One Step Ahead of Me

I read two books pretty regularly to my children. Both are versions of folk tales from Africa.

Mama Panya’s Pancakes, written by Mary and Rich Chamberlin and illustrated by Julia Cairns, is one of Ella’s favorites. Sometimes the text is too long for two creatures under four years of age, so I shorten it. Some days, the kids are so settled in that we read every word of every page, long and slow. We learn a little about Kenya and new words for everyday concepts.

 Song of the Boat, written by Lorenz Graham and illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon, is one that I have had for at least ten years. I found it and picked it up in anticipation of having children someday. And I loved the print illustrations. I really love the West African folk speech, and its poetry and music, in this one.

My favorite thing about both of these books is that the child is portrayed as the guide. Both children walk ahead of the mother or the father on a journey. They offer some bit of knowing to their parent that isn’t entirely evident to adult eyes or heart, due to responsibilities or life trials.

Twenty years ago, my first real job was as an assistant at an outdoor children’s art workshop. I’ve met some of the children, now grown, in random community gatherings through the years. I remember them, tiny like my children are now, standing with an adult t-shirt over their tiny frames as a paint smock, waiting for me to change their paper or bring them new tempera paint that they then would splash with total love all over their blank canvases. I remember them drinking out of a green water hose that lay on the grass and ran into the garden that bordered the workshop space. The deep joy and connection with children there has never left me.

And, as a mama now, I would heartily agree and give thanks for the truth that most every day, both of my children are, at least, one step ahead of me.

Sharpie Bloom

Written back in October of 2004.

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What feeds us and keeps us moving, ready, adapting and giving? Food is useful – food that is nutritious and not just comforting. Something that is food in my world is a cup. Not just a cup, but a cup full of pens. Not just any old collection of pens, but a clean collection of fresh Sharpies. I have a cup full of Sharpies on my desk. Only Sharpie pens are in that cup. A yellow highlighter made its way in thinking it was a Sharpie, wishing it was a Sharpie. It has been returned to the cup with the other black pens and a pair of scissors. 

When I was a six and seven year old child, I would sit at a counter on a tall stool in my grandparents’ Victorian house in Rexford, New York and draw with Sharpies. Their colorful caps leapt out of the cup on the counter like a blooming flower and a beacon, almost alive. That counter was like an altar. It denoted the beginning of the kitchen and the end of the hallway. The hallway led one way to the old parlor and the dining room which were always a little dark and cool and musty. It led the other direction to the kitchen – the warm heart – and the screen door that led to the patio and would often swing open to frame my grandfather as he returned from a vital Danish gathering errand right before breakfast.

 My cousin Claude, “Bear” to me and all who know him, and I would sit at the counter and draw on blank pieces of paper. Five years older than I, he created amazing illustrations that were inspiring to my young aspiring artist self. He used the black Sharpie a lot and created intricate mazes and scenes. He was really into Star Wars at the time. I don’t remember all of the things that I drew – but my pages weren’t as packed-in as his. Mine were more covered in shapes, lines, faces, trees and my own invention of birds created from the letter “M”. My cousin was always drawing – in a wingback chair in the sitting room, at a counter, outside on the patio. It was a kindred connection of ours. It is one of my favorite memories.

 I feel good when there is a cupful of Sharpies around. It is far more reassuring and quenching than many things that I can think of.

 And so, I would like to thank the creator of the Sharpie pen. Gathered together in a bunch, in a cup close at hand, they are a beautiful element of the universe. They will always have a place on my desk and especially on any counter tops frequented by those of the child persuasion.

*

Addendum in 2009: I still feel the same, though I would change one element of this perspective – and that would be that the bright yellow highlighter pen is welcome to migrate in, as are other pens, pencils and even a pair of scissors. Welcome to the cup. Let’s play.

In All, For All, Down Deep, Ripples Out

In Emptiness, Love

I remember reading once about a marriage ceremony that involved the couple sitting in silence, facing one another in silent witness and prayer.

A union of two, in silence. And the witnesses to those two, silent as well.

I think that this is one of the most beautiful ideas.

Today

Today was simply one of the most wonderful and alive days ever.

My children and I were able to see several adult and children friends that are important to us. We were able to be outside a bit. We were able to run, jump, leap, balance, tumble, hang, bounce and swing plenty. We ate vegetables, and also noodles that are for some reason shaped like tiny radiators. We got hot, then were able to get cool. We drank clean, cool water often. We laughed spontaneously several times. One of us at one point even blew water out of our nose.

We washed, we got dirty, we washed again. A kick and a shove here or there occurred, a verbal outburst regarding personal space and toy ownership, and some crying and whimpering here and there. A few apologies were made, several hugs shared, selves laughed at, and a joke made about something that made absolutely no sense at all, whatsoever.

Naps were taken. Books were read. A bit of make-believe with objects and imaginations. Thoughtfulness exhibited several gorgeous times.

