Parallel Light

Photo of the week and a word from the wise

2012-01-26T09:53:00.000-08:00

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
-- Rumi

Unsubscribing

2012-01-18T17:06:00.000-08:00

Well friends, we are back to the clean slate again, aren't we – back to the famous month of starting over. While I like to think we canwipe our slates clean anytime we feel the need, this particular time comesevery 365 days a year, and so impacts us all. Whatever your approach to NewYear’s resolutions, I suspect we all feel an inclination toward some kind ofresolve in 2012. Forming resolutions can be a lovely and meaningful ritual,working pound-dropping wonders for many. But for others, like me, resolutionscan feel like a set up for failure. Though I am quite talented at list making,and on a second’s notice can whip up an impressive list of all that I hope toimprove in my life, it would serve only one purpose: to pressure me intofailure. To me, lists feel unforgiving. So when I resolve to do something(particularly a whole list of things) and then slip up, the list is burned atonce as an offering for the to-hell-with-it gods – which ultimately means I amworse off than I started. That is to say, instead of cutting back on sugar, I mightfind myself consuming the entire bag of chocolate-covered potato chips orhandfuls of peppermints. (Maybe this is my own special brand of psychosis, butsomebody out there must relate…anyone?) Since this type of behavior does not serveme so well, in recent years my resolve has tended to be more organic.

The other day, in the spirit of a fresh start, I wasclearing clutter from my Gmail inbox – mostly retailer junk mail. Though I do quite like the storesthat send me these enticing emails – West Elm, Uncommon Goods, Garnet Hill – Ifind that their emails serve only as a distraction from satisfaction. Withphrases like, Last chance to save and The clock is ticking, theemails also add an undue sense of urgency to my already super busy life. Theother day, I was feeling just fine about my current bedding. But no sooner hadGarnet Hill emailed me with a New Year’s bedding sale, did I find myself lostin a land of celestial blue, paintbrush flannel sheets and heirloom rose,sateen coverlets – which is to say— in a state of pure coveting. To add to mydissatisfaction, while I am busy convincing myself that I need new bedding(which I haven’t even the money for), I am wasting the valuable writing time Iso covet – or at the very least – time that could be used to launder theneglected bedding already in my possession. I do so love shopping, and I seekit out plenty; I do not need it to seek me out. And truly, friends – in aconsumer culture like ours, is it not challenging enough to claim contentmentalready? But I digress…

Call it a spontaneous New Year’s resolution if you like, buton this twelfth day of 2012, rather than purchasing new bedding from GarnetHill, I took my mouse for a new walk, down to the bottom of the page, in searchof that ever elusive word in a tiny-as-fleas font: unsubscribe. And hear this – with amere click I was free – gloriously un-subscribed. It was liberating – soliberating I had to do it again – and again – until I’d gone through everyvendor in my inbox.

The experience was so empowering that I got to thinking…what else might I unsubscribe from in thecoming year? Perhaps I’ll unsubscribe from the junk mail in theinbox of my head – from the negative voices that crowd my mind: the I’m-not-good-enough voices, thewhat-will-people-think voices; those inner voices that threaten to paralyzeme and the goodness that would flow from my life. Maybe this year, I’ll putmyself on a mailing list of love – seek to send more love letters my own way. After all, the more we love ourselves, the more love we have to share with others. I suppose I could also unsubscribefrom the negative voices that speak from the outside: the voices of those who (because of their ownnegative voices, perhaps) would seek to discourage or belittle, insult orinjure. Suppose I no longer allow those voices to rockthe boat of my self-worth. Suppose I send those voices out to sea, wish themwell on their own journey ofunsubscribing. While I’m atit, I might unsubscribe from the collective cultural voices, with their expectationsand definitions of success, which I often feel so degraded by: to hide every gray hair, to shed every lastpound, to eradicate every wrinkle, to perfect my wardrobe, to seek fame andfortune…Yes, maybe this year, I will unsubscribe from the mail of untruth – to any mail, whatever the source, that thrives on threatening my sense of satisfaction with who I amand the life I choose. Now if I could only click a button with my mouse. Butalas, as I said before, my resolutions are of an organic nature, just like thejourney that will move me toward them.

Happy resolving, dear friends – however you go about it.

Parable of the Chocolate Croissant

2011-12-15T17:03:00.000-08:00

The season of Advent is like a mother and child on a coffee date. Hand in hand, the sweet pair enters Elmwood Café on a frostymorning in Berkeley and stands before the counter in anticipation of theimpending goodness. Before Mother even speaks the usual words -- What would you like, my love? -- the little love ishopping up and down on his toes, declaring in his highest, squeaky voice, I want dat one! He’s pointing to a perfectly plump, perfectlygolden, chocolate-stuffed croissant behind the glass case. There is nohesitation in his voice, no doubt in his awakened eyes; he wants the chocolatecroissant. Strands of fine, blond hair lift and fall into the air, as hecontinues to perform excited little hops. The mother smiles at the cashier, We'll take two chocolatecroissants, please.

Choose a seat,Mother offers. There are sun-lit tables by the window, private circular tables ina dim corner of the cafe, but the child selects the brick red bar stools at thecounter overlooking the bustling kitchen. The two wait on the stools for theirmorning chocolate. Just over the counter, stories of love-lives-gone-wrongcircle over the whistle and whir of steaming milk and grinding espresso beans.Meanwhile, Mother’s little companion finds many things to do on the stool: hespins in circles, bottom on the stool; he lays belly over the stool, lettinghis limbs dangle down like a rag doll; he bridges his body across twostools and rests his silky head in Mother's lap. She gathers strands of the impossibly soft hair and twists them between her fingers. Moments later, when thepastries arrive, the child straightens his spine in the chair like a tree trunk and sitsreverently before the treat.

The Mother studies the small blond creature at her side – this, ofcourse, is the real reason for these dates. For to watch the child enjoy pastryis among the holiest ceremonies she knows. She studies the soft-bodied child,clothed in the turquoise, wool cardigan, his eyebrows lifted high over the two dark chocolate eyes. He looks the pastry over, tilting his head sideways tothe right, then to the left. He is considering, she supposes, how to get to thereal substance of the thing. How to get to the center of it all, she thinks…isn't it what we’re all trying to do?

The delicate treat is at last lifted toward the ripe plum lips andplaced between two rows of tiny teeth. Busily chewing, the child glances inher direction with a mustache of pastry flakes. Mother imagines the pastry flakesmelting into his tongue. For a long moment, the child sits still and quiet, as ifpondering something carefully – a monk taking chocolate vows. Mother would loveto know the thoughts in that three year old mind, but all shecan do is wait and watch: his eyelashes as they lower and flicker withchanging thought, his peachy little fingers fanned out, shining with butterand feathery golden, flakes.

The thoughtful boy makes another move, this time using his pointer fingers totunnel into the pastry. The fingers disappear into the flaky flesh, and wigglearound in that hidden world. The woman wonders, What must it feel likeinside that soft as-angels-world? All that pale light, those silky layers…akind of magic. The little fingers emerge again and beginanother approach, this time working to peel back the layers of pastry. The fingers peel and fold, peel and fold. From his heavy mouth breathing, Mother can hear it is hard work. The child breathes thisway whenever he is fixed on something; it is one of her favorite sounds onearth – the hymn of small, concentrating children.

After the patient toil of his hands, the chocolate center is visibleat last. A bit hastily, the child lifts the torn apart thing to his lips andtries to get at the center of it with his tongue, but quickly decides that won't do. It seems the chocolate must be extracted. Again, the pastryis on the plate, layers splayed out in submission, and the determined fingers digback in, this time pulling out the glorious rib of chocolate at long last. Without even a brief hesitation, the chocolate disappears into the wide-open tunnel of his mouth. The child examines the state of his fingers, in particular theamount of chocolate that coats his pearly fingertips and gives them each a good lick.

Mother breathes it in deep, the sacred, warm, coffee-bean air ofthis moment. Eyes closed, exhaling, she considers how to hold onto these moments. How can she keep forever the wildflower scent of her son's hair, his chocolate covered cheeks...if only she could bronze these moments in time like a pair of baby shoes; for she knowsit is all as fleeting and fast as pastry on the tongue. But the moment is framed on thewalls of eternity and she hopes that will be enough.

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You may want to check out the Elmwood for your own chocolate date -- and the VERY best hot cocoa.
http://www.elmwoodcafe.com/
And in case you can't make it out to the Elmwood, here's a little taste of it below:

Advent Reflections, Day One: Who's Jesus?

2011-12-01T22:48:00.001-08:00

“Mom, I don’t wike Jesus,” my three year old announces,having just wandered into my writer’s shack for a visit and climbed into my lapat the desk. Sometimes he escapes Dad’s watch.

“Really?” I inquire, studying his contorted face. His hugechocolate eyes are fixated on a three-inch, turquoise, wooden cross hangingover my shack doors. Of course, being someone who quite likes the fellow Jesus,I am a little shocked. After all, from every story I’ve heard, Jesus was a finelad – loving, true, brave; he fought for justice, he healed the sick, turnedwater into wine; what’s not to like? So I ask him, “Why don’t you like Jesus?”

He climbs down from my lap, peers around the shack a minute,then just stands there like a cowboy, ready for a fast draw, wearing nothing but Spider Man underwear. “I just don’t wike her.” (I note that Jesus is a girl).

“Well, I like Jesus,” I say. "I think Jesus is quite nice.”

“Where is she?” he asks, glancing around, as if daring me topull Jesus out of my desk drawer.

“Jesus is in heaven and…in your heart…in the trees, in thewind, and even in the sea shells,” I say, lifting the shells from my desk forhim to touch. I'm making it all up as I go along, of course.

“She doesn’t live in the sea shells,” he says, like I’mdefinitely misguided, or maybe even an idiot. “She doesn’t.”

“You don’t think so?”

He’s silent a moment.

He cranks his head off to one side. “Is she wittle?”

“No…not really….well – big and little, I guess…because Jesusis everywhere in everything.”

Maybe it’s the red spider man underwear, or the dried upchocolate pudding around his cherry lips, but he commands such wonderfulauthority standing here, fearlessly stating his position on the lady Jesus, andfurthermore challenging me to define God on a moment’s notice – an impossibletask with any length of notice.

Later I will ponder the significance of our conversation –how children not only say the darnedest things, but are such magical creatures,brimming with an inborn wisdom. Being a fan of God myself, of course, I hope my sweet son discovers the joy of a life with God; but I’m not concerned. I think weall shy away from things we don’t understand. It’s not uncommon for us torashly decide we don’t like something simply because we are baffled by it…orbecause it presents a challenge to us or even frightens us. It is, after all,much easier to dismiss the things that scare us than to dive in and swim aroundin the messy unknown – so much easier to pass quick judgment. But rich is thejourneyer who keeps asking the questions, even if she needs to keep a loosehold on judgment or fear along the way. Eventually, we ask enough questions tolet go of what it is we were afraid of, and what it is we did not understand.And new understanding sets us free.

Since God is a forever unknown, so mysterious, so beyond thescope of the mind with its tiny little compartments, my three year old reminds me todelve into the mystery of spirit life anew. He reminds me to state my questionsand proclaim my thoughts in bright red underwear. He challenges me to figureout more of who Jesus is during this Advent season – and to eat more chocolatepudding while I’m at it.

The Offering of Ourselves

2011-10-08T11:04:00.000-07:00

Friends, I have taken a leap of faith. The preschool planetshave aligned and we have found a lovely spot for our very busy, very social,very running-around-the-house-naked toddler. He is now spending his Mondaythrough Friday mornings at a safe, clean, and positively adorable Montessorischool …with cloth-covered snack tables, where children help themselveswhenever they are hungry; with baskets of rolled up rugs, for each child tounroll and play upon in his own space; with pet canaries, barefooted teachers,and slippers on all of the children’s feet. Right off the bat, the school ismore than I could have ever hoped for in a preschool.

At the same time, (see how the planets do align!) mywriter’s shack has just been completed. And like the preschool, it is more thanI could have hoped for, with its darling Dutch doors opening onto a garden ofpineapple mint and sage, with its spa green walls and cedar planked ceiling.And my own poppy-red desk chair that calls me into boldness.

Why then, when my three year old enters the gates of theschool each morning, does it feel like he is dragging my heart along behind him– like a wooden pull toy without any wheels? My heart bumps along, feeling eachuncooperative pebble, every uneven portion of ground, and gets wedged intocracks of earth along the way. The journey is uncomfortable, friends – evenpainful.

If you’ve endured any kind of separation with children ofyour own, then you know precisely what I mean. The pain. The worry. The guilt.The doubt. The hope. And it’s all so much worse when you can hear the childscreaming your name from the parking lot, as you climb reluctantly into yourcar on the second day of school. I’m killing him, you think, as yoursweaty hands grip the steering wheel. But you’re not killing him any more thanyou were when at eighteen months, he cried in his crib at bedtime. Or when itwas time to wean him from the watery milk of your breast. Or when he laidhimself prostrate on the hardwood floor because you said “no” to ice cream forbreakfast. And you’re not killing him anymore than you’re killing yourself, asyou drive away from the sweet little school. But it does rather feel likeyou’re killing off tender pieces of yourself, doesn’t it? Like bits of you aredying. And bits of him are dying. I think this is because bits of each of youare, in fact, dying. Necessary bits – often referred to as the necessary lossesof life…the ones that are ultimately good for us, even if they cause us pain inthe meanwhile. It is often these everyday, necessary losses that lead us to thejoy we so desire in our lives – the joy of finally completing a poem, say, orof sharing giggles with a new friend at the cloth-covered snack table.

This time when my son and I will be apart from one another,as he goes out into the world as the separate individual that he is, learningto rise to new challenges, to gain confidence in adjusting to newcircumstances, to build his own community, to work cooperatively in sandboxesand help himself to cut-up cantaloupe, is an essential time. He is exactlywhere he is supposed to be. But check this out: I am, too, exactly where I amsupposed to be! The journey, you see, belongs to both of us. I, in the fourwalls of my writer’s shack, and he, in the four walls of his classroom, arefiguring out what it means to be in new territory. How wonderful it is, then,to be in solidarity with one another during this time of transition.

