Only Moms Can Do That

Let's all gather at the river
the beautiful, beautiful river...


This snippet of hymn is running circles round my head; memories of my large, boisterous family, belting this baby out, as much as the Presbyterians of my childhood belted.


Actually, we belted quite well.


beautiful, beautiful river ~


Claire and I gathered by the river today.


The very river she put on her *list of likes...


while I was pining for the sea yesterday.


"So, does this change your mind, Mom?"
"It's beautiful. Gosh, I just need to be by the water."
"Me too," she said.


We sat in our chairs, popping green grapes. 
"So," I asked, "do you want me to sign up to be a mom who helps kids figure out how to use their locker combinations, or...?"
"I think they already have a bunch of moms to do that, you know, the ones who can't let their kids go..."
"Trust me, I'm not dying to be with a bunch of freaked-out sixth graders on the first day of school but if you want me..."
"Trust me," Claire said, "you don't, Mom."
"Okay, then I'll just wrap you in a bubble of love and put you on the bus." and try not to break down weeping.
"But what if somebody pops my bubble?"
"Well, wrap yourself up in another one until..."


"But only moms can do that," she said.


* Read "Not Quite Home Yet"/ Aug. 23, 2011

Quickly Be Saved

LUV-N-CARE CHILDREN'S WORLD ...


is trying to tell us something?


If it's JESUS IS COMIN QUICKLY 


I would encourage him to pace himself.


or


If it's QUICKLY BE SAVED 


A little panic attack-ish, don't you think?


Claire said, "How do you get saved, Mom?"


"I don't know, buddy. Going to the river?"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Make A River

"Man, is it raining," I said, "The yard is one giant mud pie. Guys, we can't be throwing the ball to Chewy out there. He's tearing the whole thing up."
"Look at him, Mom," Claire said.


Throw me the ball.
Throw me the ball.
Throw me the darn tennis ball.


Please?


"I should just take him out to the river and let him run. Otherwise the boy is a cuckoo bird," I said, "But I don't feel like driving out there. I have work to do and would rather go out back..."
"Well. We could make a river," Claire said, "It wouldn't be that hard."

Claire's Girl #3 (Yea, I Can Fly)

I'm thinking about the lone beaver I spotted at the river on Wednesday. 
It looked like a piece of wet wood drifting, but then it wiggled, slapped its tail, and dove under the dark water. I stood still, tracking with my eyes, praying for it to re-surface. And it did, popping up in the tangle of the fallen tree trunk; the one Michael tumbled off of back in October, rising up out of the water with blood streaming down his face. And a shocked grin.


Back home, I pulled a favorite book,  Animal Speak, off the bookshelf to read up on the spiritual and magical powers of beavers, I kid you not, but ended up on the bat page instead. My eyes landed on:


Changes and transformations are blessings.


Thank you, Ms. Bat, for that. 


Skimming down the page I read:


Sometimes bats are a symbol of facing our fears...It becomes a symbol of promise amidst the sometimes chaotic energies of change. It reflects the ability to move to new heights with the transitions. Yes, our own flights may seem fluttery and jerky, but we will be able to fly.


I flipped to Beaver, page 253: 


Water has long been associated with emotions and dreams...If beaver has appeared in your life, it can reflect an opportunity to build upon your dreams. 


I immediately jotted down one of my mathematical equations:


River = emotions + dreams ( + facing bat fears) x building upon dreams (to the tenth power) + beavers squared? 


= Flying, (albeit fluttery and jerky.)


I suppose I should run the math thing by my friend, Laurel, the math professor, but I know what she'll say: equate away, good woman! 


Nary a photo of a beaver or bat on file, so I thought, Claire's Girl #3 would be just fine for today. She's like Double 0-7, but way cooler. She's all sassy and bold, nothing fluttery or jerky about her.


Yea, I can fly. Wanna make something of it?


*Animal Speak: The Spiritual and Magical Powers of Creatures Great and Small by Ted Andrews

Float Down The River

Yesterday I wrote, inside release you'll find ease. 


