Naughty?

Okay, I've been asked by the Universe to explain myself (what kind of a quirky sense of humor do you have?!), so I'll attempt to venture in that direction without getting too heady.

When I heard Trinidad holler out to the world and his Grandma that she should not forget to pick her nose, my heart warmed to witness his desire to connect. I imagined that his words landed with her completely, but I felt amused, a need for irony (yes, I may be the first to put it on the needs list, but it's big for me) met in imagining that these words did not meet needs for connection in others. Under the irony is a need for growth I anticipate being met as we are invited to further explore and connect more deeply with ourselves and each other.

Truth is, I deeply value acceptance -- for him, for me, for us all. Part of my amusement stems from my firmly held belief that love conquers all, at least in the big picture. I actually find hope in such opportunities as this when I imaginine someone being uncomfortable with certain words/phrases, but still touched by the spirit and presence of a child, particularly in a child's willingness to play with language. This tornness, as uncomfortable as it is, asks us to clarify what stands between us and the full compassion we would like to embrace. We are invited to join a conversation with ourselves and the world; what is truly alive in us, in our neighbors? How can we live most authentically and in our integrity?

To play is, in itself, a courageous act. I see it as a spontaneous exploration of the world in ourselves with trust that reconnection can occur. Play demonstrates a willingness to be fully present, usually with needs for fun and connection most alive, without worry about how one is received. It represents a trust in one's own ability to either accept and love oneself or to at least stay present as others express their needs unmet.

This playfulness, appearing both in my birthday poem ("To fool, to fool...."), and in much of the time I spent with my mom, reflects a strain of wisdom-in-presence and connection that I deeply value. The "fool" of Shakespeare's day was more than an entertainer. Again, I point to the path of King Lear.

I am aware in this moment that the strategies I reported engaging in are ones that could leave others bewildered. But this very shaking up of the predictable is something I can't help but enjoy, at least in part, even as it can bring its own share of pain. The order we impose in our "appropriate language" that attempts to touch a need for meaning in us is dependent upon the predictable, and is too easily toppled.

I would rather embrace the dynamic of connection over the predictability of propriety in any arena. I think that the practice of opening our ears and hearts to the deeper needs that drive playfulness is one that will serve us as a race and contribute to our harmony on this planet.

I love to turn a thing upside down to get to the bottom of it. At the University, my Chaucer teacher pointed out (in... was it The Wife of Bath's Tale?) that she had become cultured and educated enough to only appreciate appropriate language for most of the years of her scholarship, and it took getting a Ph.D in Medieval Studies to bring her back to an appreciation for gutter humor.

Subversive, at worst. And I wonder... would someone be willing to post a quick comment to let me know if this explanation is a contribution in clarity to why I value play with language?

We Saw My Mother Off

Yes, "off" she always has been, and "off" we'll always be, thanks to genetics that have graced the lot of us with beauty, resourcefulness, fierce independence, and a world view skewed by one drastically ironic lens. (Yes, she's responsible for the makeshift Halloween costume I'm pictured in below.)

We saw my mother off after a glorious birthday weekend together. Begrudgingly, we dropped her with her friend at the friend's daughters house in an upscale neighborhood where all lawns stood green and clipped to perfection. As I dug for my car keys, Trinidad, already missing his grandma very much, rolled down his window and shouted the finest endearment he could muster: "Don't forget to pick your nose!"

I imagined the neighborhood stiffening as they heard it. My mom laughed. I continued the search for my keys. He rolled down his window again and shouted it louder.

I found the keys and felt compelled to put in my motherly two-bits before pulling away from the curb. Cataloguing all of my most eloquent NVC lingo, maternal care (oh no! Am I caretaking again??) and the self-connection that would serve me best, I rolled down my window in turn. "Don't forget that you're in choice about what to do with the boogers!" I called.

So many peas in a pod.

Happy Birthday to Me, and a little poem....

In gratitude for the celebration of my life, light and a poem happening my way through the night....



Lear-y

I have
not so far to fall from
grace:

one trip by car to the grocery
ten blocks away
what I said
and did not say
one banana picked south
of California
a thought to feed the animal
I live in
that striped rug from China
not listening when you talk
not listening to my heart
doubting magic
sizing rocks
thinking too much.

Two sons
receive the model of my living.
Two sons
of mine inherit our Earth.

What if
they take this gift from me, ungrateful?
Have I
received its value full, myself?

To fool, to fool,
forget yourself,
flip the looking,
laugh.

Thirty-six years
behind me now.
What else have I
to do?

First Day At School

The boys went to school with a friend for the last 30 minutes of the school day yesterday. They attended with a mother who was assigned to go in and help with the "reading group," so they could all be together to go to the pumpkin patch after school. It was their first time ever to appear in public school while in session. Here is the report, as it was given to me last night at 10 p.m.:

"Writing the 'thank you' letter as I had planned didn't work," Trinidad told me. He'd brought a writing project to keep himself busy as the other kids read; he doesn't yet enjoy reading.