As I enter these child-free hours, I am learning to rise tonew challenges myself. I am learning to sit in my poppy-red desk chair and notget up every ten minutes for tea, for nibbles, or for whatever distraction Iinvent (and I invent many). I am earning to be disciplined in my work. Andsometimes the work is hard, even lonely. It takes courage to write new words,and trust they will mean something. But I must do it. Nobody can do it with me,or for me. Nobody can even tell me how to do it. It is my fingers thatmust type the words I want to say. Meanwhile, my son walks through thepreschool gates alone. Nobody can take those footsteps for him. He must be inthe new classroom alone. He must place his shoes in the waiting cubby, all byhimself. He must unroll his own rug, choose his own work from the shelf. Wemust – all of us – go out on our own to do the work we are meant to do. We mayjourney with one another in encouragement and empathy; we may be in solidaritywith one another, journeying with each other in spirit. But nobody’s feet canwalk the path we are meant to walk but our own.

As he readied himself for school this morning, my son and Ishared this dialogue:

Mom, why do you have to work in your shack?

Because the world needs me, Henry...and the world needsyou, too.

Why? Why does the world need you?

Because it needs each one of us. You will do your workand I will do mine. (It helps that in the language of Montessori, the word“work” is used to refer to the play that children do).

And it's true! The world does need each one of us to do our specialwork, as we are each a totally unique offering unto the earth.

Courage be with you as you offer your one-of-a-kind self tothe world, my friends – in ways old and new.

Gifts From Beyond

2011-09-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

I have not, dear friends, let my writer’s voice out to playmuch lately. That’s not to say I haven’t been working fervently to finalize thedetails of my splendid writer’s shack; it’s nearly complete! I have been occupiedby other summer goodness as well: trainrides, poolside barbecues, mojitos, ranching it up in the low Sierras… but asthe summer closes her doors, something else has been on my mind.

You may recall the blog posts of last summer when my friendSteven died (grieve posts, I call them). It isn’t as if the anniversary ofSteven’s death snuck up on me, like an unexpected guest pulling into thedriveway. Rather, it was the case of a slow, steady approach, like a cartraveling across country; I could see it coming from miles away. And I was awarewith each passing mile that it was headed toward me, this anniversary of painand grief and loss. With each holiday, birthday, and for a hundred ordinarydays in between, Steven’s death has become a more permanent part of thelandscape of my life (oh how the heart wishes still that it were merely thelandscape of bad dreams).
When July 20^th came, I needed to tell someone, tosay it aloud: This is the day he died. So I told Chad as we weresteeping our morning tea. Wow, I can’t believe a whole year’s gone by, heremarked. Chad was surprised tolearn it didn’t sneak up on me at all – that in fact, Steven has been with meall year long. Frankly, I am surprised, too, having been such a stranger togrief until now. I have been surprised by many things concerning death. While it’s true I cannot sit down to a plate of chicken andrice with Steven (his favorite), I am relieved to discover that death cannotrob us of a loved one’s spirit; that in fact, it possible to carry on arelationship with the dead, that spirit and matter do operate independent ofone another – that in fact, my relationship with Steven feels richer than itever did here on earth, informed by whatever grace, whatever joy, whateverwholeness now consumes Steven in his afterlife. In a sense, I can even have afriendship with him that did not feel possible before he died. I have experienced Steven's presence throughout the year in nearly inexplicable ways. I feel him watching over me, like a saint. Sometimes, I whisper to him my troubles, like prayers, and I know he listens.

I am also surprised to discover that death has gifts to offer, should we find ourselvesable to accept them.

The other day, The Times reported the death toll in Lybia as50,000 over the past six months. No longer a stranger to grief, I find that Iread now with the eyes of my heart. I think less in terms of numbers and more interms of human beings. Instead of the common nouns of graves and bodies, Iimagine the proper nouns of each body with a name, not to mention the grievingbrothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. It seems to me awhole world dies with each human being – a world of love, passion, talent, joy,and beauty, just as it was with Steven. And I feel my heart being stretched andpulled beyond itself, in directions it has yet to go, expanding my capacity tolove. And this, friends, is a gift. Because why else are we here, but to learnto love?

As we observe the tenth anniversary of September 11^th,I think of the three thousand lives lost and the ripples of people who grievethose losses. What I feel keenly aware of, based on my own sense of grief, isthat even ten years later the victims of loss are still grieving. While themoment of death might be an event on the timeline, grief occupies all of timeas it stretches out to eternity. Strikingly, I know of six deaths in my veryown town since Steven’s, and my response to each one has been tailored by myown grief experience. Where before I might have been too timid to act or even complacent,I now send a card, deliver a meal or care package, or offer a longer-than-usualembrace. I challenge myself to reach out when I know grief hides in the heartsof those around me. I think to know the experience of grief – its particularflavor on the tongue, the way it seeps into your very pores without permission,the way you can’t make your bed or even sleep in it, the strange restlessnessthat sinks into the depths of your very bones – does bestow a gift: empathy. While it is always within our capacity tofind sympathy for those who experience loss, empathy is hard won; we must firstsuffer to understand the suffering of others. And to be understood in the midstof suffering is medicine for the soul. While we may resent the means bywhich we gain empathy (and rightly so), in the end we are able to offersomething valuable to a world all too familiar with suffering.

So as we move into fall, I take with me my unexpected gifts from Steven. And I thank him for not just who he was, but who he is in my life.

Meditations From "The Ranch"

2011-08-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

That’s right, my friends, I am sipping iced coffee from a glass cowboy boot, gazing out upon a pasture of splendidly lazy cows as they stroll and nibble from acres of golden prairie. A 360 degree backdrop of the low sierra mountain ranges surrounds the prairie, as well as the house, also affectionately known as The Ranch, where our family enjoys dwelling for this dreamy week of summer. Hardly a sound out here, at least sounds as I know them in my usual life – cars, lawn mowers, sirens and such. Every now and again, the lovely owl hoots consistently from her tree across the grasses, such a soothing, primitive, wind-instrument sort of sound. Also, the shift of dry, delicious grasses in the jaws of cows, when they roam near enough for me to hear, and the swish of their hooves through the land as they pass on by. Hardly any movement, but for the occasional tickle of grass blades in the hot breeze, but for the black cow swishing her tail in a steady tick-tock rhythm as her calf sips from a willing, dangling teat. I can only imagine how hot the milk pouring forth from her body is, coming from that fur-covered Mama cow in this 98 degree heat. But somehow it all works together for good out here, uninterrupted, unforced, at an easy, natural pace, like the slow, lilting walk of the cattle herd, whenever they decide it’s time to actually move.

From the persimmon tree, whose trunk grows right up out of a hole in the end of the deck where I sit, a mysterious chorus of insects makes a mid-pitched rattling noise, like a hundred maracas might sound shaking from the high hills. Then, another vibration from the willow trees farther off, at a deep yet more soprano pitch; but this one comes and goes according to its own mysterious intervals, like a cuckoo clock – cicadas, perhaps?

In the near distance, where a huddle of cattle have been lounging beneath the graceful shade of a tree for the most of the day, sits a white trailer speckled with auburn clouds of rust. It rests in dry, golden grass like it hasn't moved for centuries – its stillness so insistent, its history rich, its presence such a persistent part of the landscape. It dares me not to move a muscle, as do the cocoa brown horses in pastures beyond a white farm fence, whose lean, reflective bodies have occupied the same sunny spot for at least an hour now.

In the pond to the right of me, just below the deck, frogs blip, breaking the water’s surface every now and then, just often enough not to be forgotten. So gentle and sweet, the little blips. Fish join in too, with their elusive bodies sweeping the surface of the pond's green water for a split, nearly imaginary second.

Out here, nothing fast, or pressing. Nothing loud or insistent. Nothing confusing or awkward. Nothing even too vibrant; instead, all things spilling out easily across the land in a slow, gorgeous array of muted hues of green and brown, everything making a beautiful sense – all things subtle but steady, strong but still…sort of like the landscape I desire for my soul.

Away

2011-05-18T10:46:00.000-07:00

(A reflection on my recent weekend away)

Lately words have escaped my belabored brain. In rare and brief moments, I have sat down to write, and alas: nothing. Even a teensy little haiku has been too much for my mind to muster…until now.

Put me in a modern bungalow on Inverness Ridge, left to stroll around in my panties with only the birds to see and the wind to whistle, and suddenly, I find my muse. Nestle me in a poppy-orange lounge chair adjacent to a wall of windows with a panoramic view of Tomales Bay, and it turns out I have something to say. Send me on a lush, eight-mile hike to the sea, through ferns, waterfalls, and bronzy meadows, and yes, lines of poetry do begin to occur to me. Nap me. Rest me. Surround me with solitude, and suddenly, I am rich with words.

The thing of it is, friends, I’ve been dried up like a raisin – by none other than the sunshine of life. It’s good stuff (well mostly) but Mama! I’m tired. Always somewhere to go, someone to be, something to do…I have reached a shriveled state. Squeeze a juicy little grape like me hard enough, and the juices run dry. It’s true for all of us. You’ve heard this story before: it’s your story, it’s your neighbor’s story, it’s your mother’s and your father’s story, your sister’s and your brother’s story. We all know the story of burn out. And hopefully, we all know the opera of relief that comes when we leave it all behind for a while – even just for a little while. And if you don’t, allow me to preach it from the Inverness mountaintops: there is value in leaving it all behind. There really and truly is!

How often are we thinking: If I could just get away for a while…And we don’t mean a bubble bath, do we friends? A Calgon break is all fine and good, but we’re talking about away away. We’re talking about the prayer-flag-draped caves of Tibet; we mean the wildflower fields of Australia; the canals of Venice; the castles of England; the au laits in France. We’re dreaming of away, and we’re dreaming big. Sometimes it’s a whimsical, passing thought we have while sipping tea in the backyard; other times, it’s a desperate longing – a need, really – like when we’re wiping down the middle son’s homework after the potty-training son peed on it, with the older son snickering in the background. Oh sometimes, fellow grapes, our dear lives are too much, aren’t they?

Inverness is not Tibet, but far enough away for now. Here, in this California haven of vast sea and meadow, of pine forest and cow-dotted farmland, I am many moons away from my usual life, afloat in a universe of renewal. While at home, my life with three boys provides moments of peace and solitude only found on the potty, here there is nothing to interrupt the forever quiet. Here I watch the hawk swoop and circle over the bay, moment after moment, breath after slow breath, and it is pure holiness. Here, the quiet is so quiet, it makes a peaceful drone, like an angel’s eternal sigh of satisfaction. Yes, here I wipe the counters clean, and lo, their pristine and polished state lingers for hours upon hours. Here, I saunter to the loo, and behold, friends, when I sit on the toilet seat, not a single drop of gone-astray urine awaits my relaxed little buns. No phone rings. Nobody knocks at the door to rouse me half-dressed from this orange chair. Nobody nothing nowhere. And even though it will all be different tomorrow, somehow, this time, here, now, matters.

So when you’re feeling done with your life, find a way to get escape it for a while, says the woman with the sun-kissed cheeks, waltzing with the wind on a stage of lime-green prairie. Says the woman with a new fire burning in her soul.

*I dedicate this post to my mom and dad, without whom such respite would not have been possible.

Vodka and Snow

2011-03-09T21:37:00.000-08:00

Yes, my friends, the evening was such that I set the clocks forward to trick the kids into bed early, and now I’m eating spoonfuls of Vodka and snow. No – for real. We brought zip lock bags of snow home from Yosemite weeks ago and it’s still in the freezer. So as soon as the older boys were done with their Lord of the Flies brawling routine over who took who’s damn Crazy Bones, (while I was rocking the baby to sleep in the room next door, by the way) I sent them to bed. I told them their behavior was so troubling, I’d need some time to consider the consequences carefully. But really, I just needed some vodka and snow. Topped with the sweet syrup of peace and quiet.

So when it seemed there was peace and quiet, when it seemed like their hot little heads were on the pillows for good, I headed for the freezer; and in three minutes flat I had concocted a Poor Shanny snow cone: vodka, lemon juice and raspberry Torani Syrup over snow. I know it’s Ash Wednesday and all, and for the record, I did go to church and get my ashes, but here’s the thing: I really think that God feels my sharp, piercing child-rearing pains, and that if God were here, He/She’d be like, “Where’s my vodka and snow?” and kick her feet up. I almost feel like God’s here with me on the sofa now, ready to watch some junk television, and commiserate with me. After all, I always tell my kids, “God is wherever you are.”

Anyhow, I am really super glad I set the clocks forward and don’t feel guilty in the least because five minutes into my frozen bliss, who should show up but little C in his Risky Business attire, (a pair of orange tight-ies and a tank top) wanting to know this: “Mommy, can we visit a fossil site sometime?” First I want really badly to laugh. I mean -- just the orange sight of him. Then, I want to say, “Are you out of your mind? I’m finally here recovering from the torment you inflicted upon me and you get out of bed after behaving like a savage to ask me when we can go fossil hunting?” But I crunch some more snow and inhale deeply – because that’s what I’m going to work on the for the next forty days…patience with the people I love most. After a nice long exhale I’m thinking about how sweet it is that he’s interested in fossils; that he’s not asking me to take him to see Lady Ga Ga live but he’s asking me if we can go searching the earth for fossils. And it warms me. It does. But I still need my Vodka and snow. So I tell him we can Google fossil sites in the Bay Area tomorrow perhaps, but that right now, he needs to get his bright orange buns into bed.

Sir William's Revenge

2011-02-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

My first morning home after vacation started out fairly optimal: I woke up early with the explicit goal of easing myself back into life here at home with some savory solitude. I brewed some lovely Pride of the Port tea, and curled up in some fleece blankets to read the Sunday New York Times (which had been delivered while we were in Yosemite). Just as I am totally engrossed in a story about the American couple taken hostage by Somali pirates last week, my seven year old son appears at the bottom of stairs with captivating news of his own: Mommy, Sir William went poo in my bed.

Clearly the cat has taken revenge – and it’s really too bad because I had just taken a renewed interest in him. I had just started brushing him, spraying him down with lily-scented, leave-in shampoo, and implemented some T.V.-watching petting sessions in the evenings. To be fair, I should come all the way clean: When we returned home yesterday, we realized (with a great degree of horror, I assure you) that we’d accidentally left the cat locked in the garage all week with no food and water. The garage door was supposed to be left ajar, so Sir William could go in and out as he pleased. And of course, we all swear we left it open. And maybe we did; maybe the wind did it. But in any case, Sir William of Clifton Way is royally pissed off and has exacted his revenge.