That was after an early morning weep-fest at the kitchen table while my patient husband listened, gently pointing out how hard I tend to be on myself, suggesting maybe I could shift my focus from struggle to enjoying the ride, however bumpy it may feel at times. 


Part of my tears were because I'd been up three times in the night feeling pukey. Not fun. But there was this creative rub, this what am I doing here again? rub, that bubbles up at least once a week for me. It makes me feel terribly messy, like a big crying tangled ball of yarn, but Michael says he wouldn't have me any other way. 


Really? 


Have you ever noticed that even when things are landing in your lap there's still a part of you drawn, like the proverbial moth to a flame, to the difficulties? 


Just wondering.


I felt hugely successful upon waking this morning because I'd made it through the night without barfing. This put a spring in my step that had been missing for the past few days. I got up, made Claire some oatmeal, saw the dusting of snow outside, put the kettle on for tea.


Using a different measuring stick for success and leveling out one's expectations eases the struggle thing. Another idea might be to just 


stop struggling and float down the river.

Set Them Sailing

Our New Year's Day tradition is to go down to the Delaware river, write wishes on leaves and set them sailing downstream.  


Michael is focused; three wishes, three leaves. Claire, three or four. I, on the other hand, can't stop scribbling once I get going. This may be desperation on my part for fear of leaving anyone or anything out.


health, love, laughter, family time, freedom from worry, creative successes, money in the bank, let Owen learn to like the dog, watch over my kids, take care of my mother-in-law, keep Dad well,...leaf after leaf. 


The river was beautiful today; smooth, clear, gently flowing. We stood and watched our wishes float away while Chewy rolled in the ice at water's edge. On the hike back to the car, I picked up a piece of birch bark to write one more note with my bright blue marker...


to come into my own.

Meet Them At The Door Laughing

This morning Chewy ran into the neighbor's yard to chase a squirrel and didn't come when I called. The sky was gray. It started to rain. Claire and I went to the bus stop where the boys shoot each other with sticks and throw pine cone grenades. I knew she didn't want to go to school. I didn't want to send her. I felt like crying.
"I want to travel," she said, "and walk by the river with Chewy."


Back at the house, I sat on the sofa and cried. 
"Michael, I don't know what to do! Where do I fit?"
"Right here," he said, putting his arms around me.
"I feel like a lost teenager, a slacker, a loser, a big crybaby! I'm a grown-up, for God's sake. Shouldn't I know what I'm doing?"
"You have to remember, honey, this stuff isn't always easy."
This made me cry more, that deep heaving cry that says, give it up already, dammit! I wasn't even sure what I was crying about so I gave him a whole list: kids, work, dogs, money, old parents, the world.


"I saw a show the other night," I said, "CNN Heroes. All these people, doing remarkable things against the odds. A man making lamps for children in Kenya. And the tiny woman who runs a home for women and girls who've been sex slaves, girls Claire's age! She won the award. She got up and quietly said, 'Namaste'. She asked the audience to close their eyes and imagine a girl they love, a daughter. Then she said, 'We must do something. We must stand up!' We should be doing something!" I said. 


I cried for a half-hour straight. Then Michael went to work and I went upstairs to sift through a box of papers. When I found this poem, I cried some more. 


This being alive/This being human...


This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.


A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.


Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out 
for some new delight.


The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.


Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent 
as a guide from beyond.


-Rumi

Just The Same

Things and events have their own order. It's human to want to impose order from the outside- our order; but often, our attempt to put things in order resembles the old man who tried to push the river. It never went any faster, and if he stopped pushing, it got there just the same. 


-  from Mom's *meditation book


Peace and blessings on this first day of November. 


xo b


*The Promise of a New Day

Swim More Rivers

It's a gray Sunday afternoon, not like yesterday, when we went to the river. Claire swam with Dad, aka Pop Pop. The two of them rolled around in the water like a couple of young otters.


