Brooding. My word for Halloween night. Eric went back to his spa to finish inventory, and Asher fell asleep at 7:00. Actually, Asher going to bed on time is great. But, all of this means I can't give out the nagging bowl of candy I have taunting me, like the telltale heart. Bum-pum, bum-pum...you know I am down here Elizabeth, it cries.
In fact, our whole Halloween has practically been a bust. After dressing up in my favorite blond wig and sporting my peace necklace, headband, and round glasses, we get to a Halloween festival down the road only to find that Asher, Eric, and I are three of about six people who actually dressed up for the event. The Halloween spirit lives so strongly in me - and my husband - you see. So, it's rather depressing to feel the holiday vanishing like an apparition through a wall, with no proper costume party or trick-or-treating experience to send it on its way.
Well, there was this one moment. The two families who came to our house early enough for Asher to be awake, had several wide-eyed, smiling kids all traveling as a group. One little, little girl was not much bigger than my 16-month old son. Little Red Riding Hood with red blush smeared in sloppy circles on her tiny cheeks. As soon as she saw Asher standing behind me, she leapt up the one step into our foyer, greeting Asher with a solid stare. It was intense and sweet, even though her father looked seriously concerned that she was inside our home.
It was as if this small girl hadn't seen someone her own size....maybe ever. And, strangely, she reminded me of myself. Leaping upon strangers who seem remotely similar, trying to connect. Can I come in? My, what a warm house you have...
Some internal parent or guardian always pulls me out too. Saying, that's not the way friends are made.You could at least wait until you are invited in, silly.
After all, things didn't go particularly well for the red riding hood girl.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Read the Label
I don't mean to be so cynical. Those of you who know me well, know that's not what's down there if you dig a few feet. But, I was reading this poem the other night about a man losing interest in his favorite stuffed animal when he was a kid, and it struck home to me rather profoundly.The poet expressed sadness at losing love for something "simple" and "small."
We live in a jaded world. Holding on to the Velveteen rabbit's magic is challenging for us. After all, the rabbit becomes old and his fur worn. Nothing is meant to stay shiny or keep its new car smell.
To get to the point, my metaphorical basement is pretty full of fabulous life experiences which have lost some sheen. And taking out the mop and bucket can be so arduous. This is how it often feels, at least. Like polish and bleach are necessary when say a relationship or a bad attitude needs a sparkle.
But, it's not that hard, usually. Ironically, I am working too hard at saying what I mean write now. So,just read the label. Maybe your husband, coworker or friend needs hot water instead of cold.
We live in a jaded world. Holding on to the Velveteen rabbit's magic is challenging for us. After all, the rabbit becomes old and his fur worn. Nothing is meant to stay shiny or keep its new car smell.
To get to the point, my metaphorical basement is pretty full of fabulous life experiences which have lost some sheen. And taking out the mop and bucket can be so arduous. This is how it often feels, at least. Like polish and bleach are necessary when say a relationship or a bad attitude needs a sparkle.
But, it's not that hard, usually. Ironically, I am working too hard at saying what I mean write now. So,just read the label. Maybe your husband, coworker or friend needs hot water instead of cold.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Understand, then Light Incense
I sat down to write in this blog about an hour ago and was struck with a peculiar loneliness. So, I wrote an old friend instead. Sometimes, I realize how often I neglect writing to individual friends because I am writing in one blog or another. Updating the universe on my life, or at least anyone in cyber space who cares to check in with life on my planet.
A lot of frustration has been building in me lately. As I wrote to my friend, I feel like such a laundry, cooking, cleaning, and toddler-policing machine that I don't get time to see myself clearly anymore. Or my relationship with my husband.
I also realized recently that I don't write enough in here about the great stuff. The enormously intimate and touching mommy and son moments. Here's a bite of the little wonderful bits that occur each day: staring into my son's eyes as he sincerely tries to tell me something that I can't understand whatsoever; feeling his little body grab my leg while I am cooking at the stove; looking up to see him hand me a book, a 1980's video cassette, or just a block and say "heyago;" listening to him say "bye-bye Bub-bub" to the bunny who visits our front yard, as he is going off to bed; seeing him smile when I walk into his room after his morning naps and say "MAMA!," then proceed to show me his stuffed animals, etc., etc.
So much is getting lost in the daily shuffle. The daily laundry list, so to speak, of activities, many of which feel like chores. It takes effort sometimes to pinch myself and appreciate what's going on here. Appreciate the little boy who laughs in his car seat as a means of engaging with the adults in the front. Appreciate the spices in my cabinet and the morning sun shining upon the red and orange leaves.