So, next thing I know, I’m trying to carefully remove Charlie’s bed sheets without spilling the poop piles, my body retching all the while. It’s a truly repulsive smell, exponentially worse than any diaper I have ever changed. I can’t clean the poop quietly; I am moaning and grunting and gagging all the while. Oh, ugh, I’m muttering to myself repeatedly, This is so disgusting. The two older boys are in the corner of the room, watching with simultaneous humor and horror. It is obvious they are being entertained. Before I know it, my sensitive gag reflex has been taken to its limits and I am fleeing to the toilet, throwing up my morning tea. The boys really can’t believe it all: James, she’s throwing up! Charlie says with a giggle in his throat. I know, James says, with a bit of excitement in his voice.

Back for another round of courageous poop swiping, nose tucked under the neckline of my pajama shirt, I finally manage to clear the bedding into a mound, and haul it all downstairs to the washer. Spraying poop spots with Zout, it occurs to me the cat has exacted his revenge rather masterfully; it’s nearly Shakespearean. Not only did he ensure that I start my morning by throwing up my tea, but he has me doing severe laundry penance. Already, as Sir William knows, I have seven loads of snow trip clothes awaiting me today; now, with a down comforter, a duvet, and a set of sheets, all smeared in cat feces, with any luck, I will maybe get to one load of snow clothes.

With the poop sheets soaking in an oxy bath, I head back upstairs to proceed with getting everyone ready for school. But as it turns out, there is, in fact, too much poop to continue with the morning. Mom, Charlie says, There’s more poo; it’s all over my bedroom floor. And sure enough, I spot four large islands of poop on Charlie’s hardwood floor – plus a little on the hallway rug. At this moment, my husband emerges from the bedroom – chuckling, arms open. Here, he says, as I’m collapsing into his arms, all pooped out, give me the paper towels. I’ll do the rest. Utterly relieved, I surrender the roll and head down to brew myself a fresh cup of tea.

All I can say is, Sir William I hope to God we’re even.

Closet Croutons

2011-02-16T14:12:00.001-08:00

At this precise moment of the day, two of my boys are crunching hot-from-the-cherry-red-oven croutons in what used to be my pantry but is now apparently a newly renovated, tiny private residence, occupied by my seven year old. I’ve even been asked to knock before entering. But I feel obliged to report a sweet sense of satisfaction with it all.

It’s not just my adorable, crouton-crunching hobbits; I’m also feeling like a kitchen wizard, having just rescued three-day old Grace Baking Company sourdough from the compost bin and transformed it into some magical, rosemary mushroom-sage croutons – which not even my two year old can seem to stop eating. Plus, the pantry fort tickles my heart; it’s a pretty captivating deal – decked out with a sticker-covered bulletin board, a Coleman lantern with rose quartz glowing on top, a lap desk, some wooden owls chilling in a giant abalone shell, and even a maroon Holy Bible with a peacock feather sticking out of the top of it. Add the two boys elbow to elbow, munching the croutons like they’re the last crumbs on earth, and it’s quite the splendid show. I would gladly camp out and admire the scene all day, hemming and hawing, like you do in Lassie reruns, if they didn’t insist on the door being closed. They are experiencing a private happiness in a private world. And as a matter of fact, so am I.

The song Sweet Pea by Amos Lee is now playing on Pandora and I can’t help but get a little groove on in my salty kitchen. Looks like the sunshine got her groove on too, and bumped the fog out with a swing of her hips so she could be out shining front and center. Forget that I’m still not exactly sure what I’m doing with my life. Forget I’m unpublished, or hardly writing, at that. Forget the undone writer’s shack, the composting dumps pile… Forget my rather gross wood floors, and all of my yawning existential questions; this morning none of it can swallow me up like it does on other days – because my house smells like a mushroom forest, and I feel like a peppy little gnome skipping through it. Also, with crouton crumbs melting on my happy tongue, how can I complain?

So here’s the thing that occurs to me: when these moments occur – these rare, sacred, savory little moments that make us feel satisfied all the way down to our toes – we must absorb them completely. We must savor these miraculous closet crouton moments because – and this confounds the mind – the same precise moment will never occur again. The distinct moments of our lives can never be recreated (try though we might). We can’t plan these rare moments anymore than we plan the weather. Our life moments fall on us unsolicited, and only once – like drops of rain; and once they’ve fallen, it’s up to us to incorporate them into our life puddles. Why? Because later, when it feels like a trail of mud and tears, when we’re wading through long, tedious workdays, when things are falling apart, when we’re sledging through the existential turmoil in our souls, we’ll need the memory of these herb-a-licious moments to keep us going.

Even though I really like it when everything feels all reggae and wonderful, when it all comes together like a fantastic Jello mold, I know it won’t always taste this good. Because that’s the way life is – all the splendid bites, all the sour bites and everything in between, all spread out together in one big universal potluck.

But whatever: today I’m licking sweet, sticky Jello juice from my lips, and admiring the mold.

The Path Ahead

2011-01-01T16:32:00.001-08:00

A new beginning is here, my friends. And a new beginning is always nice, isn’t it? Don’t we have a need for new beginnings? Every year, on New Year’s Day, we get a free fresh start. Consider the gift of it: a footprint-free path, never been walked upon, nor even breathed upon. It stretches far out in front of us, farther than the eye can see — like a world unto itself, this new path – entirely unknown: the new people we will meet, the unfamiliar places we’ll visit, the novel experiences we’ll have; even the new flavors that will dance upon our tongues are a mystery. And each of our paths are sprinkled with the glitter of possibility.

We anticipate the new, and perhaps fear it, as well. We wonder if the things we hope for will come to pass; we wonder if we will find a way to accomplish all that we long to. We wonder if the new chances we take will pan out. We wonder if we can finally be who we want to be. And for some of us, we wonder what it will be like to exist without the loved ones we lost in 2010 – in this, our first full year without them here walking the paths of earth with us. Instead, we picture them watching over us from another realm.

We wonder too if we can leave some things behind to roll about and finally be buried in the dust of yesteryear – the situations and relationships and other things that pull the life from our bones, the habits of body and mind that don’t enrich our lives, and perhaps some of the memories we’d simply rather forget.

Angling for a sneak preview of what’s to come, we find ourselves nearly blind. Being only human, we can merely speculate, imagine, and dream about the untouched path before us.

Deep in my hopeful imagination, on this first day of the New Year, eyes closed, I glimpse my path like this: a road made of silver streamers billowing out across a zillion miles of dessert.

The path is reflective: will mirror.

Will catch color in fire-red rays of sun.

Will sparkle * * * * * *

Will ripple wildly and shine

in sandy gusts of wind.

Will be found again when buried

in the inevitable sandstorms.

Will bounce the light playfully.

And above the path I hear music

--delicate but deliberate

like a triangle in the symphony--

punctuating my path.

Do you glimpse your path, my friends?

What do you see? Whatever the color, texture, and quality of your path in 2011, I wish you well as you journey boldly upon it.

Doing What It Takes

2010-11-26T11:53:00.000-08:00

Well, my friends...I have yet to kick the Altoid habit, but I am doing a fair amount of butt kicking around here. Not because I suddenly channeled my inner Yoda and am now adhering to all sorts of impressive, self discipline techniques. No. I enrolled myself in an online publishing class, so that Teacher Christine could kick my butt for me. And it’s working out quite well. In just three weeks, I’ve learned to write in three different genres for publication, as well as how and where to submit such pieces. I have been up until midnight on occasion, and cranky and snapping-turtle-like with the kids some mornings, but I do possess a new sense of satisfaction that I’m really doing something.

And here’s the thing about life, that I am finally grasping: we can do all kinds of wishing and praying and hoping and magical thinking for the things we want in life, but no number of dandelion seeds blown into the atmosphere are going to bring it all about. We have to work for it, my friends. (You’re like, Shanny—duh.. But guess what? We need reminders, friends—don’t we?) We sometimes forget that dreams come about by hard work. That Martin Luther King marched a gazillion miles for his dreams. We have to work hard. We have to read a stack of publications two feet high before we can actually write for them. We have to fall asleep with our laptops on our laps. We have to get up before the birds. We have to play more "Phineas and Ferb" for the kids so we can meet assignment deadlines. We have to bitch. And moan. And schlep around feeling a bit sorry for ourselves at times. And then pull up our bootstraps. And eat more chocolate – and of course, more mints. We have to negotiate our time, see less of our loved ones. We have to do what it bloody takes.

My friend Matt, a regular down at Sabino’s coffee shop, where I often write, is always repeating the same advice, as he stirs the sugar into his coffee: “Gotta do what it takes. One day at a time. Keep on pluggin’ away…” He sings it like a song. And I find myself grooving to the melody because it’s some of the best wisdom I’ve heard, over and over again. The life we want doesn’t parachute into our laps or land sweetly on a daisy petal like a floating dandelion seed. No, we have to suffer for it, make sacrifices. As my wise friend Joanna says, “Everything has a cost.” Nothing is for free; and if we think it is, we will only be disappointed. I still hope for fairies of goodness and grace to alight along my path, but my vision is enlightened by the acceptance of what’s required of me.

So what am I thankful for in the season of thankfulness (which is scandalously shortened by retail craze, as we are urged to practically skip the thankful-for-what-we-have season and move right into the getting season -- a whole new post, perhaps)? Well, my thankful list is ridiculously long, but at the moment, I am thankful for knowing it’s going to take crazy work to be a writer and a mother at the same time. I am thankful for my online class, Writing and Publishing the Short Stuff. I am thankful for my partner in life supporting me in this endeavor to complete the picture of my life – and for building me a shack to do it in. And for my boys loving me, even when I’m not a not-so-sweet Shanny-pie. I’m thankful for the people who share in my excitement, who cheer me on. For friends who think I can write and publish like Catherine Newman (Thank you, My Dear Mrs. Fenscik). For readers of my words, I am thankful. Happy Thanksgiving All, and if I may: Let's draw the thankful season out as long as we can.

For You on All Souls Day

2010-11-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

On this

The Feast of All Souls,

I feasted for you.

For you, I strolled vacant sidewalks slow,

absorbed October rays of sun.

I drank morning, Eucalyptus air.

I twirled the stem of a Maple leaf.

For you,

I wandered hand in hand with my son

into a sun-drenched Café;

I gazed long into his chocolate brown eyes,

rejoiced in his pastry-flecked cheeks.

For you,

we lingered over cocoa;

we wore whipped cream mustaches.

We giggled, wild, our mouths still full.

For you,

we strolled again, even longer.

We conversed with cats on lawns.

I listened to my son’s sweet meow.

For you,

we gathered up handfuls of fallen leaves –

fuchsia, delicate as tissue.

At home, we put them in a glass bowl.

We lit candles, and stood your photograph on the mantel.

I feasted all I could today

on this little life of mine,

for you.

*This poem is dedicated to Mrs. G and Steven Taddei -- two dear souls lost in 2010.

Jedi Writer

2010-10-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

Let’s see if I can name off all the stupid things I did today instead of write. First off, I tried my hair up three different ways: a twist, a side braid, and a low ponytail—none of which was the least bit captivating (I’m having a midlife hair crisis, for which I think the only cure might be the royal blue Bake Sale Betty bob I’ve been fantasizing about for some time now). What else? Oh, I bought several attractive, succulent plants at The Home Depot. Upon returning home, I ate a shameful number of Peppermint Patties – seven, maybe eight (I know what you’re thinking, but they were the mini ones). Also, I chewed way, way, way too much gum – like thirteen pieces (and there’s my first, public confession of the shameful gum addiction). And never mind that I have TMJ and shouldn’t chew gum. Not to mention, I’ve recently taken it up a notch, since I started wrapping Altoids inside pieces of gum and then chewing it all up together in one glorious, crunchy, juicy, flavor-packed mass. Let’s see…what else did I do? Oh, less exciting, and only slightly less shameful, was me on the sofa folding laundry in fake slow motion (also Grey’s Anatomy happened to be on the giant flat screen). Later, I ate leftover green beans and chicken, then made a cappuccino, then emptied the dishwasher, then crunched some more Altoids. I did try some earthy, green paint samples on the external body of the writer’s shack – does that count? But in the end, I did everything but write. And my head is hung quite low, good friends, quite low.

Somewhere around four in the afternoon, when I was on my ninth peppermint patty, the following thought came to me: I am a woman who says she wants a writing career; a woman, who, in fact, wants nothing more than to be a fully blossoming writer, with her creative petals facing to the sun…publishing articles, books, giving interviews with Oprah…but what am I really doing about it? And why, in the name of all that’s holy, am I feeling so stagnant now that I’ve finally cleared some space in my schedule for the pined-after writing life?

Maybe because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Some weeks back, some friends inquired with furrowed brows about why I wouldn’t be teaching art at school this year. I explained I’d cleared room in my schedule to become a more serious writer. Oh, wow. Freelance? How do you do that? They wanted to know. And that’s when I said to myself: Holy Shanny! I don’t think I even know how we do that. I mean, I’m fairly confident in my writing skills, but entering the writer’s market…that’s a foreign endeavor altogether. Bringing home some bacon with my words…how do I even make my first penny? The truth is, I’ve been mothering so long, I don’t know the first thing about freelancing. It’s daunting. It’s new, and overwhelming. So instead, I eat Peppermint Patties.

To illustrate the awkwardness of the transitional phase I’m in, here is a conversation I had with my child’s teacher yesterday:

Me: I’m sorry, Mrs. G, but I decided not to be a weekly volunteer for the time being because I’m trying to work part time.

Mrs. G: Oh, what do you do?

Me: I’m trying to write for a living.

