Windfall

I am so blessed.

Twenty six quarts of apple sauce we preserved, pots spitting so high the sauce stuck to the ceiling. My hands blistered red from the fall of it while I shrieked and laughed, stirring two pots at once. Katherine, my doctor friend, sat with a look of terror at the multitasking, children running in and out to show their artwork and collections of baby teeth, jars boiling, apples cooking in the oven and on two burners, questions from Seda. Her husband, Ben, my music teacher, sat cutting more apples, reminded of Passover preparations years past, a marathon of slicing and chopping. We stood feeding the food mill at nearly 2 a.m., the apples not quite cooked and squeaking at the churn like Laborador puppies as I doubled over, laughing my belly inside out at the sound. And then the clean up in overwhelm... what to wash, what to bag for the night, how to stop in midsaucing when so much momentum drove those apples into softening...

The last of my friends left by 2:30, and I fell into sleep as if it were a warm, dark hole that Trinidad dragged me from snappy growling at 5:30 a.m. when a thunderstorm crashed overhead. He watched it alone and miraculously went back to bed without my help. I, lost in sleep again, recovered before eight, and found the strength in a few phone calls with our scattered tribe of mothers to plod the final lap of the canning process and set the last jars, gleaming, on the rack.

The harvest
a gleaning
a canning
a keeping
a warm fire glowing and
friends, oh
friends, how the bounty is ours.

Early Bedtime Overrated

Ha! Careful what you say....

Last night, the last kid friend went home at 10:00 p.m. after a barbecue and ice cream. Trinidad then decided to sleep outside. He got on his "other clothes" (they choose not to do pajamas, but sleep in their next day's clothes) and brushed his teeth while I peeled, sliced and cored apples for the dehydrater. Sam liked his brother's idea, but the notion of getting ready for bed fell beyond the realm of his will power. He moaned and collapsed on the couch with a Spiderman book.

Five year old Sam read to me about Spiderman and Doc Ock. Then, another Spiderman book. I kept peeling and coring. Then he picked up the Beatrix Potter anthology and read me more than half of Peter Rabbit -- and that's a long story. We all celebrated Sam's ease and joy in reading even the big words like "responsibility" and "scythe" with complete independence. Trinidad found himself inspired enough to read part of a Little Critter book, too.

At 11 p.m. I had two racks left to fill in the dehydrator. Seda had gone to sleep in the hammock in our garden. Trin had fallen asleep half on the futon and half off, waiting for me. Sam kept reading to himself. The doors of our house stood open to the rising breeze. Lightning began to flash and thunder rumbled.

I finished the last tray, washed my hands, and invited Sam outside. He popped around the corner in a wink. Trin proved unrousable. Sam and I sat alone on the back deck and watched the show. Lightning streaked across all parts of the sky overhead, illuminating clouds of purple and gold. Sheet lightning flashed behind our enormous willow tree and the leaves and branches stood black in skeletal relief. Thunder clapped and rolled.

Sam ran to get a sleeping pad he had prepared for his evening's sleep. I got a pillow. We snuggled up next to one another and talked about each flash, our wonder and appreciation for the night's beauty. At almost midnight, Sam adjusted his pillow. "What is that?" he asked sharply and jerked his hand back. "A slug?!"

"Ooooh! I'm probably laying on one -- oh, I am!" We both jumped up, laughing hysterically.

Today, I notice that my fingers are not striking the keyboard where I tell them to. The words don't flow as easily as I'd like. My brain is foggy, it's true, with the sleep I did not get. But I have a memory, and so does my sweet boy.

Bounty

I am so grateful.

There is a gravenstein apple tree in my life just now. It is an older, full-sized tree loaded with bright green apples, some blushing shyly in pink. The tree stands central and majestic in the garden of a friend's home I am stewarding while they are away, and its very bounty speaks to me.

Last night, the boys, Seda, and I loaded into the car (we did have many boxes of apples to transport, after all) and crossed four blocks to the tree that awaited our picking. We discovered that one of its great branches had broken in the waiting. Apples hung from heaven to earth with a painful reminder in splintered wood that so much fruit can be too much to hold. Windfall apples underfoot across the sparse lawn settled into boxes to be sauced this week. The boys took turns with the "apple picker" tool comprised of an open metal cage on a long stick to collect the harvest. Seda climbed with boxes up and down our tall orchard ladder.

I sat on the grass, so many apples spread before me. I sorted "B grade" apples into boxes for dehydrating, "C grade" for saucing, and I wrapped "A grade" apples individually in newspaper for autumn and winter eating. As my family laid them before me, I marveled at our teamwork, a harvest in itself. The apples, in both quantity and quality, warmed my heart with hope for a cold winter ahead. We will be fed.

"Look up!" said Sam. The summer sun had released its candy pink hold on the clouds overhead, and as the golden globe had slipped under land, only a blanket of sky behind held the memory of its light. Now the clouds took a monotone blue grey over a background of bright orange gold, fading to an other-worldly lavender, and finally to blue as the scene stretched above us. We all paused to watch.

Almost too much beauty to take in. We packed up our load and headed home, bleary eyed, into dishoveled beds. The house had been ignored in the presence of summer picking. This morning, I awoke in my smallish bed that is piled with four days clean laundry to fold. Both of my boys, after various middle of the night reasonings, snored beside me. And the dog.

So much bounty. May my heart find strength to hold the weight of it all.

