Learning the Musette, by Sam

One day, my Mom asked me if I wanted to learn the Musette, and I said, "okay!" So we sat down at the piano, and my mom taught me how. Then I was playing it. I was usually hitting the wrong keys. Then I got it right, and my mom asked me if I wanted to learn the next part, and I said, "okay!"

Then, when it was my next music lesson, my music teacher, Ben, taught me the first part of the Musette. And he also taught me the third part of Bartok.

"Don't Like My Peaches...

...don't shake my tree!" Sweet song.

I'm only just grasping the significance of that line.

Why is it that some relationships are so effortless and others so taxing? Sometimes the answers are easy to discern, other times near impossible.

"Would you be willing to bring in some firewood?" I ask Trinidad.

"Ugh!" he says. "No, I don't really want to."

"But would you do it because it would lighten the load of all I am working on to keep order in the house right now and because you might enjoy a fire tomorrow morning?"

"Ergh. Mom, I'm right in the middle of organizing my Pokemon. Maybe later."

My energy bleeds from me in exchanges like this. So much more ease in doing it myself. A month of mourning around how our culture is set up so that parents do not have easy support around routine tasks foundational to a family's health and well-being.

But, wouldn't it be nice if what I asked Trinidad to do was actually a joy for him to contribute? Not just something he liked to do, but something he liked to do especially because I enjoyed it, too?

I enjoy doing housework and cooking (to a point), particularly if my efforts are seen and appreciated. How can I discover and request the work that is most joyful for others to offer me? What do I enjoy receiving from Trinidad that he likes also to give?

There is a list forming in my mind. I find hope there.

I am also grateful to stumble on this question, because it seems to be at the heart of all functional working relationships, be they parent-child, employee-employer, or the work of lovers. If the mutual giving is intrinsically motivated, then there is no energy expended in the giving. It is sheer joy.

Yes, this is the Real World (even I have to smirk at our limited scope), and somebody has to clean the toilet if we don't want the smell to knock us out while we brush our teeth. So someone does the duty, maybe willing but not wanting. Okay. Some energy expended. But if the person who did the job now receives with grace the gift that others wish to give, that energy is restored. We strike a balance not in blanket giving and receiving, but by doing so with tender awareness of each others Work in the world, that we may grow and harvest in community with beauty, ease and fun.

If we do not want to take the time to imagine or get to know each others passions and how they might align with our own needs, then our world loses its human scale. We are reduced to lists that are accomplished with a sense of "have to," and we drag our feet resentfully through what could be a ritual of caring.

With this in mind, we also choose our communities. "Change the dynamic or change the person," a friend wisely suggested. Exchanging my children is not an option (with gratitude that I've never seriously thought of trying), so my determination to uncover and enjoy the gifts that I can authentically receive from them as a contribution is all the more pressing.

The commitments I have to friends and lovers is now defined by only that -- what is my level of conscious determination in finding a way that we can both be in our joy? How can the vast majority of giving and receiving between us be effortless and fun? Why did we choose each other in the first place? Has there been some shift? Are our needs still met in the balance of this relationship? Do I, in fact, have good cause to keep shaking the tree?

This effort is not about a commitment to people. It represents a commitment to love.

Out Standing In Their Fields

From six-year-old Sam (who reads at about fifth grade level):
"Mama, when I grow up and die, do you think I'll be canonized in... 2099 ... to be the Saint of Reading?"

From eight-year-old Trinidad:
"Your brain gets as big as what you're doing. I want mine to be bigger than a video game."

Tired

We went to the snow last weekend and shared a cabin with three other families. Trinidad rode his sled in all ways (even "snowboarding" over jumps, hands-free standing) from the crack of dawn until after dark. He barely came in to eat. During daylight hours, he did not enjoy the distraction of a mama asking questions. After that time, he was too exhausted to speak intelligibly and mostly snarled and made faces.

I got tired of being responded to in monosyllables at high decibles. I grew weary of his intense frown at every turn, eyebrows furrowed and silver eyes glaring up from half-closed lids.

"My sweet little Sith," I thought, with sinking heart. I don't like having such a thought about my child. Craving connection, I told him over and over how much I did not want to be spoken to in that tone of voice, at that decible, with those words.

And still, it continued. I gave myself a lot of empathy.

The weekend we had much looked forward to met some needs while others withered tragically. I longed for fun and connection with Trinidad. I had a talk with him between scowls. I offered empathy around his needs for focus and fun, and these conversations brought us both some understanding and relief. I also shared the intensity of my sadness, the unmet needs, and my worries that if we couldn't find ways to connect, I couldn't imagine investing so much in a trip like this in the future.

He heard that. He tried to turn around, but it was hard. He was exhausted in every way, even struggling to sleep. I saw these needs drastically unmet for him and again questioned the resources plunged into a trip that left so much wanting.