First of all, do you know how lame that sounds? And second of all, what is this business of trying? As our wise friend, Master Yoda says: Do, or do not; there is no try. But Yoda! I think Yoda would have no tolerance for my whiny, gum-chewing ways. He’d slice me up forwards and back with his giant, green lightsaber. Much of my time is wasted wondering why my career goals or passions can’t be more straightforward. Like, why don’t I want to fight fires or cure the sick? I confess to envying those with well-defined occupations, like my R.N. husband. Lately, I even envy my friends with work schedules, regardless of the nature of their jobs. I picture them in the still-dark morning, drinking their Joe, listening to NPR’s morning edition, then crossing the dewy grass to their cars in a pair of polished little work shoes, and speeding away to their work lives, where they have desks, coworkers and appointed tasks waiting just for them. They clock in; they clock out. It all seems like a much neater package than mine at the moment. I know what you’re saying: The grass, dewy or not, is always greener, Shanny. And you’re right. But I’m just trying to figure out which damn patch of grass I belong on.

I suppose everyone has changes they’d like to make in their lives, risks they need to take…big ones, small ones... But I’m curious – how long are we willing to stay miserable before we choose to make a change? How long do we feel sorry for ourselves instead? How long do we fantasize about who we want to be or what it is we want to accomplish? I mean, really – how many Peppermint Patties do we have to eat before we’re ready to get to work? I don’t know how long it takes to get a butt like mine in motion, but I have to thank you for listening, because I must say – all of this speculation about how long it’s going to be before I get myself going makes me want to do my hair up Princess-Leia-style and get out there and make Master Yoda proud (which, incidentally, might also solve the current hair crisis).

Sweet Sweet Progress

2010-10-08T14:46:00.000-07:00

Well, C has torn up the rotting section of the floor and hauled home the fresh wood for the new floor. We're on our way.

The Shanny Shack is Back

2010-10-06T15:21:00.000-07:00

Well my sweet and savory friends, I’ve decided it’s high time we get the writer’s shack in motion. Remember the writer’s shack – from my very first post, back in June 2009? The 10 x 10 backyard cottage, the “room of her own?” Well, talk of the longed-for land shack is back. For a little over a year now, this cyber shack at Parallel Light has served as a rather satisfying (albeit virtual) “room of one’s own.” But a lot has changed since that post in ‘99. I’m ready for more! Among other things, we bought our first home, and it came with, shall we say – the skeleton – of a writer’s shack, right out in the back yard. I can still hear my realtor when she stepped into the backyard, and called into the house, Oh, look, here’s Shannon’s writer’s shack! For five months now, I have stared longingly out the sliding glass door at this 9 x 8 dilapidated structure, fantasizing about its eventual colors and carpet…its possible skylights and windows and jasmine vines trailing over the frame…But it’s time to stop staring out the window, already! And it’s time to put my fantasies to rest and face the music that Nate Berkus is mostly likely not going to feature me on his show and send his construction crew out to the Shanny Shack (though I did submit photos of the shack and plead my case at nateberkus.com)! So, I have said to myself, Shanny Girl, let’s get this show on the road!

Maybe it was having a fellow thirty-six year old friend die unexpectedly over the summer that cause me to reexamine every minute of how I spend my time; to connect more seriously with my dreams. Maybe it was my friend’s mother, a fresh voice, pushing me not just to write, but to sell my work, to get somewhere with it – which, of course, has long been an aspiration of mine. Or maybe it’s just time for the next step in realizing the dream. Whatever the case, inspiration has struck and changes are being made to pave the way toward a real writing career. Already, I have advocated for scaling back on our commitments as a family. We are going to slow down so there is room for what’s important. Not only are C and I erring on the side of more sanity and downtime for our family in general, but it’s no secret that my career goals have been easily lost in family life, in extra-curricular activities, in volunteer work, various committees, and in Chad’s crazy twelve-hour work days. It’s a tricky balancing act, as you well know.

My first major decision was to take a sabbatical from granola. Bottom line: my passions do not lie with oats, but with words, and since neither one is very lucrative, I choose words. Next, we made a unanimous family decision to eliminate Boy Scouts from our schedule; something in the extracurricular department had to give. Finally, the most difficult decision of all was the one not to teach in the volunteer art program at school this year. I am temporarily suffering from the “guilties,” over not volunteering for the first time this year, and I keep asking, why can’t we have thirty-four hours in a day so I can do it all? But reality is undeniable and life has proven otherwise these past few years, and it’s time to live according to what’s real. As my friend J says, There is always a cost to the decisions we make. If something is added, chances are, something must also be subtracted to make the equation of our lives work. The changes above feel bold to a people-pleasing, do-it-all gal like me; but I am making them nonetheless. I make them in faith.

So, you’ll love this. This morning, I went out to the skeleton of a shack, and started tossing the miscellaneous crap we had stored inside (from our move back in April) right out the shack’s two double doors. There were chandeliers landing in the vegetable beds (woops), shelves slamming against the bricks, and cans of spray paint rolling down the steps. I think I looked a bit like a madwoman, slinging items carelessly into the yard (my two year old thought so – he stood there in his diaper, big furrowed brow, Mommy!? What-a-da-doin, Mommy?). Man, was he perplexed! But I had the fever! And I LOVE it when I have the fever, because I so often don’t.

Strange how the soul works, isn’t it? The way inspiration strikes…out of the blue and with no regard for things like circumstance – at least one of the three children has been throwing up at all given times since Friday, not to mention my husband is lying flat in his bed (when he’s not violently retching behind closed doors). And here I am, converting our backyard into a landfill, delving head first into this insanely large project… Furthermore, it’s – what is it – 95 degrees outside today? 100? Normally I detest such extreme heat; normally I turn positively bitchy in such heat…wilting, melting and all the rest. But this morning, I was governed by a force that overpowered all of my aversions to heat, and headed straight to the backyard right after a bacon and shredded apple sandwich to power me up (oh, you so need to make this breakfast sandwich –

http://www.oprah.com/food/Almond-Butter-and-Bacon-Sandwich). Anyhow, so I put on my special grubbies, slapped on my orange baseball cap, and charged out the sliding glass door with a bottle of ice water.

At first, I was discouraged, what with the ten thousand rat turds and spider webs, the unidentifiable insects, as well as something of a bizarre species of white mold growing in one corner of the shack; there is also a buckling floor and some water-damaged walls. But as I started tossing items out – baskets, buckets, brooms, shovels, shin guards and shelves…I started feeling empowered. Swabbing sweat from my forehead with my t-shirt every few minutes became a rather self-congratulatory ritual. Damn, Shanny, you're working hard! I said to myself. And I kept going until the shack was totally empty. And by the way, if you ever feel like you're not accomplishing anything, or getting anywhere with your goals, I recommend emptying something completely in 100 degree weather: it's utterly satisfying.

I have found that when something is vacant, a vision for it comes more easily – the shack, my schedule…I have found that space creates possibility. For the first time ever, the writer’s shack fantasy born early in my twenties seems possible. Staring through the open doors, I imagined all the possibilities of the shack’s identity: do I want a sassy shack, with purple walls, hot-pink shelving and a fancy gemstone chandelier? Or do I want to go with an earthy shack: sage-colored walls, cork board and jute rugs? The shack lovingly calls to me from its dusty, cob-webbed corners; it asks me if I am ready to furnish this place and move in with my writer’s ambitions. And I wonder…am I? Am I ready to fill the empty space I have created with the hard work that dreams are made of?

Diary of Grief: Notes from Week Three

2010-09-16T23:03:00.000-07:00

*This post is for Chrissy, who attended her mother's funeral today. From one grieving heart to another.

8/15-8/21

Forward

I wake up cold the day of the funeral, and wander to the kitchen wrapped in a blanket. Standing in the middle of the floor, I find myself baffled by the day, and oddly frozen. My usual morning routine escapes me – normally, I am firing up the espresso machine. Instead, I head over to the mantel and light the candles inside the lanterns: for warmth; for light; for something…

I am truly dreading the funeral, in a way I did not expect.

The fog hangs in the valley outside our picture window: ominous but accurate for the day of a funeral. I end up sipping some tea, nibbling some toast, but the restlessness in my gut overpowers any sensation of hunger, and hovers there like a hummingbird over a feeder: madly flapping in a single spot. I am aware that each passing minute brings me – brings us all – closer to the service. I imagine Steve’s family this morning…lifting their bodies out of bed, slipping into black clothing, the clicking of their shoes on the pavement as they head to their cars…and I am struck anew by what little control we actually possess in life. The funeral approaches whether we want it to approach or not; the red hands on the kitchen wall clock are oblivious, inching clockwise toward a time when Steve’s death will be spoken aloud, the reality of it acknowledged from a pulpit; where the life he lived for 36 years will be remembered; where the life that ended will be grieved by everyone in the room.

I ponder my dread over the funeral. Aren’t funerals supposed to bring closure? Aren’t they a means of saying good-bye? Maybe that’s just it: I don’t want to say good-bye. I don’t want to close the door on my friend’s life. So perhaps for me, and for many attending Steve’s service today, the dread is about the funeral making Steve’s death undeniable: we will no longer be able to fool ourselves using the tricky, intricate trap doors in our brains, in our hearts; no longer cling to the sliver of denial that suggests Steve isn’t really dead. Furthermore, there is the also the terror of the feelings that await me at the funeral, the feelings I will have to face. Forward, I tell myself: left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe, as my favorite writer, Anne Lamott writes. She says this is the only way miracles ever happen – by putting one foot in front of the other. And I think surviving the death of a loved one is a kind of miracle.

The breathing part of Lamott’s mantra has been especially hard, ever since Steve died. Instead of the even flow of breath, the air wants to gather like storm clouds and hover in dark corners of my body – suspended there. It seems I’ve lost my breathing rhythm and find myself periodically forcing large pockets of breath out in long, extended, often choppy, exhales. The moving part is hard, too. I feel frozen, rigid…stuck. Maybe I fear that if I move, everything will hurt. That if I even breathe, I will feel the pain. That it will vibrate through me like the clapper of a bell. And it’s probably true. But we must feel in order to move, and move in order to feel. This is how we travel forward from something potentially paralyzing. If we hold still, avoiding the pain, if we pretend it isn’t there, then we are unable to carry ourselves forward to a time when it will finally feel different – maybe even better. Not necessarily to a time when we don’t miss our loved one or when it doesn’t hurt anymore, but perhaps to a time when our breathing resumes its regular rhythm again. So in the spirit of moving toward a miracle, (a miracle of survival) I will get up and go. I will put on my purple dress and my black shoes. I will step down each of my porch steps, climb into my van, turn the key in the ignition, rest my foot on the gas pedal and go.

Diary of Grief

2010-08-30T14:29:00.000-07:00

Notes from Week Three: 8/8 - 8/14

I visited my therapist this week, a woman who has suffered more losses than many. She speaks of grief as an ocean wave. When you’re at the beach, she says, observe the pattern of the waves. I get her meaning. Grief seems to pull back a little, at times, giving relief, then breaks on the shore of your soul again, without mercy, when you least expect it.

A few days later, C and I are strolling barefooted along Pismo Beach, the children running in three separate directions across the vast expanse of sand. I have the peculiar sense that I am looking at the sky for the first time; it feels boundless and encompassing at the same time; so blue, so wide and so good. My breathing is easier in the salty air. And my heart feels freer, lighter, lifted somehow. Riding a gentle crest of the wave, perhaps.

On the beach, thoughts of Steve surface readily, since my fondest memories come from the beach house our families rented together all those summers. A memory plays: Steve and I are tanning on the beach, his skateboard propped in the sand near his head, the boom box playing George Michael. Another: Steve gliding flawlessly across the ocean shores on his skim board. The memories don’t gnaw too deeply, but instead seem to nibble at the edges of me, leaving me pensive as I walk the shores alone for a while, watching determined pelicans swoop down across the ocean’s surface, looking to satisfy a compelling hunger.

The next morning, at the hotel’s continental breakfast bar, a preteen, skater kid helps my six year old with his too-heavy tray; and for a second, the kid is Steve. It’s him twenty-four years ago, back in our skater days – his skater bangs, his skater Vans. There, at the table, with the bagels and Cocoa Puffs, I slip into a whirlpool of sadness. And it hurts all over again. The loss cuts across my heart at sharp, acute, angles.

Then: wild sobbing.

Just like that the wave has come. The wave has come, and crashed hard.

-------------------------

Later, after a trip into town for clam chowder, C takes the boys to the game deck, giving me some alone time with my laptop. At the desk in the hotel room, I write this poem:

Seeing

Sometimes, when

someone dies, you

start seeing them

everywhere—

their face suddenly

in every crowd.

You are

in a crab shack,

in Pismo;

he’s in line

in front of you –

his profile,

his hair.

And for

a split

of a split second,

you’re in a world

where this is possible;

where he isn’t gone;

where it’s all been

a universe of dream.

You’re in a world

where you can

touch him

on the shoulder,

where you can

embrace him

the way

you’ve so

desperately

been needing

to do.

Diary of Grief: Notes from Week Two

2010-08-18T22:32:00.000-07:00

Today, grief meant polishing off a one pound bag of peanut M&Ms, while driving in the minivan. I just kept reaching for more, with a robotic compulsion, that could, in retrospect, almost be considered comical: because I think I looked like a rodent shoving nuts into its cheeks, real fast-like. Anyhow, I got lost trying to find Wolf Camera, which I’ve been to a zillion times. The brain, on grief, doesn’t function as it should. I felt almost desperate in my mission, which was to scan photos of Steve for his family before leaving for Palm Springs tomorrow. I feel desperate to do anything for them. Anyhow, I drove like twelve miles in the wrong direction, and had to double back, the whole while reaching for more M&Ms. I think it was a message to grief, inhaling all that candy: stay the hell away from me today. I’m tired. After fourteen days, I’m tired of grieving.

It didn’t much work – eating all those M&Ms. I think they just got piled up on top of the grief. Not to mention, when I finally arrived to Wolf Camera, I feared I might vomit onto the scanner bed. But the man who helped me in Wolf was an angel with a gold front tooth and a Romanian accent. I’m sure glad these people exist: the-nice-just-because-they-want-to-be-nice sorts – and right when you need them. Right when you feel like you might come unglued and spill your insides out in every direction if someone so much as speaks to you in the wrong octave. Right when you’ve been lost for miles and might barf up a bag of M&Ms – that’s when you need the kind souls of the world around. You need that sort of grace in a time like this – extra kindness and goodness and love.