I know I've been somewhat negligent with friends and family. And, I feel like some can't understand why. Why writing in a blog might be more appealing than writing to one person or why taking care of a child might be so time-consuming.
Mostly, I am just wrapped up in my day, like you are. Yet, my attention is on a little person learning about his world. Learning that he can't bang hard objects against windows, learning that not everything is supposed to get wet, learning that the cat food is just for the cats, learning that birds love bird seed and will flock to appealing bird feeders, and that some dogs jump up and lick your face while others just sniff and go about their business.
My focus is so intensely on preserving this tiny human's life and making his life safe and fun that not much is often left for others, including for myself. I am sure you know what I am talking about. Your life is probably similar, even if different.
At the very least, if you don't have time to call me, take the time to put a little sugar in your coffee or burn some incense on a rainy afternoon. I'll be doing the same, thinking of you.
A lot of frustration has been building in me lately. As I wrote to my friend, I feel like such a laundry, cooking, cleaning, and toddler-policing machine that I don't get time to see myself clearly anymore. Or my relationship with my husband.
I also realized recently that I don't write enough in here about the great stuff. The enormously intimate and touching mommy and son moments. Here's a bite of the little wonderful bits that occur each day: staring into my son's eyes as he sincerely tries to tell me something that I can't understand whatsoever; feeling his little body grab my leg while I am cooking at the stove; looking up to see him hand me a book, a 1980's video cassette, or just a block and say "heyago;" listening to him say "bye-bye Bub-bub" to the bunny who visits our front yard, as he is going off to bed; seeing him smile when I walk into his room after his morning naps and say "MAMA!," then proceed to show me his stuffed animals, etc., etc.
So much is getting lost in the daily shuffle. The daily laundry list, so to speak, of activities, many of which feel like chores. It takes effort sometimes to pinch myself and appreciate what's going on here. Appreciate the little boy who laughs in his car seat as a means of engaging with the adults in the front. Appreciate the spices in my cabinet and the morning sun shining upon the red and orange leaves.
I know I've been somewhat negligent with friends and family. And, I feel like some can't understand why. Why writing in a blog might be more appealing than writing to one person or why taking care of a child might be so time-consuming.
Mostly, I am just wrapped up in my day, like you are. Yet, my attention is on a little person learning about his world. Learning that he can't bang hard objects against windows, learning that not everything is supposed to get wet, learning that the cat food is just for the cats, learning that birds love bird seed and will flock to appealing bird feeders, and that some dogs jump up and lick your face while others just sniff and go about their business.
My focus is so intensely on preserving this tiny human's life and making his life safe and fun that not much is often left for others, including for myself. I am sure you know what I am talking about. Your life is probably similar, even if different.
At the very least, if you don't have time to call me, take the time to put a little sugar in your coffee or burn some incense on a rainy afternoon. I'll be doing the same, thinking of you.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
The Mute Button
Our nextdoor neighbor looks like a lost sheep dog. He is scrawny, with clothes hanging loosely off his body, and he's tall. Kind of reminds me of a scarecrow. His hair, being unkempt, only highlights this comparison.
For some reason, in this neighborhood, people are actually neighborly, and this is so unusual for me that I question it. My lost neighbor, whom I share walls with, is more of the familiar kind - keeping to himself and not speaking to anyone. Other than Father John, that is. You see, Father John lives two doors down from...Jim, we'll call him.
Last week, an old gentleman wearing two pairs of glasses, a yellow pair over top of a "normal" pair, approached me as I was going towards the wooden gate to my back patio. "Do you live here,?" he asked, and I can't get past the glasses. "Yes, we just moved in." "Oh good," he says. "My name is Father John." From here, he proceeds to tell me about Jim.
I don't know why Jim's issues are mine. But, since I am his neighbor, Father John thinks that qualifies me. Funny, eh? Caring about your neighbors??!!...what an antiquated little town this is.
Why would I bring you into this, though? You don't know Jim either. He's a stranger to us both. There's no need to get you involved. He doesn't mean anything to you, or to me. It's like those TV commercials which make us all cringe. You know, the ones with the skeleton figures who might be children if they had food and water, etc.
I'll just hit mute until it passes.
For some reason, in this neighborhood, people are actually neighborly, and this is so unusual for me that I question it. My lost neighbor, whom I share walls with, is more of the familiar kind - keeping to himself and not speaking to anyone. Other than Father John, that is. You see, Father John lives two doors down from...Jim, we'll call him.
Last week, an old gentleman wearing two pairs of glasses, a yellow pair over top of a "normal" pair, approached me as I was going towards the wooden gate to my back patio. "Do you live here,?" he asked, and I can't get past the glasses. "Yes, we just moved in." "Oh good," he says. "My name is Father John." From here, he proceeds to tell me about Jim.