On the ride home, we talked about what we liked and did not like about the adventure. I only referred briefly to what we had talked about earlier, imagining that he would be tired of discussing it (we had a few ten to fifteen minute meta-conversations about it). Instead, he opened the topic again.

"Yeah, I remember -- we might not be able to go again," he said.

"Well, it's not about that, honey," I told him. "I don't want my frustration to be connected to whether or not we go again. I just feel so sad when we struggle to relate so much over a weekend. I do not like being spoken to and responded to in those ways [we were both clear which]. I would like to be spoken to with the same care and tone that I speak to you in. I want that mutuality. It's part of a respect that I want for both of us. In a trip like this, the challenge is more apparent because you're tired, and I'm more sensitive because we're in a group."

I really wanted to own this last part. "I feel embarrassed when you shout 'You hid my boots!' and make this face [scowl], because I want to be clear with myself and others that I care about the words I use and want to be spoken to with. I'd like to have discussions where we both take responsibility for our feelings and needs."

"Mom, I wonder if it's something else, too," he said. "I wonder if you'd really like it if we were communicating that way because you'd like other people to see how good you are at being a mom."

Well, I had some judgment come up about myself for a moment and gave myself empathy -- do I want people to value me so that I can value myself based on the pretty package of "good communication?"

"I'd really like for you to be authentic," I said. "I want you to say what's real for you, but take responsibility for it by saying how you feel and what you need rather than blaming me. I want to connect and to hear what's alive, even if I don't like it."

"No, mom," Trinidad said. "What I mean is that when other people come around, sometimes I'd like to show them how good I am at something -- like shooting a hoop or doing a magic trick."

"Wow," I said, and I meant it. "You mean that I'd like to show them a representative sample of what I do all day -- the connection we usually share?"

"Yeah," he said. "Is that it?"

I felt such relief when I fully heard this empathy guess. Why wouldn't I want to share this work that is vitally important to me with my community in the most distilled way I could -- by example? Why wouldn't I be disappointed if the snapshot of time we shared together was filled with a radical display of unmet needs rather than our usual rich dance of connection, challenge, and reconnection? It's not about wanting to be a "model NVC Mom" for the sake of "doing it right." That did not resonate, anyway, even though I had some confusion and worry that there could be something there. I value the acceptance that I generally feel about showing up as we are en famile. Instead, what Trin shed light on for me is a need for celebration and empathy; I am in awe at the depth and quality of connection (regardless of difficulty) that I experience in my day-to-day, and I'd like us all to be seen for that.

What Trin put his finger on was Murphy's Law itself: the minute someone is watching, the ball misses its mark. Over and over. Some hours, some days, some weekends, the Law prevails, and I tear my hair in frustration. I mourn.

And then, when I pick up the pieces and find unlikely support in the seeming source of my struggle, I remember that there are so many phases in this metamorphosis. So many forms that both of us will take, so much room for growing and finding our places with each other.

I am grateful that Trinidad offered his heart, his ear, his words of wisdom at a time when we both bottomed out. I am grateful for the connection I treasure, the clarity and the hope.

And still, I'm tired.

Time Crunch For The Unschooled

"I have been trying," said Trinidad, "to work brushing my hair into my schedule these days. It's been hard. I've been busy."

Urban Farm Mother Says....

1. If you stay inside long enough in the winter, you may forget that the bathroom sink is not the best place for children (or anyone) to wash muddy rocks.

2. If you have made the above mistake, you might look at your toothbrush carefully before using it the next time.

3. Children do not always remove their gloppy boots at the entrance, despite their best intentions. This fact could be viewed as an inexpensive personal growth workshop in the art of lettting go.

4. While living large on small city acreage is to be commended, hanging the white clothes within six feet of the manure pile that awaits transport to the garden is not advisable -- it happens.

5. If you have made the above error, you may be consoled to know that whatever streaks are now visible on whatever whites you dare to own will only be recognizable in origin to you -- the fact of the matter is that "white" clothes (amidst children under 10) are only "dirty" when they stink.

6. Beating the dirt out of rugs is a charming way to connect with your ancestors and tidy your home. Don't wear lipgloss to do it.

7. When children dig, they find tools you did not know exist to do it.

8. When children hit the water table while digging, this is a marvelous discovery and opportunity for a lesson in earth science.

9. When children hit the clay layer just below the water table, your deck and floors will pay the price. But you will discover the charm of authentic clay booties on everyone -- even the dog.

10. It is shocking what a mother will let slide as a "nutritious lunch" when she is trying to gain a little more time in the garden. This moment-of-abandon acts as a balance for all of the fresh, crisp greens she has been unsuccessfully encouraging her children to eat. Surely if sinning in the mind is still a sin, intending to feed your children local, healthy food is worth something....

11. Despite the hard-core belief of fantastic young imaginations, plywood alone is not an adequate surfboard for a pond in winter.

12. It is very rare that only one child at a time falls into a muddy pond. This is a moment of intense cooperation that you are not likely to celebrate.