Speaking of grace – and kindness and goodness and love, friends of mine watched my three boys for three hours so I could go to Wolf without the entourage and so I could finish writing my speech for Steve’s memorial service -- which I also needed to accomplish before leaving for Palm Springs. When the family first asked me to speak, all I could think about was how I was going to sob through the whole thing, like hyperventilating and convulsing and the whole nine yards. But so far, just writing the words down has been the hard part. Hard because I got stuck in sadness, writing about dear old Steve. It took me all week, but I think today, in those hours of blessed solitude, I finally finished. And afterward, when I went to collect the boys, the same kind friends served up some homemade mac and cheese, which I found exceedingly comforting.

And tonight, we came home to the yawning, empty suitcases that needed yet to be filled with a week’s worth of wardrobe. And then there was the business of what the hell do you wear to a funeral? Do people still wear black? Is that passé? Is it required? Do I have anything black? So I googled what to wear to a funeral and the advice was all over the place, like, make sure not to show any cleavage and wear the deceased one’s favorite color. Utterly confused and too exhausted to make a sound decision, I called my friend, D, because the last thing I want to worry about when we drive in from Palm Springs the night before the funeral is what I’m going to wear. So D came over at nine o’clock at night (more kindness and goodness and love) and told me exactly which dresses in my closet were appropriate; she’s good at this sort of thing. Then, she looked me right in the eye and asked, “Which dress would Steve have liked?” And I knew immediately he would have like the plum dress, so I’m wearing that one.

It feels odd to be going on vacation, right in the middle of all this grief. I would not have planned it this way. But you don’t plan death; and least of all a death like Steve’s. So I'm heading out in the morning, with my family, and I think the trip will just become part of the journey: the arduous journey across the foreign landscape of loss.

Diary of Grief

2010-08-14T22:58:00.001-07:00

One Week: The Way Through

The only way out is the way through. --Howard Neberov.

Herding everybody out to the mini van this morning for church, C says, So it was a week ago today you heard the news about Steven, wasn’t it? I make a heavy sigh as I answer: It was. I can hardly believe it’s only been a week, when the news feels as fresh as hours. When, if, and how the grief gets better I don’t know. My friend, C, who lost her mother to MS recently, says, Time being a healer sure made for a lovely Eva Cassidy song, but hasn’t been true for her. Another of my friends, K, who lost her dad to brain cancer last year, says she still cries on the way home from work. I think that loss is loss; that there is no way to reframe it into something that feels better; no way of reshaping it into something that makes sense. It is one of the more painful mysteries of life. I’ve tried to create scenarios in my head, in which Steven has not really died, like instead, I have just awakened from a bad dream. But I return with regret to the reality that Steven is really gone. I agree with Neberov when he says, The only way out is the way through. But the way through is agony.

I don’t even know if the wounds that emerge in loss are meant to be healed. When a person leaves a hole in your life, the hole remains – does it not? The uniqueness of each person in our lives is just that: unique; there is no replacing him/her. But do we find healing balms that will soothe our wounds? Do we find the strength to survive? Do we find grace? And hope? Are we able to experience joy again, even in the midst of such deep sorrow? I think all of these things are possible, but the when and how of it remains an enigma to me. I marvel at people who endure loss – parents who outlive their children, in particular; I’m in awe by the way they merely survive. Steven’s family, and all people of loss, are my new heroes; but not because they want to be, or chose to be. I am humbled by their will to carry on. And I wish them every strength and grace in doing so.

Entering the sanctuary on this Sunday, my priest seeks me out with one of her famous hugs; I contacted her with the news about Steven earlier in the week. Underneath her heavy, white vestments is a heart ablaze with love. I am comforted; and don’t want to let go. And for a long moment, I don’t. For a long moment, the universe of pain stops, and it’s like coming up for air.

In the pew, I fix my eyes on the circle of stained glass above the altar. Each week, I watch the white morning light pour in through the glass, illuminating the pieced together shapes of glass and their vibrant colors. Here is where I come to piece together the shapes of myself, and my life, where I hold onto the hope that the pieces, however irregular, can still come together and form something beautiful – like the stained glass. Here in the pews of Holy Cross Episcopal Church, where I have brought every worry, every concern, every burden for the past two years, I sit with the incomprehensible loss of Steven’s life. I bring here my questions, my anger, my deep and consuming sadness. Here, in the house of my spirit, the tears fall freely. I let my chest rise and fall as it will. I cry openly.

My grandmother has always said that God puts our tears in a bottle, that somewhere in the scriptures it says so. I try to imagine the number of bottles it will take to empty my grief, the grief of Steven’s family, and all those who knew and loved him…I imagine a thousand mason jars, filled with tears, lining a window sill that stretches across the entire universe…the sill between eternity and now.

Diary of Grief

2010-08-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

***Pictured at the right: Shannon and J.Taddei, Steve's sister**

Day Six: Together

The day begins with a fight. Right after breakfast, Chad and I launch into our goals, including the project of crafting a mosaic, garden stone for Grandma B’s birthday tomorrow. But within minutes of opening the kit, we are arguing. Chad and I rub each other wrong; we send the kids outside to play so we can talk it out. It’s tense. We’re both strung out – he, from being overworked at the hospital this week, not to mention a challenging month on the home front: first, a wife with a hideous eight day flu, and a now, a wife who is grieving. He’s having to pick up extra pieces; he’s feeling taxed. And me, I’m submerged in my grief – today, I can hardly see out of it. I feel like I will suffocate. Today, grief is twisting, gnawing on, pulling at my insides – insisting on itself. But it feels as if there’s no room for it. My family needs me; my life needs me. I’m overwhelmed. I know it’s vital to allow the feelings their rightful place inside of me, but right now, I hate grief. I resent the space it tries to occupy in my life. Grief will not be robbed, my priest told me the other day. I am only six days in, but this feels utterly true.

Chad and I sit silently now in the kitchen chairs; tears drip freely into my lap. Chad reaches over, rests his hand on my knee; I take hold of it. We have heard each other out. We’ll be okay. By grace, we’ll be okay. It’s all just harder than I want it to be.

Not fifteen minutes later, my mom phones. As soon as I hear her voice, I’m bawling into the phone. She understands what I haven’t even said: it’s a difficult morning with grief. Her words are soothing and kind. She knows; and grieves alongside me. I am going out to A’s house, she says, and you’re welcome to come along, if you want. I’m going to bring some soup and things. I don’t want to make things worse with Chad, so I decline. But after hanging up, the option of staying home to mix cement with three children sounds absurd. Traveling, instead, toward the center of the grief is what feels right. Furthermore, while much of my grief is owed to Steve’s family, and the terrible way in which they now suffer, there is an instinctive longing to be them, to offer whatever I can offer.

Grief is demanding. I never knew it was so demanding.

Unable to see clearly through my emotional clutter, I utter a confused prayer: I don’t know what to do. Show me what to do. So as casually as possible, I say: My mom’s going to visit Steve’s family today… and then I let the words hang awkwardly in the open air. And God bless Chad, who turns to me and says, You should go. I want you to go, and then opens his arms so that I can fall into them. After a minute, he adds, But I’m not doing any mosaic projects. I laugh and let him know I don’t expect him to be arranging gemstones in cement while I’m gone.

Upstairs, I pull my hair into a bun, throw on some denim, and head out to my yard to clip a bouquet. Ordinarily, arranging bouquets is something I do rather well, but just two plants in, and the bouquet is looking pathetic…Japanese Elm branches, a flowerless stalk from a Birds in Paradise…I look at the thing with great spite: it’s totally not working.

Back in the house, I whine to Chad: I want to bring something to them…I have no flowers, no soup, no nothing…what do I bring? And Chad pauses but a second, then quickly settles the matter for me: Just bring yourself.

And so I do.

The drive to Orinda is unexpectedly cathartic. Passing through the Caldecott tunnel, I find heavy sobs escaping from way down deep inside of me – loud, primitive, contorted-face kind of sobs. I realize that I belong right here, in this car; the drive to Orinda is a grace. The time alone has opened the door to my grief; a door I’ve kept mostly shut in order to survive my days; grief, refusing to be robbed, finds a way out at last.

At the house, I wrap Steve’s sister and Steve’s mom in my warms and squeeze – it feels so good to be in their embrace. I don’t want to let go. We gaze into each other’s tear-filled eyes and there is a beautiful sort of knowing between us. It is the first time this week where no explanation is needed for why I feel the way I do. It is one of the first times this week that I don’t have to pretend I’m okay when I’m actually not.

The time spent with Steve’s family feels like an earthly sort of heaven, especially for grievers: it is togetherness; it is raw and true; it is love beyond words; it is a painful, but perfect kind of warmth. It is not the awkwardness around death that I feared. It is intimate. Rather it is the wound open wide, for healing. Although it’s unforgivably difficult to see the friends I hold so dear, suffering so profoundly, I rejoice in being with them. I am honored they have welcomed me in to their sacred place of grief.

Something else happens that I didn’t know could happen in times of grief: we laugh hysterically. Peering over one another’s shoulders at old photo albums, filled with moments from Steve’s life, we howl at our mothers going braless in the seventies – what gigantic boobs they had; and at Steve’s dad, in his impossibly tight pants, his unbelievable afro; and at Steve, who at age four, is dressed in a mustard colored leisure suit. Steve’s family tells a funny story about Steve getting sandwiched in a foldout sofa when it retracts unexpectedly, his feet wiggling in the air over the cushions as he yelps for help. We laugh and laugh and laugh – until we need to cry. And then we cry.

We tell the best of the Steven stories: the memories shared between us, and even stories that are new to one another. We talk about death. We talk about life. We talk about God. We talk about wishing we could talk to the dead. And I remember now why these friends are more like family: it’s so easy to be with them. We can say anything or nothing at all; we can laugh or cry. We can share thoughts embedded deep in our souls about the way things are. And were. We can be as we are. Today, I feel profoundly thankful -- that Steve was in my life for all of those years. And that his precious family still is.

Diary of Grief

2010-08-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

Day Five: The Journey

In the car we’re silent. It’s 3:30 and Mom and I are headed downtown to visit the place where Steve breathed his last breath. A certain trepidation pulses through me. But given the circumstances, I can’t think of another place I’d rather be going in this moment. And I am so grateful to be making this journey with my mom.

We don’t know precisely where we’re going, so we end up parking the car, trailing around a bit, then re-parking and trailing around some more. Where we park the second time, we slip past a cyclone fence and explore an empty field of brittle, brown grass. We peer over the field’s edge into the creek below and scan the length of the bank. We are looking for any sign of the cross that Steve’s family has placed in the ground. But so far there’s no sign of it and I feel a sense of panic: what if we don’t find it? The desperate need to be at the place where Steve died is difficult to explain: it is a need to be close to him again in any way possible. I whisper some prayers to Steve: Help us find it, I plead with him, show us where to go. I feel as though he hears me.

With no luck, we head out of the field and back to the car, driving another several hundred feet or so. We park near an abandoned red shopping cart and somehow, it feels like we’re close now. Mom and I head toward the freeway overpass. The most likely place for a cross seems to be at the bottom of a steep hill that leads under the overpass, composed of loose dirt. I hand my camera, as well as a giant memento rock that I’ve been carrying, to Mom, and tell her I’ll head down and check it out. Just ten unsteady steps in, and I can see the very tip of a black, wooden cross at the bottom of the hill. My heartbeat picks up and I turn toward Mom: We found it. It’s down here.

On the way down, we pass a shapeless mound of stiffened blankets in the corner, between the overpass and the dirt path. I begin to note the details of this place that is already sacred to us, this place, where, for whatever reason, Steve ended up visiting on the day he died. There is a caged area along the top of the hill, a few plaid shirts scattered in the distance, bright tagging on the beams that uphold the overpass, a mattress...

I head to the cross first, Mom following behind. Be careful, Shannon she warns. But just a few steps in I slip, throwing my leg up into the air in a wild act of balance, just in time to catch myself. I wait for Mom, and we are on the hill side by side now. On the way down, we cling to one another for balance as our feet slip and move beyond our control. We hold onto one another’s arms and hands more tightly than I can ever recall. In fact, this may be the tightest we’ve ever held one another. Each of us is concerned about the other falling. Mom looses her balance and I grab onto ever part of her body I can find, and try to steady her.

At one point, maybe a third of the way down, journeying in this loose dirt with my mother, there is a moment that occurs to me so suddenly and so briefly, I don’t know it even qualifies as a moment. First it, is a feeling, like something washing over me: a baptism of goodness. Something precious, and fragile and unexpected comes to find me in this otherwise grievous of moments: it is connection; connection with my mother. We are, here and now, despite whatever has come before us, (and for mothers and daughters, things do come) connected to each other by something larger than ourselves. It is a grace, a gift of unexpected origins. And I accept it so gratefully here on the slippery and perilous hill.

The second beautiful thing to wash over me is this: I see Steven (not literally, but with the eyes of my soul) smiling at us, Mom and I. I see him loving us in this moment. I see him as the center of this celebratory connection between my mother and I. And knowing he loves us both, I feel connected to him, too.

We finally make it, sort of galloping without choice down the last bit of that steep hill and there, wedged into a space between boulders, the black cross stands, with fresh flowers beneath it. It means everything and nothing to be here in the place where I know Steve died: everything because it’s the best the way I can find to be near him again, to honor him, to find him who cannot be found – and nothing because Steve is still gone, and visiting this place has not filled the hole that’s inside of me. I don’t know what I expect: to see an apparition of his face on the underpass walls? Or to hear his voice echoing across the creek? Maybe it’s difficult to avoid such fantasies in the midst of grief. But the spot is peaceful and that is something; not an apparition, but something. A generous sunlit wall under the overpass forms the backdrop for the scene and occupying the area just below, is a shallow body of water that connects to the creek further down. The water is so still, and beautifully lit. I think of Steve’s soul, still like that. And light. The line from the Nicene Creed, God from God, light from light, comes to mind. To think of Steve reunited with the very same light from which he came is comforting to me.

Mom tosses a colorful bouquet into the spot near the cross. It’s clear I cannot toss the ten-pound rock I’ve made for Steve, so I make the precarious climb over the boulders and lay it down.

The photo of Steve and I in Disneyland, sporting our Mickey Mouse hats and two giddy smiles, is decoupaged on the rock’s surface. In Sharpie, I have written: To my first friend ever, Steve. I love you always, Shannon. And I do. I loved him then and I love him now. And always.