"The kids kept coming up and saying, 'Wow! you wrote that? That's really good! You write so good!' ...And I kind of liked it, but I couldn't concentrate, and there were more and more kids coming up, so I finally just put it away."

"There were Magic Tree House books," said Sam.

"Yeah, but the teacher wouldn't let Sam read any of them," Trinidad said. "She said she could tell by looking at him that he was not old enough to be reading those."

Sam has read several of the Magic Treehouse chapter books to himself. They are his favorite series. He reads aloud to us from Narnia, and even "sneaks" Harry Potter, because "now that [he] can read, [I] can't stop [him]." He's not quite five and a half, still smallish and chubby cheeked.

"So, what happened then?" I asked.

"Well, A-- tricked the teacher by reading only half of the Dr. Suess book and having Sam read the rest to her. She took it to the teacher and said she'd finished it. M-- saw that, thought it was a great idea, and had Sam read his for him, too. Then J-- and A --....."

I got the picture.

"A-- tells me they write every day," said Trinidad.

"What do you think of that?" I asked.

"I feel sad," he said. "Because they don't like to do it. I'd rather Unschool," he said.

To See In The Dark

Gliding through darkness, I reached up to adjust the headlight on my bike helmet. For an instant, the concrete path before me blackened, then glowed with the pale luminescence of electric light. My heart sank for a beat, yearning to witness again what I had seen in shadow.

What was it? What had I seen that fed me in that moment, that begged for me to return? I covered my light again. In seconds, my eyes adjusted to the dark, the swath of concrete path beneath my slender tires. Yes, that is what I had missed: the shadowland, a frontier to be seen only as my eyes would see it, a singular sense in shadows that only I can assign.

A sensation of fear pushed upward into my heart and rose to my ears while my hand simultaneously dropped and the light spilled cold to the concrete before me.

A choice to make. This is the lesson in my life, the lesson I see before us as a people. Alone in the dark, we can navigate with full autonomy only within the power of our footfall on the path. We can touch the beauty of light and shadows, the exquisite lens of each and every one of us capturing its own patterns, reflecting its own beauty back out into the world. But when we lift a tool to our aid, we are traveling beyond the realm of our power, beyond the realm of our autonomy and are suddenly in need of more external support to keep us safe and Strangely Sane in our world. As the tools "progress" so does our demand for more resourceful mechanisms to sustain us in superhuman flight across our planet, through our days.

My footprint is shaped by my footfalls, the beauty I perceive in my locale directly reflecting my ability to take it in... one breath at a time.

Next time, I will walk.

Sensible

Last night, lying in bed with the boys and talkingtalkingtalking like a bunch of slumber-party delinquents, I laughed and said, "You know, when I was a little girl, I went to bed by myself -- usually while it was still light out -- and I had to think of all these tricky ways to try to get myself to sleep..."

"Mom. You could have just climbed out the window," said Trinidad, point blank.

"I wouldn't have dared --"

"Well, I would have," he said. "And I would have gone down the block 'til I found some new parents who were more sensible."

Centered

My children and a young friend attempted to fly tonight. This endeavor called for sleeping bags and duct tape with many whispers behind a closed door.

I prayed for their confidence and safety and that I might leave them in peace to explore.



"At a kibbutz," my friend, David, tells me, "you grab a plate when you are hungry. And the food is hot."

"Where does it come from?" I ask.

"Many hands."



We swam in a wave pool today. "To the island!" said Sam, bobbing beside me in an orange lifevest. We swam back and forth, from one end to the other, me learning how to let go my muscles, to stop trying so hard. The twelfth lap in waves rising, I discovered moments of drift that rushed me forward effortlessly in time with the surge.



"We can have our rice in burritos for simplicity, or on a plate which would take more time to serve and clean up after. This choice impacts the amount of time that you will spend researching why children are not allowed in most public hot tubs before we get ready for bed. You decide."

"We'll have our rice in the burrito (right, Trin?)."

What does implicit leadership mean, to us all? I wondered.



"If we make an environmental club," said our young friend, "can I be the Queen?" Her query was countered by others in favor of partnership. Just a letterhead, she said she'd be content with -- if she might also be allowed to police in case someone wanted to destroy our club.

"I don't believe anyone would want to destroy our club. It sounds like you would enjoy really seeing your power in the world."

"It's not that," she told me. "But we might need police. Then we could make people take care of the environment."

"I would rather they do it out of choice and love," I told her. "How about you?"

"I see your point," she said.

Still, what makes us afraid of owning our need for power?



"I will slide by myself this time, Mama," Sam told me at the pool. "And I will wait for you at the bottom." After a moment's pause: "You promise?"

"Promise what?" I asked him. "You are the one waiting for me."

"Oh yeah," he said.


I am prime for adventure. I had no idea that partnership could feel like this. It is not adult centered. It is not child centered. It is simply centered, all spokes radiating outward and pulling us seamlessly forward.


Sometimes, dreams come true.


"I can fly without duct tape and blankets," I heard Sam say. "I can fly with just me."