Country Road (Ode To James Taylor)

Today's headline reads:


U.S. slipping into a coma, which is why I want to cancel our subscription. My dear husband loves the newspaper, you can't bury your head in the sand, honey...and I admit to having a penchant for the editorial page and the comics (plus horoscopes)


But the blab-o-sphere has traveled 


so deep into doom, so damn deep.


Slipping into a coma? 


We can't let the bastards get us down.
We must keep ourselves in good spirits. 
And tap into our life-support, whatever that may be...


~ like walking on a country road with E.

In The Long Light

Claire and I sat out in the yard, tossing the baseball backwards over our heads for Chewy, resting after a full afternoon of playing with Elizabeth, more weeding and mulching, and then a frenzy of let's rearrange the house. 


More restlessness?


Yes.


Claire had her 5th grade end of year celebration which means come September she'll move on to middle school which is probably why I came home and had to move more feelings so...


When Jesse came to get Elizabeth I enlisted her to help me move my writing table BACK upstairs into Dad's room/my old writing room and vacuumed and tossed things. Claire and I managed to muscle Dad's chair into her room (until he wants to claim it)...so it was a moving things, clearing the cobwebs, re-claiming space day.


And then, a sit in the long light.

Without Even Knowing It

I wasn't looking for another book. 


Scout's honor. 


Actually, I'd been practicing not reading as much because it felt like there was stuff stuck in my neck, between my head and heart. I was jammed.


"Maybe you need some time to digest," Neeny gently suggested, "maybe read one meditation book a day, instead of three. And then there's all the other things you read. Pick one."


This was not easy for me. 


I've always believed that books drop into my lap just when I need them, like today, when Elizabeth and I went to the library for a quick look. Nothing caught my eye on the shelf and then, The Fifth Agreement; a small book, easy to hold, the cover all golds and blues and greens. 


I checked it out. 


Elizabeth and I came home and ate walnuts at the kitchen table.  We sorted through the bag of smooth, round stones I'd discovered in the back of my car. 


Magic Martha's Vineyard stones.


"Would you like these?" I asked, eyeing an amber stone.
"Yes, Bean."


bag of stones + Elizabeth = contented child 


Then, this gift, from page 30:


Who is talking in your head? You make the assumption that it's you. But if you are the one who is talking, then who is listening? You, knowledge, are the one who is talking in your head, telling you what you are. You, the human, are listening, but you, the human, existed long before you had knowledge. You existed long before you understood all those symbols, before you learned to speak, and just like any child before he or she learns to speak, you were completely authentic. You didn't pretend to be what you are not. Without even knowing it, 


you trusted yourself completely; 


you loved yourself completely.


-from The Fifth Agreement by don miguel ruiz and his son, don jose ruiz.

Happy Mother's Day

breakfast in bed 


scrambled eggs
toast with peanut butter
oj
tea
raisins and walnuts
dogwood blossom in jar


freshly made warm chocolate chip cookies with walnuts


+ 


claire in one of mom's old shirts  


x 
















= a very happy mom

Dash Like The Wind

"I can dash like the wind, Bean," said Elizabeth. 


Ah, the difference a day makes; from *personal care homes with racks for walkers to wind-dashing...


Can you, Bean? Dash like the wind?


She took off ahead of me up the dirt road along the river, pink arms pumping. Chewy came crashing up behind us with a log in his mouth.


I can dash like the wind.


ps. Green frog boots are helpful, but not essential to wind-dashing.


Okay, your turn...


Fill in the blank for today -


I can _____________________.


*read "Did It Okay"/ April 6, 2011

A Moose Bed

"So what's this?" I asked Elizabeth.
"A moose bed, Bean," she said, tilting her head at me with a how could you not know that look.

A Really Good Thing

Elizabeth was a spotted dog for Halloween. Maybe that tipped us towards getting *Chewy. Hard to say. But I was up and out throwing tennis balls at 7:15 this morning in the sprinkling rain and cool fresh air. When the dog was running back to me, green ball in his mouth, tail wagging, I thought, this is a good thing.

Dogs get you up and moving. Babies do too. And other things like writing and walking. And work. Everyone has something that gets them up and moving. So, what gets you? A hot shower, a class full of kids, a saxophone, a cat, a calling? 

I've been reflecting lately on the timing of things, how they show up; a dog, a baby, a Dad, right when I seem to be on the verge of independence, whatever that means...a studio apartment with plant cuttings in jelly jars lined up on the window sill? My own bed? Traveling the world (without flying)?


Things to love keep showing up. This is a good thing. 


Before the bus stop, Claire and I walked Chewy for the third time. Walking and talking with my kid in the cool air is a good thing. 

The This Being Alive tribe definitely gets me up and moving. 


You're a really good thing too.


*Read Chewy 11/9/10

Let's Make God

Elizabeth and I were sitting at the round kitchen table, rolling out play dough and somehow we got to talking about church bells and how we'd heard them in town the other day.

"I like church bells," I said.

"Me too, Bean," she said.

And then while I was making spirals with the purple play dough she said, "God's in Gram's church."

Gram, Elizabeth's other grandmother, goes to a local Catholic church, and must've told Elizabeth that God was in her church.

So then I said, "Well, God's right here too. You, me, even this play dough."

Then Elizabeth said, "Let's make God."

Turtle

Claire has a bright green turtle pillow to go with her real turtle, Washington. Claire likes to name her things so she asked for some suggestions.

"What should I name my turtle pillow, Elizabeth?"

Without blinking an eye, Elizabeth said, "Turtle."

Keep it simple.

Make A Garden

Today was an Elizabeth day. Most Wednesday mornings are. We kicked things off with a round of "the picture card matching game", followed by a reading of Who, Who, Who Lost a Shoe, and had some snacks. Teeny pretzel sandwiches with peanut butter on the inside. whoa! After that I suggested we go outside and see what was popping out of the ground.

The minute we stepped out we heard a lot of swoosh swoosh swooshing going on. The sound was close by, but for the life of us we couldn't figure out what it was. Then we saw them; twenty-four wild turkeys, (we counted them!), dragging their tiny turkey feet through the dry leaves in the neighbor's stand of trees. Elizabeth and I crouched down and watched them peck their way to the back of the woods, meandering towards Joan and Arnold's backyard. I love wild turkeys. But I'll save that for another piece.

Elizabeth said, "Dirt piles, Bean," and pointed to the street. So we made our way to the wooden bench under the apple tree at the end of my front yard. I put my arm around her. We snuggled and listened to the birds singing like crazy. And we stared at the piles of dirt that Frankie, the new neighbor, had dumped before the last whopping snow storm.

At first, I didn't really notice them, the dirt piles. Or maybe I did, but for a while they looked like fluffy mounds of pretty white snow. Now they're just dirt piles filled with chunks of rocks and small tree stumps, spilling over onto the street. I'm sure Frankie has some kind of plan for the piles. He's going to smooth them out, grow grass, plant an orchard, right?

But in the meantime, Spring is one of my favorite seasons and it's getting ready to give birth in a big way. I am panting for daffodils and crocuses, poised for all things blooming.

"I don't know, Elizabeth, I'm not liking these dirt piles."

"Make a garden, Bean," she said, nodding her head.

She never elaborates. It's just what she says every time I start complaining about the damn dirt piles.

Clearly, I need work on my creative visualization skills. I may be rusty, but I'm a willing student. Tomorrow morning when I get up, I'm going to look out my picture window, sigh and say, Oh look! What a pretty garden.