Diary of Grief

2010-07-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

Day Four: Quicksand

For whatever reason, the fourth day ends up being a living hell; a weird, frozen-in-time, isolated sort of hell: like I’m stuck in a quick sand of grief. I’m home with the three boys today, and I feel like the three of them are tiptoeing around the quick sand. They sort of circle around me, like little black birds, pecking at their cheese and crackers, pouring their apple juice, looking up the weather on Google, making their beds...

When I first woke this morning, even before I hoisted my under-slept body out of bed, I resolved I was going to take the kids somewhere special, like Fairyland, and spend the day reconnecting with them. I have felt so absent this week. But the hours of the morning pass – and pass – and pass, and I tell you this, my dear friends: I simply cannot do it. I am stuck. Deeper and deeper I sink, hardly able to travel from one end of the house to the other, let alone, to Fairyland. I feel guilty for being so far removed, for not being able to fake it very well with my family this week. But it also occurs to me that if my children are ever going to be prepared for grief in their own lives, well…it will be through what they observe of the experience. There are no how-to lessons on grief: there is just the wretched, raw experience of it. And I don’t think we are asked to overcome it, but merely survive it.

The dishes pile high today. The laundry, of course, is also in massive, possibly composting, mounds. And apparently, the mail is piling up, too. The mail carrier came up to the door today with our mail. I can’t fit any more mail in your box, he says, it’s all jam-packed. He seems annoyed. I take the mail from his hand and speak defensively: We had a death in the family so I haven’t been checking the mail. He remarks, Oh boy, and heads back down our front steps. I can feel that I’m especially on edge.

While clearly I’ve not been much for mobility today, I have been thinking a lot. About how death is an enigma that haunts us all – how not one of us can escape it; about the way death perplexes our delicate and limited human intellects, and challenges our spirits to their innermost core, no matter what the circumstances around it happen to be; no matter what we believe comes after. Because in death, the living feel forsaken.

At some point, I coax myself to the backyard and sway in the hemp chair a bit. From the swing, I spot the cross that hangs on our fence: it’s a mosaic composed of irregular shards of bright-colored ceramics. I think about how we’re all broken like that; some of us in more pieces than others, perhaps, depending on our story. I think of Steve, broken on earth, but now whole. This is maybe the first soothing thought about death I have arrived at on my own, since Steve’s passing: that each of us longs to be whole our entire lives, and in dying, we finally are.

Finally, finally, around 2 p.m., as the quicksand nature of my day becomes unbearable, I convince myself to do two things: seek out some company to get me through the evening, and to get us all out of the house. After herding the boys into the mini van, I head to the end of our block and sit there, immobilized. I have no idea which way to turn because I have no idea where we are going. The boys are buckled confidently in their seats, trusting that I have a plan, as always – a destination. But I absolutely don’t. Even more perplexing is the fact that I can’t seem to make a decision that requires so little imagination. Finally, I turn left and head toward downtown. But I have second thoughts, so I make a u-turn and drive back the other direction. I head over Fairmont Drive and into San Leandro. We end up at Michael’s Arts and Crafts, which ends up a ridiculous nightmare of a shopping trip, with Henry opening packages of beads and rolling them down the aisle. He also broke two piggy banks. We buy a mosaic garden stone kit, some stupid dollar toys, and head home.

On the way home, I am unusually agitated and realize that I failed to eat again today. So I drive the mini van through Caffino, and order a mocha. Food simply doesn’t appeal. The boys talk me into a whole variety of indulgences: strawberry banana smoothies, cookies and cream shakes, chocolate milk: I am a pushover, too strung out to defend any point of view. And that’s okay for today. I laugh to myself, thinking they could have easily persuaded me to order chocolate croissants, muffins and cookies, as well. Pulling out of Caffino, I realize I am precisely one block from the place where Steve's body was found. Tomorrow, Mom and I will visit Steve's site together.

I am actually looking forward to having somewhere to be; to having a destination that feels exactly right.

Diary Of Grief

2010-07-30T00:43:00.000-07:00

Day Three: Distraction

It’s hard getting started, as usual, this morning, but I manage to stomach some coffee; and praise be to God, Chad is home today. Chad defends my need to play George Winston to the boys, rather than Lady Ga Ga. He is tender and sweet all through the morning, asking me what I need. And mostly, I don’t know what I need – until my cousin knocks on our front door: she’s crazy in love and is here to tell us about it. I pour us each a glass of sparkling water and add some lime slices and sprigs of lemon verbena. We sit out on the deck in two anorak chairs, soaking up the day’s generous sunlight. Tell me all about it, I say.

I don’t realize it at the moment, but really, I am asking for a distraction. I am asking to be elsewhere, outside of my grief. It has occurred to me, as subtle and silent as it can be, grief is hard work; it is exhausting; depleting. It is work I have been committed to for days; and the road ahead feels long, yet.

My cousin’s vivacity explodes in every direction – like fireworks, her being ablaze with her first true love. I relish the display – every minute of it, in fact: her hands pressed upon her heart, her dark eyes widening as she speaks, her shiny, black hair swaying in a delicate breeze. I invest my mind in the stories of the amazing first date, the magic kiss, and all of the Rumi poetry a girl could want. Love indeed. I delight in this vibrant twenty four year old sitting before me. Simultaneously, a question from somewhere in the depths of me whispers: what about Steve?

The thing is about the grief, it never actually leaves; instead, it occupies a ghostly sort of space beneath the conversation. Underneath the sensation of seltzer bubbles on my tongue, beneath the scent of lime, beneath the sound of my own voice, my own laughter, the grief remains, somehow insisting on itself. There are even a few moments where I feel I am betraying my grief by soaking up these rays of sunshine. But I let these thoughts pass, figuring this entire process is foreign to me; figuring I am going to need to be led some – by unexpected visits from cousins in love and the like. So I allow my cousin’s stories to infuse me with a contagious sense of joy and hope and wonder – things I haven’t felt for days.

I have decided that at least for today, distraction is a grace, for which I am very thankful.

Diary of Grief

2010-07-28T18:19:00.001-07:00

Day Two: Sinking In

This morning I wake feeling pinned to the sheets – so I decide not to get up. Instead, I lay diagonally across the bed, peering out the window at the camel-colored hills, and the silvery fog draped over them; I think of Steve. A hawk swoops over some cattle out in the distance and some beautiful words written to Steve on his Facebook Memories page come to mind: The heavy blanket has finally been lifted and your spirit is free to soar.* I try to imagine Steve’s spirit soaring like the hawk: free: unencumbered: whole. And it’s to this image I cling. My own heart is so heavy. Not soaring. Not free. Or light.

Chad has a work meeting today, so it’s just the kids and me again. Maintaining composure with the boys feels like it will be impossible. The intense feeling of restlessness is worse than it was yesterday – like lightening bugs trapped in a jar. I find myself ducking into different rooms of the house to let the involuntary tears fall. I notice, though, as I allow the tears to fall that the restlessness finds relief – like the fireflies are finding their way into the open air again, one at a time.

In the kitchen, after trying to eat a piece of toast, but composting it instead – after making the coffee required too much effort – after doing a couple of aimless laps around the house - I scribble the following on a note pad:

Grief doesn’t let you

make your bed in the morning

or even sleep in it

during the night;

no—grief keeps you

awake

into the early hours

of morning, poised on the edge

of you don’t know what;

awake to

the fragility of

e-v-e-r-y-thing.

Grief immobilizes.

I let the boys watch extra videos today, and draw myself a bath. Submerged in the comfort of hot water, I recall that tonight I’m supposed to host a dinner party. Will grief let me host a dinner party? Should I cancel it? Friends we have not seen in nearly a year will visit; I decide to keep the plans, concluding that as fragile as life feels at the moment, it’s important to connect with friends. So after the long soak, I gather up the boys and head to Trader Joe’s. I make it as far as the parking lot, but we are near the place where Steven was found; we are on the very street, in fact. Behind the wheel in the parking lot, I collapse into tears again; after a few deep breaths, I turn and speak to my three boys: Listen, I say, I’m feeling very sad and the sadness makes it hard to do the things I normally do. Do you boys think you can be extra well behaved and helpful in the store?

The world in Trader Joe’s feels divided in two: those who know Steven died and those who don’t – which makes it lonely. The boys, who know my soul’s sad secret, are angelically helpful; and I am so grateful. I feel rather zombie-ish, tossing bananas and bread loaves into the cart. I watch the faces move past us in the aisles, going about their shopping: alive: inhaling and exhaling, laughing, speaking and texting. I feel oddly disconnected from the living. It feels strange and surreal that all things are still in motion, when this beloved old friend of my mine is not.

After loading the groceries into the van, I find myself turning left out of the parking lot, instead of right. I am looking for the place where Steve’s body was found. I drive slowly, frozen groceries and all, an obvious aggravation to cars trailing behind me. What I’m looking for is important; what I’m hoping to find, my soul needs. As human beings, physical in nature, when faced with death, with the nonphysical realm, I think we grasp for something that can connect us – that can help us feel less lost from that which we mourn. I think I understand now why a cross at the roadside or flowers on a gravestone, or even a Facebook Memories page, can all be vital for those suffering a loss; it’s part of how we make sense of our grief; how we move on; how we comfort ourselves. It’s how we stay connected with whom it is we love and grieve. We believe they are with us in a new way: admiring the crosses we’ve stood in the ground, smelling our flower bouquets, and reading our words, from whatever mysterious place now holds them. After traveling up and down the street a few times, I realize that with the limited description I have, I won’t be able to find the sacred spot I long for today.

Maybe tomorrow I will find what I'm looking for.

*compliments of J. West

Diary of Grief

2010-07-27T11:15:00.000-07:00

Day One: The News

I arrive home from church feeling restless. The three boys and myself have a wide-open Sunday sprawled out before us, with Chad at work until late tonight. I circle the kitchen island like twenty two times: plenty of dishes to be done, pictures to be framed, the usual laundry and vacuuming; heck – there’s an entire garage to be unpacked yet, from our move back in April. But I feel a restlessness I can hardly describe: like the long moment when you’re at the top of Great America’s “The Edge,” waiting for it to drop.

I call Chad at work. He reports he is drawing blood; I report that I am circling the yard, aimless as a chicken. Later, I eat some tuna out on the deck and glance around the yard; consider that my herb garden is missing mint. How did I forget to plant mint? I flip through a cookbook, seeking out a recipe for the friends coming to dinner tomorrow night. I brew some tea, put Henry down for a nap, walk around in some more circles. Then – the phone rings. And just like that, my day is transformed.

In just the two words she utters – Hi Shannon – I can hear in my mother’s voice that something is seriously wrong. What’s wrong, Mom? She sighs heavy: Steve died. Steve was my very first friend on earth. He has been a friend of mine literally since birth; we grew up together, our families like blood relatives to one another. Incredulous and horror-stricken, I ask all the usual questions: how, when, where? – and underneath it all, the silent question of why already lingers. Mom tries to relay the story, but her words get lost in a sob-choked voice. Steve’s body was found a few days ago. He collapsed on the ground, and died instantly, right here in my hometown. I am sick from the inside out.

As soon as I hang up the phone, my heartbeat picks up, racing and pounding. There is an ache in my forearms, an ache that travels down into my fingertips and throbs beneath my fingernails. My chest tightens and twists. Breathing gives way to panting, and rides the edge of a long wave of sorrow and horror, all just waiting to break on the shore with a heavy sob; but it doesn’t. Instead, it builds, rises, and remains there in the depths of me. The restlessness I have felt all day gives way to full blown anxiety. I am lost. In my kitchen, I am lost. For a while, I pace the wood floors beneath me, just panting.

Within twenty minutes of the news, I am crawling through the attic out of raw impulse, trying to unbury the right box of photos – I need to see Steve’s face again: now. It’s been several years since Steve and I have seen each other. I’d kept up on the major news of his life via my mom and his sister: his joys, sorrows, endeavors, recoveries, relapses, loves and losses; he was often on my mind. At the kitchen table, I sit and sort: at the moment it’s all I know how to do. There is a Steve pile and all the rest. With my pile of Steve pictures, ranging from birth to late adolescence, my breathing slows again.

Nestled in a blanket on the couch, I flip through pictures of a friend I literally began my life with. There is a photo that has long been half-magical to me, one of Steve and I sporting typical, infant, layette getups, parallel parked in our infant seats, not too many weeks old. The origins of our friendship will probably always amaze me: back in 1973, two best friends in high school (my mom and Steve’s mom) get pregnant only one month apart from one another. And strong women that they are, they birthed us both at age seventeen and raised us together like brother and sister. In the years to come, our families grew; I gained a brother and Steve gained a sister; and our families did everything together: weekend barbecues, camping, Disneyland, Santa Cruz, Hawaii, Mexico, Easter, Christmas, Fourth of July…It was like having extra siblings. I cherished Steve and his entire family so very much. Though our lives have been farther apart in recent years, nothing ever alters the past: the joyful years spent with one another remain the same and will be with me always – like a gift I’ll hold until my own death.

My six year old comes to the sofa’s edge, What are you looking at, Mommy? I explain the sad story of my friend, Steve, and he says, You must feel very sad, Mommy. I tell him I do feel very, very sad. And bewildered. We were born together; we were supposed to die together; to have similar life spans. The fact that at thirty-six, we are nowhere near done with our lives, and yet Steve is gone, feels all too wrong. That I’m sitting here on my blue sofa, and his body will never again occupy a sofa, haunts me.

I think I am only at the beginning of my grief.

Alive

2010-07-20T17:08:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, I spent the week practically dead – having been overtaken by a nightmare-ish stomach flu. Sitting in an upright position for the first time in four days, I take notice of sights and sounds like they’re here for the first time. The blue couch is vivid and shocking – like it dropped out of a blue heaven somewhere while I was sleeping. And the flowers in the vase strike a pose so alive it seems they might spring up at any moment and start dancing the Can-can across the kitchen table, like little orange show girls. My tired eyes follow a moth as it flutters about like it owns the kitchen – so fast, its wings! So slow am I still. In the laptop screen, I can make out a darkened reflection of myself. And, friends, it is some straight-up comedy – as in, God help me if anybody stops by the house right now: they’d be like: Oh, sorry, I was looking for Shannon. Is she home? For starters, the reflection reveals a mass of knotted hair gathered at the top of my head, like a ballet bun gone natural disaster -- like a small hurricane. Then, if we focus on the right side of my reflected head, greasy strands of hair jet right out into space, like skewers, refusing to fall all the way out of the once-upon-a-time-bun. Moving to the left side, an entire section of my fallen hair is matted together as though it were an object, a still life, if you will – like a giant papaya. Add to this that my skin is positively yellow (I saw it for myself in the mirror this morning) and my lips, a pasty, pale lavender sort of hue, and you have a condition none of us wishes to find ourselves in.

