Snapshots, Nearly Solstice

I wake up and study voice and guitar until my fingers and throat are feeling worn. I'm fighting a cold again. This music thing is a marathon before me, and I only just got the shoes. Beginner mind is supposed to be refreshing and insightful, I think. But my mind is preoccupied with mourning. I write to a friend and tell her all the things I think of doing in my weakest moment, which is now. I feel better having said them.

"I can't think of what to write next in this story!" Sam shouts. "I just can't."
"Sit with it," I tell him. "It's Spirit coming through you. Just quiet your mind, open and relax. It's all there." I wonder why I can't open and quiet like this in my moments of despair. I think I might be peeking through some sort of tear in the fabric now, because I do hear my words and wonder at them. I am not alone in the struggle because we are all trying to sit with what is while what's next rolls in. So much uncertainty.

I suddenly cry hard in the kitchen and both boys come to comfort me. I miss my Mom. It's Christmas without her. I sob and sob. Trinidad tells me in his young man voice to let it through, it's all right. He rubs my back. I see their care for me as a reflection of mine for her and I cry harder. Sam tells me to take my time, everything else can wait. Sit down. I can do nothing else. When I am done, I get us all some chocolate. We agree that it is good.

I am sitting on a chair in the kitchen, wearing an apron and holding my guitar. I am practicing Ode to Joy over and over until I'm not sure I like it anymore. The dog sits at my feet and stares up at me as if I were Jesus. I wonder at her taste in idols. The pressure cooker hisses above my melody.

All of this is inextricable. How can who I am be anything but what I do in this season of my life?

Crossing Creeks: Work And Play

Fearless Mother That I Am, I took both boys camping with me for four nights and five days, returning this afternoon. We had a lovely time, meeting up with other mothers and like-aged boys at a campground on the coast. Taking no chances this year after the Bear Encounter of last summer, we slept in the back of our stationwagon with the windows shut.

On day two, we took a hike to the beach. I refused to drive to the access point and proposed with that old 4-H spirit that we hike it in. The boys caught the whirlwind of my apparent excitement and agreed to this plan. We set off early on a six mile round trip hike across dunes and through the Rhododendron pine forests to our oceanic goal. I had not mentioned the creek crossing.

When we arrived at the edge of the creek, I told them that Ben said it was easy to cross, knee-deep at most. We walked the creek east for 40 feet. Chest deep in places, for sure. We walked back to our starting place and west for ten feet. Log jams created possible bridges, but still chest deep beneath.

My daypack was full. Snacks, discarded raingear, shoes, lunch, water for three. The dog eyed me squarely. "We can do this!" I cried, beaming unshakably.

"Okay!" said Sam. "I'll just test out this bridge." Off he went across the fallen logs. I left my pack and pants on the shore to follow him (turning my back with great alacrity on the apparently empty "viewing deck" over the creek and ocean). Traversing three different trunks, we got within four feet of the opposite shore. Sam paused and looked back, tentatively.

"I can throw you," I said, nodding. His eyes widened.

"Yes," he said. "That would work."

Trinidad giggled nervously. "Really, mom?"

"Sure," I told him. Sam pointed out that he could always swim if I missed. Then he instructed me around how to hold him so his feet would brace against my thighs, and he could add some extra spring. Trinidad stood watch over the pack, shoes and dog, biting the sleeve of his shirt.

It occured to me that this was the stuff of memory: our family working together to forge and cross bridges into unknown territory with courage, humor and faith in our own buoyancy. I cherished our focus, the tight weave of fabric that held us in this moment of joyful crisus while we pursued a shared goal. The "work" of a family united.

"One -- two -- three -- go!" Standing on the end of a mossy submerged log in only my underwear and a t-shirt, I lobbed my five year old son through the air, and he landed with a thud on all fours in the sand. Trinidad broke into hysterics. I joined him. Sam, recovering his composure, turned and chuckled deeply. We all stood, roaring with laughter, while the dog looked askance.

I returned for Trinidad, then the pack and shoes, and finally, I somehow made the distance dry, myself. The dog, sure that she was now to be left behind ("Come on, Stickeen!"), took a single-minded flying leap and missed her goal by six inches. After a few seconds, she surfaced, moppish, and regained her sense of humor only after a good shake on us all.

My boys ran the waves and the dunes for the next three hours, then, hot and tired, we began the long pack home. First milestone: the creek. This time, we found a trail that lead us to a crossing ten yards west of our first. The way was gentle and shallow -- just over the knee. Both boys peeled off their pants and jumped in, this time searching out the logs to jump from.

After a full-on submerging several times, Sam turned to me, grinning. "Which side were we supposed to get out on?" he asked.

So this is play. Unfocused, creative, alive and connected. More memories of our family together, crossing creeks as a canvas, work and play to color it whole.