Michael fished the riverbank, turning over rocks for worms. I strolled along the water's edge in search of a smooth river heart- stone. The air was soft and warm, dreamy. Tiny swirling leaves dropped into the water whenever the breeze kicked up.


I always get melancholy this time of year. It sweeps up on me unexpectedly, until I remember, it's September, the season of beginnings and endings/ reds and golds everywhere/ yellow sun dappled trees. All around things are falling, ripening, letting go into something new. 


Our river day reminded me of a short piece called "If I Had My Life To Live Over" which I've read at weddings and funerals. It was written by Nadine Stair, an eighty-five year old Kentuckian. She begins: 


I'd like to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax. I would limber up. I would take fewer things seriously. I would be sillier than I've been this trip. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers..."


"Are you waiting for me to go in, honey?" Michael asked.
"Yup," I said, "It might be our last swim for the season. You have to."


If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall...

Shared Blessings

Go ahead, call me the Turkey Lady. They keep showing up. Like family.

So, I don't know what Owen was thinking when this pair strolled by the back door. He watched them crisscrossing in the grass, which way should we go, looked at me once, then laid his head back down on his front paws. (There were babies out there too!)

ps. The weather's been heavenly here in Northeast PA; we've been watching birds, eating ice cream, swimming in the river; soaking up this late August magic. We have *not been shoveling truck loads of stone. Amen.

Here's to the magic of shared blessings.

TURKEY: Shared Blessings and Harvest

"The turkey is sometimes called the earth eagle. It has a long history of association with spirituality and the honoring of the Earth Mother. It is a symbol of all the blessings that the Earth contains, along with the ability to use them to their greatest advantage."

- from Animal Speak by Ted Andrews

* read It's That Simple (Part Two)

Gone Fishing

Caught In Between

"...feeling under the weather weakens our resolve and clouds our vision; yet sometimes when we get bed ridden it gives a chance/time to reflect on things which fly by when we are feeling well and on top of the world. you got caught in between -- not on top of the world and not sick enough to take time out to reflect."

Michael wrote that in an email, after I'd written him apologizing for my cranky behavior at breakfast. Waking up feeling like I had swallowed glass wasn't a great start to the day. I've been out of sorts, not feeling well, tired of taking care of people (elderly father), restless for some kind of shift. My husband nailed it: I got caught in between.

A week ago I was high flying with the evening of theater at the Deerhead. But as the week wore on, my energy shifted. Dad was laid low. Really low.

On Thursday we landed at the home of a grieving mother. Friday we traveled into New York to meet up with family. Sunday there was a full blown jazz band practicing at the house. Late nights, early mornings. Lots of driving. Up, down, here, there, soft, loud, happy, sad.

By yesterday, I was unraveling.

And that's how life goes, right? We cling to, oh this feels so good, let me stay here. Then, push away, what's wrong with me? Why do I feel so lost?

Today, in between.

I get it, again.

Note to self: be like the river...flow.

Missing Che

It's been three years since Che (short for Noche, rhymes with Ray), had to be put to sleep. I laid down with him, just like we are in this photo, and held him until he slipped away.

I have lots of Che stories. Dogs and kids, right? I'm thinking right now of when Claire was a baby. She must've been at least six months old; she could sit up by herself. We plopped her down on the tile floor, put peanut butter on her forehead, and let Che lick it off. It was her baptism, right there in our cozy kitchen. Maybe you're thinking, jeez, that's just a little gross. But every time I think of it, I grin. It was the perfect combination of things: dog as spiritual leader, brown-eyed baby girl, & a dollop of peanut butter placed strategically on her forehead.

In the summer, Che and I would go to the Delaware river and swim across to the New Jersey side. If I got tuckered out, I would grab a hold of his tail and he'd pull me along with ease to the sandy beach. He was my dog for almost fifteen years. Actually, he was more than a dog. Che had my back, as people like to say these days.

Now if I could just bury my face in his big, old, furry head.