I glance down at my attire. I seem to be wearing a long, beige, gown-like shirt, now stretched beyond recognition, layered over some inside out sweat pants that are gathered above my knees. Detecting an odor somewhere, I lift a section of the shirt up to my nose and sniff at it: utterly foul: like I’m rotting. How long I've been wearing this little get-up, I honestly don’t recall – three? Four days? None of it registers. Such is the disorientation of being sick.

Besides being totally miserable, falling ill can be such a perplexing experience. One minute, you’re out feeding your tomato plants and sweeping the magnolia leaves off of the deck, tra-la-la –ing about, feeling all fabulous in your blue jeans, whipping up summertime marinades, enjoying Japanese Maple tree shadows on the back fence, making sweet haiku in your head; and then, there you are – out of nowhere – with your cheek suctioned to the bathroom tile, in this surreal universe of bodily horror, wondering how you will ever get up off the floor – or if; wondering when, how and why you arrived here in the current state of isolated agony.

This time around, having my life abruptly consumed by the flu was slightly more perplexing than usual, being that I was literally vacationing in Las Vegas just hours before it struck. Seriously, can you believe this madness? One minute, I am in Vegas with the love of my life (sans kids) fondue-ing about, dipping my relaxed, healthy body in and out of European pools, sipping Mojitos poolside, chewing sugar cane sticks on lounge chairs beneath an enormous and vividly blue, desert sky, elongating my limbs in the Jacuzzi, sweating out toxins in the spa’s Eucalyptus steam room, savoring the best sushi of my life – only to board the plane back to San Francisco with the first signs of the flu.

It's rather jarring to move from a state of such concentrated pleasure to one of such concentrated pain! By the following morning of the flight home, I was wrapped in ten thousand blankets, shivering to the core, then sweating, then shivering – lost in the maddening ways of a fever. And as if throwing up in my bedroom wastebasket wasn't miserable enough, (I’ll be brief here) it was a flu that felt the need to come out both ends. I was consumed with the worst body aches on God's green earth; body aches so severe it hurt to blink. Every square inch of me was sore to the slightest touch. Poor Chad tried to administer some comfort with a sweet hand to the shoulder, only to be swatted away, as though he were a wasp (sorry, Love). Apparently, when Chad went off to church without me, our kind friends all passed on get well hugs; Chad’s response was: Shannon’s not taking hugs right now. It’s true – I most certainly wasn't. And I would betray the fury of my flu if I failed to mention the barbaric pounding that occurred at the crown of my head each time I attempted to reposition myself even the slightest bit, like, say, to wash down a Vicodin (the pill of mercy) with a few sips of water.

Do you ever get those thoughts when you’re sick, that because the misery is so over the top, you think, this can’t be just a flu; it’s got to be something much more serious — like maybe what you have is Lyme disease, after all? And that really, right now – though nobody knows it – you’re actually dying a slow death right in your own bed? You see headlines: Castro Valley Mother Dies Mysterious Tragic Death: thought she had the flu, but really she had __________ (fill in the blank with the most rare and awful disease you can imagine – or just invent one, like I do).

Part II

The days in Vegas seem as distant as my childhood tricycle now; the memory of pleasure gone, like an elusive rainbow kite lost in the sky – which is not the worst of my concerns. The worst is the part where it’s been seven days and I still feel like a school bus ran over me in the night. Like this is how you might feel when they body-cast you at the hospital. And they might as well – body cast me, that is. Chad went back to work and the only energy I managed to exert all day was swatting a few flies with the kitchen towel – which left me dizzy and breathless. I can’t quite turn my head to the left or right and I find it nearly impossible to climb the stairs in our house, what with my knee and ankle joints collapsing in sword-like spasms. What ever happened to the 24-hour flu?

The lawn-mowing sounds in the neighborhood haunt me: neighbors are out and about, performing the tasks of their lives. The cars cruise down the block, perhaps headed to the farmer’s market; perhaps returning with bouquets of the season’s finest leeks, nesting in the crooks of their arms. The image of leeks conjures longing – the longing to live again; to slice and sauté vegetables; to thrive; to participate in it all! Tonight, my girl friends will be sipping Southern sweet tea, nibbling on fried green tomatoes and hush puppies – all without me. Yep, the world goes on without you when you’re sick. I ache thinking of all of the summertime things I'd like be doing with my kids – like making mosaic garden stones for the vegetable beds; like having more of those fabulous family dance parties, where our living room gets converted into a night club and the five of us are shaking our hips silly to the tune of Boom Boom Pow. I want to swim, hike, barbecue….eat! Hell, I’m even excited to unpack the suitcases, which are still parked in the entry way like fat, lazy cats.

Will I ever get back to the land of the living? The question floats out into the atmosphere and circles back in a strange, figurative dance of the mind. Is this how it feels to age? Is this how the ninety-somethings of the world feel? The terminally ill? All of the laid-up people of the world? Isolated; and removed from the infinite possibilities of life? A wave of compassion washes over me, which makes me feel alive again, if just a little. A small fire lights up in my woebegone heart: and I feel …is it grateful? Yes, grateful to be alive. And as I move beyond the irrational fear that I somehow have Lyme disease or Rheumatoid Arthritis, rather than the flu, for just a moment, I glimpse my life again. I can imagine being back in my blue jeans, my bare feet on the sun-baked cement, removing dead heads from the geraniums, making lemonade with my children. A tiny speck of hope blinks before me, like a firefly in a cave; hope that my health and livelihood will return to me, albeit, at some mysterious appointed time.

Summer evening is falling now; the sun disappears from its usual spot on the sofa. The day feels positively empty, pointless. I did nothing. In a moment of sheer will power, I stand myself up, and feeling eight times my weight, shuffle out to the backyard. The poor Virgin Mary is lying on her side in the flowerbeds. I haven’t the strength to lift her. My eyes wander the length of the herb beds, so lime-green and healthy. I choose randomly, and lean over the lemon verbena plant, rubbing its leaves between my fingers. I inhale the scent. And again – deeply. The tart, intoxicating, fragrance whispers a secret into the summer air: you are alive. It turns out, I did do something today; I survived.

Evening Walk With a Lollipop

2010-07-05T10:44:00.000-07:00

Evening Come

2010-05-10T21:05:00.001-07:00

Case of the Missing Panties

2010-05-05T12:11:00.000-07:00

Well friends…the blahs have set in full force today. “In the new house?” you ask, incredulous. To which I say, well girls, I can’t find my panties.

I don’t ask for much. A pair of clean Shanny panties: that’s it. Instead, I went rifling through the mass of clothing on our bedroom floor and not a panty in sight. Okay. I lie just a little: there’s a pair that I can’t bring myself to wear: the thong. Why the situation is so unmerciful that I can only find the one, un-wearable pair of panties I own is beyond me.

The thong deserves a back story: in college, I was an R.A. and some gals on my dorm floor bought me a thong because they were positively horrified that I didn’t own one; because they said, with sparkling, know-it-all eyes, “thongs are the best!” But I assure you, they are not the best. The one and only day I wore that thong to work, I was reprimanded for my excessive bathroom breaks, which I took to soothe the unbearable chaffing between my cheeks. For the entire shift, all I could think about was applying cold packs to the area. Furthermore, I implore any of you thong-wearing mamas to understand: I can’t be squatting down to pick up my two year old from the sandbox in the park, and have toddlers shouting, “Look Mommy, it’s a whale’s tail! Right in that lady’s pants!” Anyway, I have kept the whale panties merely as a memento; they've been sleeping like a puppy dog in the dark drawer of my bureau for nearly a decade, and I am not about to wake them for a reunion this morning.

But the whole thing gets worse from here. Because just when I think that going without panties for a day might not be the worst thing, a worser thing happens (I know, worser is not a word; but I have the blahs, so I get a break). So to get an accurate picture of what’s going on, you’ll need to know that before the panty search began, I had just stepped out of the shower, and was wrapped in one of our designated car washing towels (the only towel I could find for drying off). So, mind you, the panty scavenger hunt is all going down while I’m in the nude, draped in the car-washing towel. Suddenly, all in a split second, in the heat of the panty hunt, I lose the grip on my towel. And in that same split second, I spy, through the window (and here it comes, the worser thing than having no panties for a day): my neighbor. That’s right: innocently walking his dog. There we were – my fully clothed neighbor and I, standing face to face -- he having paused to let his dog do some important sniffing work, and me in the nude, revealing my cha chas, my all – the whole enchilada. I can only pray that I was saved by the brim on his cute little sun hat, or perhaps, by some failing eyesight. But because I’m Shanny quick, like a jack-in-box in reverse, I pop down, and squat on the hardwood floor in hiding, in deep horror and humiliation. All of this humiliation is owed to the fact that because we’ve been in the house for only twelve days, we have no window coverings yet. And I already know what you’re thinking: “Shanny, hang a sheet, already.” And I will. But first, let me finish talking about the panty situation.

So panty-less and humiliated, I head down to the garage to rummage through more laundry piles. I rifle through the mounds in the garage – in the dark, with the spider webs, in a skinny aisle between tall stacks of a gazillion boxes. I search and search, and somehow, everybody’s underpants turns up but mine. For a moment, I entertain doing what a friend of mine recently confessed to doing when she moved, and could likewise, not find her panties: she wore her husband’s briefs for a day. Apparently, they were somewhat of a revelation – in that they were exceedingly comfortable. Just when I think I have made peace with the idea of wearing some male underpants, I realize as I’m piling all the clothes I’ve torn out, back in the basket, that the pile I have been digging through is the unclean pile. “Forget it,” I say, and stomp upstairs in my car wash towel. “Can’t a woman get a pair of panties around here?” Albeit, I’m tired today, a bit on the crankster side, but I need my panties.

So, with a full blown case of The Blahs, having surrendered to sipping coffee on the famous blue couch, in my towel, I ponder: is it that our stuff is so all over the place that I had to clear a path for the Comcast man, that's wearing on me; or that he has made seventeen trips to our house trying to get our phone/internet/television service straight? Is it the countless (nightmarish) trips to Home Depot and Ace Hardware that’s killing me? Is it that we have no closets? Is it that nobody in the house can find matching socks? Or is that there is cat litter sticking to the bottom of my bare feet? Is it that I open sixteen cupboards before I find the right one each day? Could it be that I have been using my husband’s sport stick deodorant for twelve days, because, of course, my Dove cucumber stick is nowhere to be found? That I have no time to unpack boxes or say, order up some window shades, because there are baseball games to be watched; granola to be made; because there is dance class, book fair, homework, meal preparation, field trips, and bills? Or … is it ….I ask… the lack o’ panties?

It's all of the above, my friends. It's that moving is crazing wonderful, and crazy awful, all at the same time. So I am left to try a remedy that a dear friend recently shared: I am going to apply chocolate poultices. And then I am going to lay on my new deck, in the sun, while they take effect. And then I'm going panty shopping!

House Sweet House

2010-04-30T15:15:00.000-07:00

My new home is not only sweet; it’s perfect. I don’t know how miracles like this ever happen. We bought our first real house and I’ve never felt this right about anything – well, maybe not since the day I married Chad – or since the moments each of my three sons emerged from the womb.

Owning this house is an indescribable, very surreal kind of blessing -- the way my marriage is, and the way my children are. And like my family, my house feels meant to be. It’s a familiar feeling, this butterfly-ish sort of excitement fluttering all around my being! Familiar because I wake and gaze dreamily out its windows, and sigh with satisfaction at the live portrait of green hills and blue sky – much the way I used to gaze into the specks of light in my newborn baby boys’ eyes while they nursed. Familiar because I shop now for doormats in the same blissful state I recall shopping for one-sies. And I awake each morning with the enamored remembrance that I am in my new house, the way I recall waking up for the first time to find Chad’s body lying next to mine, in the very same bed. And for the last six mornings, I have tiptoed out to my kitchen to peer in on my cherry red oven, in the same way I used to tiptoe down the hallway to the nursery to peer in on my new, sleeping, judiciously bundled baby boys. I pass through the hallways of my new house, brushing my bare feet against the hardwood floors, and sigh again and again – with satisfaction, with gratitude, with joy. I am positively infatuated with my new home.

Outside, in the yard, I can hear at least four different birdcalls. I feel like Snow White in the forest scene – like they’re all singing sweetly to Shanny. I feel like I happened on this home with the same luck or grace that Snow White stumbled upon the cottage of the seven dwarves. Fuzzy black caterpillars cling to the geraniums; lilies with stems sixteen inches long sway and lean in toward me, like they’d like a peek at what I’ve written. The fuchsia flowers climbing the rock wall on the side yard do a bit of a jig in the wind. And even the sour grass, decorating the ground next to them, seems perfect; I marvel at its happy fluorescent yellow. Even the weeds here are beautiful, resembling strands of wheat, only in a dim shade of green. And finally, if you ever read my charter post, (and if you didn’t you can right now – simply dig into the archives) you might be delighted to know that the house even came with a writer’s shack! It’s for real, friends. The shack will need some paint, and a skylight or two, but it’s a four-walled writer’s shack for damn sure. It’s a nearly mystical feeling, this house. A feeling of belonging. A feeling of having landed in exactly the right spot. A feeling of fate. Like the prince just rode into the forest on his stallion.

