookshelf.

The Hose

Sonlight

Photos from "The Haircut"

Haircut

Well, it happened: our nearly-eight-year-old son now has an opinion about his appearance. Although on some level this is reassuring (he has been divested in his appearance to the point of heading for school with unbuttoned pants) I find myself in a subtle state of grief. It’s not like he’s going Goth or anything, but he recently announced that he wanted to do away with his long locks. We were in the minivan driving to our triannual haircut when he sprung it on. Expecting to hear he’d endure the usual one-and-a-half-inch trim, I asked, customarily, what kind of do he wanted. Instead, I had to lower the volume of Philadelphia Chickens to clarify what I thought I’d heard: I want it short this time. It’s hard to explain why these six soft-spoken words initially gave me a lump in my throat. It may help to understand that James has a head of hair three times thicker than my own, as blond as I pay to color mine, and that the wavy locks have been approaching shoulder length for nearly four years now. Furthermore, the hair in the back curled like an ocean wave and bounced tirelessly when he ran. Once, we were even stopped in Safeway by a woman seeking extras in a movie; she was ready to cast James on the spot based on his “gorgeous head of hair!” Not exactly fond of a spotlight, James politely refused.

And that’s always been the thing about James; he’s never been the center stage type or even the stage type. Until recently, he was the boy who hid his face comfortably in the golden curtains of his hair, who liked to wear hoods and not just on cold days. But James is changing, and maybe sometimes we forget that kids are allowed to change; that, in fact, it’s their job to transform before our very eyes. From an early age, kids might seem to possess a certain temperament (for James it’s the classic introvert) making it perhaps too tempting to box them up and seal them with a label, as if we already know who they are. But of course, they don’t even know who they are at times; and all of their life long, they will be figuring it out – who they are and who they want to become. Furthermore, unexpected experiences, events and relationships will come along to help determine the outcome of their unfolding identity, causing an even greater deal of mystery. Identifiable temperament or not, it’s possible, even probable, that just when we think we have our kids figured out, they will surprise us, maybe even shock us; they will teach us and re-teach us who they are. (One would have thought that the erratic sleeping, eating and napping habits of infancy would have cemented this idea of inconstancy early on). But we’re parents; we're busy, tired, sentimental;and we like our kids the way they are -- it’s familiar. We aren’t necessarily ready for them to change (unless it means they're graduating from the tantrum stage or that they’re finally clearing their own dinner plates). It’s the bittersweet privilege of parenthood that we get front row seats to the rapid viewing of our children’s constant transformation; it’s thrilling to see a unique identity emerge yet we are aware all the while that something is being left behind.

That momentous day in the van, when James voiced his wishes for a haircut, it all came together for me like a sappy series of flashbacks in a Hollywood film. First, I recalled that in recent weeks, I’d found him on the bathroom stool trying to flatten his curls with a spray bottle (when I used to have to remind him an annoying number of times just to run a brush through it before school). Can you help me get this hair flat, Mama? he had inquired rather desperately, worry lines forming like quotation marks between his two long-lashed lids and hazel eyes. And I recalled the look of horror on his face when I explained to him that with no amount of water would his curls lie down flat. The final flashback came from a recent trip to Target when low and behold, James expressed the first of his wardrobe opinions. While I’d previously been accustomed to tossing any needed clothing for the kids into my cart with toilet paper and cat food, suddenly, James was retracting the jeans from the cart and inspecting them, only to politely inform me that the jeans I’d selected were several shades too dark. So at the end of age seven, James picked out his first pair of jeans (and come to find out, he likes a very pale, worn-looking denim).

So the signs are all there; the oldest of my three sons is coming into his own; he’s, yes, changing --figuring out what he likes and doesn’t -- all of the things he is supposed to be doing. While I did briefly mourn my longhaired James, I am happy to report that his short, becoming haircut brought with it a profound sense of rejoicing, along with a generous dose of pride pooling in my mother heart. I realize I am on this journey, too. After all, I got to teach him how to flip through magazines for hairstyles, and -- per his bold request -- I even had the privilege of molding his first faux-hawk. The new bold James inspires me. And I can’t wait to see what’s next: Rock on, James! And I’ll rock with you.

Mud

Tender at the Window I

Tender at the Window II

Tender at the Window III

Tender at the Window IV

Tender at the Window V

Blue Kamikaze

Spider