Beautiful

My boys, I hesitate to tell you how beautiful I find you, because I want you to feel it from the inside first and not lean on my experience of it. I want to own my view of beauty in moments such as those when the sun catches the edge of one of your cheeks and sets it aglow like a summer peach. Or when your large eyes flash the inner workings of your heart before trying on the clothes of coolness to impress your friends, all ease and cleverness.

My breath is taken by both your softness and the callouses you are developing as you make your way in a world I still see as new to you. Every glimpse of beauty bittersweet.

As we left a cousin's wedding Friday night, Trinidad smiled widely. "I liked that wedding. It was beautiful," he said. "In just the right way. I like it when things are beautiful... but not too beautiful."

Maybe "bittersweet" is just one more muscle to build.

Rhythm and Feeling

I showed up half an hour late for my music lesson yesterday. "I was working with a very unusual circumstance," I told my music teacher, Ben. "I want you to know how much I value your time and the learning and growing I do here. I don't expect it will happen again."

"Kristin, stop," he said, holding my eye intently. "I would like for you to be late more often. I want you to be less perfect. I know what this means to you. Relax."

Later in the lesson, sitting under a grandmother apple tree playing the uke, I marveled at his modeling. The many times I did not keep up with the changes of chords, his eyes were far away, seemingly absorbed in the music, but when I went through a transition in time with him, he immediately turned my way, smiled and offered a word of recognition. Oh, how I would like to support my children's learning with such spaciousness!

I told him how much appreciation and wonder I felt in witnessing his example. He laughed and said it was easy. He valued the opportunity to share it with me, and if I knew it all already, I wouldn't be there. I cherished the modeling of such presence and value in our connection.

"Besides," he said, "if you just keep a good rhythm going -- you know, something folks can dance to -- and play with feeling, nothing else matters. You don't have to be perfect at all."

I think of my parenting. How many times do I wonder what the repercussions will be for those moments I'm afraid my attentions, guidance, or protection was not enough? The idea of "enough" is tied to a model I hold within my mind, my vision for their well-being. What if I could relax into leaving more to the universe, even when things are painful for them, for me? What if I could just keep the rhythm and stay connected to my feelings as we raise each other in this beautiful gift of family?

It would be performance art that touches the heart and vanishes into the ether.

If My Kisses Always Landed....

If my heart opened to your beauty, every request from me would reflect your needs as well as my own.

If your heart opened to my beauty, every request would be heard as an opportunity to give.
****
Sam blows me a kiss at night. Smack....whhhhoooo! "Where did it land?" he asks, eyes shining.

"Here," I tell him, pointing to my eyebrow.

"That's where I was aiming for," he says. He blows another.

"Where did it land?" he asks. I point to the back of my head.

"That's where I sent it," he nods. I blow him one.

"Where did you catch it?" I ask. He lifts up his shirt and points to his belly button.

"Yep," I say. "Exactly where I meant it to go."

My gift to learn.

Our Work Around Money

It has been a defining week for young Trinidad. He points out to me that ever since his eighth birthday (July 3), he has been looking for or doing "work" by way of selling everything he can bring himself to part with. He notes that his skill and will in this area has grown as one could measure by the number of hours he is willing to sit with his wares at the end of the driveway, his efforts to lay them out at peak hours of commerce, and his blossoming creativity in the advertising department. Yesterday, he sold $16 worth of [junk], and even acquired a Hawaain shirt collection from the neighbor across the street who supported his efforts to have something for everyone.

For myself, I am glad to see the stuff go, delighted by his focused sense of purpose, and challenged by his deepening love affair with money. That boy's learning curve is forever my curve ball. When he took breaks from the golden opportunity at his storefront, Trinidad moaned that he would not ever get the $13 for the pitcher plant he was desperate to buy, that he had not yet made his financial goal, and oh oh oh... it was just not enough money!

Deep breath in. Such clarity. In order to create the full spaciousness for his challenge, I must let go of all of the small hand clutching tendencies that I, myself, have on the Almighty Dollar. Hurray! What a golden opportunity for me.

Yesterday, Trin and Sam struck out on a new economic adventure and traded their work for cash by picking blueberries and selling them for $3/pound. At the patch (with me picking for the winter), they picked a full ten pounds while creating intrigue with friends while choosing teams and spying on each other's progress. In the end, all of the children contributed to the boys' project. I so enjoyed watching them hiding through the maze of bushes, appearing occassionally as growling blueberry monsters, and shouting their delights at finding "blueberry heaven."

Such was the bliss of workplay that they fell into over time in their own community. But in the beginning, ease was not to be had for my oldest entrepreneur. He experienced a panic attack when he looked at the blueberries collecting so slowly, he thought, at the bottom of his bucket. How on earth could he pick 7 pounds in just one day? He had orders for that, he told me, and he did not want to disappoint his customers. They may never order from him again!

His worry built to a crescendo in which his whole body nearly imploded before my eyes. He got so hot he thought he would pop, his skin crawled, and he burst into tears. Sitting in my lap for empathy, he sobbed that this was so important to him. This was real work, and he wanted to do it for for the well being of himself and his customers. He walked through the fear of failure.

And then my youngest turned up with his friend, both on their own spaceship. They heard Trinidad's tale and determined to help him. The younger boys picked with willingness, always under the guise of play and in the end, all five kids (transporting the end of our street to the blueberry patch) meshed work and play, declaring themselves siblings by choice.

We are doing our work around money.