I don't know why Jim's issues are mine. But, since I am his neighbor, Father John thinks that qualifies me. Funny, eh? Caring about your neighbors??!!...what an antiquated little town this is.
Why would I bring you into this, though? You don't know Jim either. He's a stranger to us both. There's no need to get you involved. He doesn't mean anything to you, or to me. It's like those TV commercials which make us all cringe. You know, the ones with the skeleton figures who might be children if they had food and water, etc.
I'll just hit mute until it passes.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tiny Spaceship Rides
Buzz, buzz, clank, clank, rumble, rumble, bump, bump. Yes, it could be part of a bedtime story for Asher. Yes, it could be that I am needing more adult time. However, well, actually, the latter is true. Anyway, anyway...where was I?
The trees are in between today. It looks like they're pulling on new clothes. Or turning inside out. Half one thing and half another. Centaurs. Funny. Eric and I were just talking about our signs the other evening. In some ways, the centaur fits me well. I've often felt half this and half that. Half earth, half air. Half here, half somewhere else. Despite my efforts to be present and grounded. Particularly now.
The changing trees - and the centaur - both represent much of my life right now. I feel like those trees. Pulling on a new turtleneck that doesn't quite fit yet. I do finally feel like this is where we live, but I couldn't have shown you where Frederick, MD was on a map even two months ago. So, the feeling of living in a vacation house is over. I'm no longer showering in someone else's shower (exactly...). I no longer find it charming to see boxes in the hallway or to get lost on my way to the bank.
This is it; this is real. I am now a Marylander (hhmm?). Yet, so much of it isn't mine to have. I watch moms at the mall chatting on a bench, while their kids get in and out of tiny space ship and bus rides, the kind that take 75 cents to operate and last about thirty seconds. I watch these moms smiling and catching up, feeling like I am tapping on glass at the aquarium. How do I get in there? How do I belong here, even though I know I already "belong" here?
I wonder if trees feel pain when their leaves change? Silly thought.
The trees are in between today. It looks like they're pulling on new clothes. Or turning inside out. Half one thing and half another. Centaurs. Funny. Eric and I were just talking about our signs the other evening. In some ways, the centaur fits me well. I've often felt half this and half that. Half earth, half air. Half here, half somewhere else. Despite my efforts to be present and grounded. Particularly now.
The changing trees - and the centaur - both represent much of my life right now. I feel like those trees. Pulling on a new turtleneck that doesn't quite fit yet. I do finally feel like this is where we live, but I couldn't have shown you where Frederick, MD was on a map even two months ago. So, the feeling of living in a vacation house is over. I'm no longer showering in someone else's shower (exactly...). I no longer find it charming to see boxes in the hallway or to get lost on my way to the bank.
This is it; this is real. I am now a Marylander (hhmm?). Yet, so much of it isn't mine to have. I watch moms at the mall chatting on a bench, while their kids get in and out of tiny space ship and bus rides, the kind that take 75 cents to operate and last about thirty seconds. I watch these moms smiling and catching up, feeling like I am tapping on glass at the aquarium. How do I get in there? How do I belong here, even though I know I already "belong" here?
I wonder if trees feel pain when their leaves change? Silly thought.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
At Home in One's Skin - or Bricks
Authentic is the word for downtown Frederick.This town is comfortable in its skin, in a way I am unused to. The coffee shops, hip restaurants, and groovy music shops are so...themselves, that it's almost uncomfortable.
What do I mean, exactly? I am not used to authentic places with history and shop owners who seem to be part of their shops. Built from bricks, centuries of ghost stories, and years of faithful customers.
I don't know what it's like to be rooted in any one place like that. I've never felt that before, and yet, it's what I've longed for my whole life. To be one with my environment, to the point where every stranger in town is apparent. Where it's great to be me. To feel homegrown and established, like the architecture and the farmers' crops.
Ironic. This is the word for a person who has recently moved to an authentic, old town, one she has always seen herself living in, only to feel "apparently" other.
What do I mean, exactly? I am not used to authentic places with history and shop owners who seem to be part of their shops. Built from bricks, centuries of ghost stories, and years of faithful customers.
I don't know what it's like to be rooted in any one place like that. I've never felt that before, and yet, it's what I've longed for my whole life. To be one with my environment, to the point where every stranger in town is apparent. Where it's great to be me. To feel homegrown and established, like the architecture and the farmers' crops.
Ironic. This is the word for a person who has recently moved to an authentic, old town, one she has always seen herself living in, only to feel "apparently" other.
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