When we spent the long, grueling hours shopping for houses in our hometown, Castro Valley, (also oddly perfect for us) I never thought we’d find anything this ideal. In fact, I didn’t know what we’d find. I didn’t know what to even imagine when I was lying in the old house, between the sheets at night. I knew I wanted orange and avocado green on my walls; some delicate shades of blue. And I knew the sounds I wanted to hear between the lively, painted walls: lots of outrageous laugher, perhaps some tender weeping, and definitely lots of revelatory discussions late into candle-lit nights. I knew, too, the window scenes I wanted: all kinds of couch bouncing and break dancing, long and lingering kisses, or short silly ones, wrestling, tickle-fighting, and cookie-dough eating. I knew I wanted the smells of a fire in the fireplace, garlic and ginger in kitchen; the scent of lavender and jasmine riding the breeze right into our windows. But for the life of me, I didn’t know how to imagine the structure of my dream house. And now, here I sit, beneath the most wonderful lime green umbrella of a tree, a tree I don’t even know the name of, in the yard of a house so lovely and so right, that even with all of my named longings, I could never have dreamed it up.

When I say my house is perfect, I don’t mean you would find it on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous (does that show even air anymore – or am I that old?) or that you’d even see a snapshot of it in Better Homes and Gardens. I mean that this house is exactly what we want it to be and more. I mean that it speaks to us, deep in our souls, where the good decisions of life are made. I mean we couldn’t ask for anything more.

I suppose my feelings of infatuation for the new house could be likened to the infatuation of first being in love or having a new baby – that the flaws and challenges of my new house will reveal themselves eventually. But for now I bask in the glow of its perfection. For now, I remain infatuated; and why not? Because for ten years, it’s where I’ve secretly longed to be: in the house that now holds me.

A Mother’s Meditation: Part II

2010-03-20T11:40:00.000-07:00

I decide to brew another cup of tea and sip for longer than usual this morning. Nibbling at the remaining, crusty edges of my toast, I glance at the second-hand clock on the kitchen wall, its hands pointing precisely at the nine and the one; a moment of anxiety tumbles in my gut. Should I still be sitting here? Shouldn’t I be showering or starting up the laundry? But the teapot whistles, the moment passes; and I hear Eliot’s voice again:

And indeed there will be time,
Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.*

I am comforted by Eliot’s declaration that there will be time enough for the visions and revisions of our lives; that perhaps I don’t need to worry I won’t get it all figured out in time – that somehow, I’ll miss the boat of my purpose, that my ambitions will go sailing off without me, leaving me on the shores of regret. I am the type to wonder stuff like, what if I die a sudden, unexpected death – a disease or an accident – before I’ve launched the myriad of dreams waiting in the field of my soul, like little hot air balloons? I wonder this because I want my existence to matter; I want to contribute something meaningful to the world. I wonder it because I have ambitions and ideas simmering in my soul. I wonder it because the tedious work of life seems to swallow me up whole on many a day. And on many a night, with the kids finally in bed, housework sort of done, the granola bagged, I collapse in an exhausted heap with the distinct feeling of having been chewed up and spit out by the ever-yawning mouth of a day’s work – leaving little time or energy for tending to dreams and visions; little time, in fact, for me.

But as I consider Eliot’s idea of time, rather than an unforgiving, straight line, like a ruler-drawn timeline, Eliot’s version seems more undulating, perhaps like a sound wave, with lines traveling upward in ambition and triumph, joy and clarity, followed by lines that slope downward into difficulty, defeat, confusion or despair. In Eliot’s world, time is more forgiving; it holds all of the “hundred indecisions” and the “revisions and visions” of our lives; it leaves room for all of the figuring out we must inevitably do. As human beings, we unfold and expand; we twist and we turn, we are upside down and right side up, at any given time, as we the do the work of figuring out our own existence.

Consider this: each of us, adults and children alike, emerged from the red-dark of a womb somewhere at our own distinct moment in time. We emerged into a wonderfully complex world of choice, with the chance to leave our own unique legacy. As parents, the moments we have to pursue our visions and dreams as separate human beings, can feel far and few between, whether we work outside the home, in it – or both. Though sacrifice is a large and natural component of being a parent, I don’t believe parenting has to consume all of our individual aspirations (though it quite easily can). Three kids later, I’ve come to believe in a life of balance. I have learned to invite my children into my dreams; and when I do, their small eyes glimmer with the anticipation of their own dreams being realized one day. I know for some, raising children is a satisfying purpose in itself. For myself, I don’t believe anything that I ever do will be as important as helping to shape and support the lives of the three human extraordinary human beings in my care. I consider the work of raising my boys none other than a sacred privilege (as well as a vital aspect of my personal legacy). Yet, I believe I was born for other things, too.

Though I believe whole-heartedly in the balance I speak of, the raw truth is that a balanced life feels unattainable at times. How can a balance be achieved when there are so many competing priorities? It’s a complicated, illusive, if not impossible equation – one with infinite numerals: life-partner, children, parents, extended family, co-workers, bosses, teachers, and friends; chores, meals, housekeeping, bills, emails, errands and the maintenance of everything we own; career (which has a list of its own); finances; passions, talents and hobbies; health, exercise, sleep and leisure; school, church, community, citizenship…Add what you will to the list, but how do we arrange such numerals in a way that equals a balanced equation? How do we arrive at an answer that feels right? While I don’t think there is a neat equation, or a neat, round number answer, I am compelled to keep trying at it. Perhaps it is in our very efforts that we arrive at little square roots of satisfaction, fractions of perfection, integers of delight...

In all of my efforts so far, (and I am a mere 8 ½ years in with much to learn yet) I have reached only one conclusion: if I try to take myself out of the equation entirely, it doesn’t work. The beautiful irony of it is, that in pursuing an equation where I fit in – where I take time out to cultivate the separate human being that I am – I am not only happier, but am able to approach my roles as diaper changer, dinner cooker, floor sweeper, homework helper, grocery shopper, granola maker, etc., with renewed energy and efficiency. After a morning, for example, of writing or a photographing, or even a simple hike in the woods, my life energy seems to mysteriously multiply – like a numeral base with a sudden exponent. I am often – suddenly – splendidly – three times my very self.
So for now, I’ll continue my random practice of abandoning piles of hot laundry to write a poem; or leave the kitchen floor behind, spotted and dull, to capture on camera the seductive way a light body has laid itself on the window sill. I’ll keep at the revisions of my life, hoping to arrive, little by little, at a satisfying sense of proportion. While some days have a feeling of harmony and symmetry, others feel disparate and tangled; and that’s just the way of it. Our time on earth is not a straight line, but a gorgeous, unfurling mystery.

How else to end but with Eliot, who urges me on in wandering the streets of my soul – and of my life; who reassures us all that there is time for doing so:

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky…

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

Let us go and make our visit.*

*from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock

http://www.whodoesshethinksheis.net/ -- CHECK THIS FILM LINK OUT!!! I
t is a lovely echo of the larger theme of my post.

Cloud Walk I

2010-02-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

Cloud Walk II

2010-02-05T11:08:00.000-08:00

Cloud Walk III

2010-02-05T11:06:00.001-08:00

Cloud Walk IV

2010-02-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

Self in the Sun

2010-01-27T20:34:00.000-08:00

Brothers in the Rain

2010-01-26T09:15:00.000-08:00

A Mother's Meditation

2010-01-15T13:14:00.000-08:00

Sipping a thoroughly steeped cup of Ceylon tea, a pleasant semi-daze occupies me at the breakfast table. Moby’s Natural Blues plays from the laptop (I have a need for hip music in the mornings; it breaks up the monotony of the cereal-bowl-juice-cup-assembly line – I think of T.S. Eliot here: I have measured out my life with coffee spoons).* The three boys have already devoured the morning spread; charged with a baffling excess of energy, they are wrestling in cardboard boxes one room over. I am alone as it gets.

Beyond the finger-printed, sliding glass door, the suspended, empty-paper-towel-roll-turned-totem-pole tickles the morning air, powered by a subtle breeze blown in from the San Francisco Bay – a sliver of which can actually be seen from our balcony, if you really challenge the eye. I study whatever catches my glance with pensive interest – the blue jay, shamelessly stuffing coco moss from my planter into his beak…the yellowing pines, not quite tall enough to hide the houses across the way. I examine the blackened windows in the houses and wonder about the bodies behind the glass: what other mothers are doing with their mornings; what they are sipping on…thinking about; if they measure out their lives with coffee spoons.

Outside, the shadow of the lattice railing sleeps on the deck’s splintery surface, filled with a hundred parallelograms of sunlight. A reflection of watery light from our inflated pool in the backyard licks the ceiling tirelessly in a movement like flames. My totem pole twists in on itself, then unfurls at twice the speed, like a dancer’s perfect pirouette. I painted the totem pole in an inspired afternoon of recycling projects with the boys (they didn’t want to hang their poles, but naturally turned them into swords instead). Admiring my totem pole, a simple truth occurs to me: I like seeing the work of my own hands sway in the wind for a change. The kids’ masterpieces are everywhere – the fridge, the walls, the doors…even our entire garage has been converted into an art gallery. While I adore the consecrated strokes of my children’s earnest hands, and while I savor the privilege of gazing on the expressions of holy secrets in their budding souls – lately, I have been looking for the secrets in my own soul; because they are, it occurs to me, no less holy, and no less destined for expression. One secret reveals itself in the morning’s solitude: whatever else I do (change diapers, pack lunches, put on Band-aids, drive, cook, clean, unpack lunches, fold laundry, drive some more…) I must write! I must photograph and create; because it makes me happy, but also – because how else will each of my children learn to value their unique existence and contribute their one-of-a-kind gifts to the world? I must lead by example.

Between the morning’s fleeting epiphanies, the music, the intriguing light-forms, and the indigenous, watchful eyes of my totem pole, I enjoy a small sense of transport – like a simulated Burning Man experience for a woman and her tea at the breakfast table.** Recently, my free-spirited, semi-nomadic, twenty-something, fairyesque cousin made her annual trek to Black Rock Dessert for Burning Man, an event in which people come together for the purpose of radical self-expression – to sprinkle, like sand grains, the secrets in their artistic souls over the one thousand square miles of desert. This strikes me as the ultimate unattached woman’s thing to do, now that I am married with a family. Sometimes, attached or not, I think of going. I think:

I Could Go

I could stretch out,

layered in gauzy

skirts and scarves,

hair tangling with

feathers and beads

in desert breeze –

all ten of my

toes propped and free

on the rear view mirror

of a 1976 Volkswagen bus,

catching the warm —

the fast wind;

I could hula

in a ring of fire

on the playa,

the dry balls of my feet

pressing into alkali

salts in sand. I could play

my palms on a drum

under a muddled hue

of silver and orange

spotlight begotten

from fire and moon:

a hue I’ve not seen

in a long, long time –

if ever.

But alas… while I may head for the desert someday, for now, I am here in my hometown, Castro Valley, doing the important work of existing in a chair at the breakfast table – the work of considering my life: as it is, and as I’d like it to be. The moments of solitude I find sustain me; they are soothing, like small handfuls of warm, desert sand. A mother of three, constantly in motion as I tend to the endless needs closing in all around me, the importance of this time to think and reflect, to be taken captive by a moment of dream in which the mysteries and possibilities of self can spin freely across the limitless expanse of desert – cannot be underestimated.

-This post is dedicated to my cousin, Megan, whose artistic soul has long inspired me.-

*This line comes from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

**To learn about Burning Man, visit: http://www.burningman.com/

Secret Weapon

2010-01-13T11:18:00.001-08:00

This post is dedicated to anyone fighting off

The Blahs today (R.B. -- this one's for you!)

* Information on The Blahs can be found in the blog archives.

"Kee-Cat"

2010-01-08T13:13:00.001-08:00

Chabot_0123hl, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Happy Epiphany

2010-01-06T12:41:00.001-08:00

, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Happy Eleventh Day of Christmas

2010-01-05T12:07:00.001-08:00

chreve_0349sl, originally uploaded by shanalope.

On the 8th Day of Christmas, James Busted a Move

2010-01-01T20:16:00.001-08:00

On the 8th Day of Christmas, James Busted a Move, originally uploaded by shanalope.

A New Hospitality

2009-12-31T12:19:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-29T13:30:00.001-08:00

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

Us

2009-12-17T22:25:00.000-08:00

Floating in the Now

2009-12-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-26T14:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-23T20:10:00.003-08:00

Winter Light and Wonder IV, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintry Light and Wonder III

2009-11-23T20:10:00.001-08:00

Winter Light Wnder III, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintery Light and Wonder II

2009-11-23T20:09:00.001-08:00

Winter Light Wonder II , originally uploaded by shanalope.

Winter Light and Wonder I

2009-11-23T18:40:00.001-08:00

Winter Light Wonder I, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Disco Mama

2009-11-15T19:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-08T14:16:00.001-08:00

Flower Power

2009-11-06T15:53:00.000-08:00

Feast of All Souls

2009-11-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-19T10:06:00.000-07:00

Skelly

2009-10-12T14:31:00.001-07:00

Morning Blue

2009-10-04T21:32:00.000-07:00

Beach Feet

2009-09-27T20:02:00.000-07:00

Connect

2009-09-23T11:39:00.000-07:00

Boy Dancer

2009-09-11T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

Last Day of Summer

2009-09-02T22:20:00.000-07:00

Vegas

2009-08-28T21:45:00.000-07:00

Purple and Pensive

2009-08-22T11:36:00.000-07:00

Blue and Free

2009-08-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

Cleaning for the Party

2009-08-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

Sonlight

2009-08-07T16:51:00.000-07:00

Photos from "The Haircut"

2009-07-31T20:55:00.000-07:00

Haircut

2009-07-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

Tender at the Window I

2009-07-23T13:50:00.001-07:00

Tender at the Window II

2009-07-23T13:38:00.001-07:00

Tender at the Window III

2009-07-23T13:31:00.001-07:00

Tender at the Window IV

2009-07-23T13:28:00.001-07:00

Tender at the Window V

2009-07-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

Blue Kamikaze

2009-07-19T00:06:00.001-07:00

Spider

2009-07-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

Crawdad

2009-07-13T21:43:00.000-07:00

Fauxhawks

2009-07-06T22:41:00.000-07:00

Henry and the Frog

2009-07-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

Light of Mine

2009-07-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

Friday Morning

2009-06-25T14:24:00.000-07:00

First Shoes

2009-06-23T22:12:00.000-07:00

Floral Universe

2009-06-21T10:05:00.001-07:00

Runaway Balloon

2009-06-19T15:04:00.000-07:00