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.

Unclocked

In the final hour before Trinidad's orthopedic appointment, my yard vibrated with the harmonic resonance of many, many hands helping. An NVC student of mine bent to earth with buckwheat seeds for the sowing. A three year old neighbor took our water wand to the lettuce bed. My eldest son and his seven year-old friend picked a panoply of green leafy weeds from the garden to make "rabbit salad," and three more children, aged 4-8, sat down on the deck to sort garlic into piles by size in preparation for braiding.

I looked at the clock: 30 minutes to departure by bicycle to the fancy new skyrise across town. Hmmm. Time to check the bees? No snacks had been packed, no faces washed, nor shoes located. Two families of children and one adult would need to make their transitions homeward in those final minutes. Still, the flow moved me; honey called.

Turning my back on the clock, I swept up my hive tool, brush and bee veil under one arm. Those not engaged in Serious Work watched me light up the smoker and wove themselves into the story of the bees in summer harvest. Why does the smoke calm them? What do the bees do? What will you be looking for? Their wide eyes watched me as I crossed the yard and pried the boxes apart, lifting each frame to measure capped comb. These children have seen our bees emerge for their first spring flights last March, and they will follow the honey flow as it is pulled from the hive next month. Each will go home then with sticky hands and stories to tell.

Parents returned through the back gate and gently collected their children. The bees circled round in seemingly chaotic loops, an insect ballet, each returning to the hive with food for the morrow. All of these circles, sacred, and me, through a beeveil, watching.

I set my tools aside and announced our imminent departure. Another miraculous season well-timed from planting to harvest with little thought on my part, all hands and heart in the working. My boys met me on the driveway with shoes on their feet. I grabbed a water bottle and slipped the afternoon sandwich outcasts into my backpack.

We had twenty-five minutes to bike across town, and we arrived exactly on time.

On A Full Moon

On a full moon, trees cast shadows, black on grey. On a full moon, the path before me glows faintly, beckons.

Friday night, a friend invited us to join her family on a full moon canoe ride in the canal near their home. She caretakes a 70 acre park in the center of our city. This park stretches its long fingers of green along the Willamette river and other contributing waterways from Springfield to Eugene. Such an invitation we could not refuse, no matter how long our day had been.

On a full moon, the sound of grass harnessing the wind is suddenly important. On a full moon, the beaver is known by the sound of his tail slapping the smooth surface of water.

We loaded the heavy metal canoe onto a once-bike-trailer and wheeled it along a mulched path to the place where we put in. The children skipped down the trail beside us in their lifejackets, heads bobbing at the height of summer grass. Mothers spoke quietly, sighing at the beauty and tranquil tiredness of nightfall.

On a full moon, the surface of the earth makes itself known through the feet. Rock crunches, packed dirt gives only a little, and concrete not at all.

We lifted each child into the canoe, an adult at front and helm. We left the makeshift dock effortlessly, oars lifting and swinging through water black as oil. Children giggled, whispered, and hushed. "I'm scared of bears and tigers," said Sam.

On a full moon, the log that breaks the surface of Turtle Pond could be danger if it is not seen in time. Our weight in the world, on water, could tip us into the drink if our crew does not balance as one.

"We are safe," I told him. "You have two capable and strong mothers with you," said my friend. "You should save Trin first," said Sam, "because of his cast."

On a full moon, the love in a heart is eclipsed only by fear, and light alone finds reflection.

My Son....

What I almost missed was the glimpse of you pushing your little brother on the swing without my wondering how he might feel if you did or did not push him.

What I nearly didn't see was the way you filled your water glass with one hand, finding a way to stabilize the glass without the use of your casted arm.

What I barely heard was your description of how the jaws of the spider extend from its mouth as it eats its prey, how the pair of spiders working in tandem is very unusual, how they must be -- for the moment -- mates.

What I cringed and almost turned away from was the fly you almost killed in the catching, carried around for an hour deliberating whether he should go back to the wild in such a condition, and finally set free in as safe a place as you could imagine, saying over and over how much you loved that fly, how much you wished the rest of us did, too.

When I did see you, hear you, on the outer edges of grocery lists, dishes to be washed, and nettles on the dryer, I turned to you fully. How I long to hold this imprint of you in my heart, in my mind: your many skills, your visions, your capacities I almost did not acknowledge... and what of the others that have slipped me completely?

Your shoes are still in the middle of the living room floor.

The toothpaste is uncapped.

The rage in your eyes as you blamed me for bumping you with the door hangs like an echo in my sometimes worried mind.

May I find the grace to turn your way and witness your unfolding into light. May I open into light the darker reaches of my heart to make space for all I am honored to hold of your darkness as well, my son. I only hold myself and All in this embrace.

So much love.