A healthy balance seemed to have been achieved between the tasks that made us feel strong, useful, helpful and capable and the things that made us feel super excited, giddy and straight-up happy. And the snuggling intermittently throughout all of it, the kisses had on the noses, and the several “I Love You SO Much”es were simply just good, good mojo.

I like that kind of day, I tell you. I do.

Advantage

I like this word. It speaks about viewpoint. Something we all have, no matter our station, a choice in crafting. Really, we do.

What if my view is of a cement wall. Brown, or grey perhaps. Solid, flat, cold, perhaps. Well, then, I can have several different viewpoints. I can choose to be pissed that I’m looking at a wall. I can sing out to others who might be near me. What do they see? I can choose to turn my view inward for a spell. I can choose to manifest an enormous creative imagination that builds a window in the wall, a mural, a doorway with an unlocked handle. I can move myself in space, and find that an opening in the wall is nearer than I’d thought, and hark, some stairs seem to be carved into the side that lead…

What if my view is the valley after a long, strong hike up the mountainside? I could be pissed that I had to hike up that mountainside and hell was that hard and geezus there’s no one up here! I can sit, tangy-sweet orange in hand, with the viewpoint of advantage. Advantage of breadth of scope. Advantage of having just exerted myself and attained a certain energy and joy from that. Advantage of knowing what is possible with initiative. I can lie back on the grass and feel late summer sun drench my limbs and watch wide sky move free.

Gratitude and adding to a sense of possibility for our selves seems to work better, most days. I believe we all have wonderful power, who ever, where ever, we are. Really, we do.

It can be a matter of choice. Creativity. Valuing in one’s self what perhaps has not been valued by others – but valuing it nonetheless. We always, always, have this choice. And in so remembering this, we create something new, for ourselves and others, advantage out of disadvantage. Really, we do.

Pause

Thinking about the nature of loving.

I believe that is all I will say about that.

No offense. Music is best right now.

And typing, well, it can wait a bit. The rain has washed the night, my key-clicks offend the peace. And I am off to remember how to sleep like a child, with dreams.

Back on the Bike

It’s been too long. And so this morning’s ride felt so good. The first mountain bike ride in a few years, a mellow loop close to home, around the hillside, up the canyon and back down again. Glee.

Last night I washed the bike. A bike that a close friend passed along to me recently. A red bike.

“It’s a hard tail, you sure you’re OK with that?” she said.

“I’m a bit of a hard tail myself,” I said.

A year ago, I sold my previous mountain bike to someone, and with the money bought a super neat older cruiser commuter bike. I rode it through the streets of Missoula, over the river and back again, for a year. I towed my two toddlers in the bike cart with it. Rode it through transitions that might have broken me, but for the motion through space on my bicycle. I recently sold that bicycle to a young woman just starting her graduate studies. I told her it had a lot of great empowerment and fresh-start energy. She said she understood.

So, last night, I washed my “new” red mountain bike. My three-year-old daughter helped me rinse it, pouring warm water from a reused yogurt container over the back tire and spokes. I cleaned and oiled the chain. I adjusted the seat’s angle. My nearly two-year-old son helped me “fix” the back wheel while I adjusted the handlebar’s angle.

This morning, as I headed up the canyon, I stopped several times to adjust pedals. Later on along the trail, I stopped, moved my bike off the trail into a thick bed of hot Ponderosa pine needles and adjusted the position of the brakes. Because I could. I had a tool. And, I had the time. Without my children for a couple of days, while they enjoy total immersion with their dad and his extended family, I suddenly was able to get on my bicycle in the cool morning and ride up far into a canyon, follow a crooked trail, breathe hot pine needle air and listen to the distinctive sound of my tires on a dirt path. Alone.

I just got ready, and went.

I remembered the trail as I climbed, as I had ridden it, and ones surrounding it, twelve years ago. I said that out-loud to another cyclist I met briefly as we stopped at a trail intersection. I couldn’t believe it – twelve years. But I felt just the same. A little less aggressive on my bike, but still so happy to ride up strong, find a trail head that pleased me and sing a little while I rode.

As I descended (have I mentioned the scent of hot pine needles), I remembered my body’s stance and how to lean back to properly balance myself with my skittering back tire. I remembered how to shift and use my gears and my pedal cadence efficiently as I dipped and climbed. I was shy of the hairpin turns amidst roots and rocks, and said outloud to myself as I dismounted for the corners, “That’s alright, next time you’ll take ‘em.”

And when I emerged from the forest’s edge into the wide, dry August-brown meadows, I felt more than saw the purple thistle flowers at ankle height along the trail and hoppers flew as I opened up and pedaled hard into open space.

I rode toward my home, just around that next bend, and remembered how much I love to play.

Thank you, new bike. And mountains, pine trees (for your fragrant-when-warm needles), crooked trail and willing self.

Pretty Things

Lately, my three-year-old daughter has been bringing me things and telling me she wants to find certain things for me. She makes special tea and brings it to me in the tiny blue tin cup that I bought for her at a favorite coffee house. She says things like, “Mama, let me pick out what dress you should wear today,” and as she does says, “I think this one is pretty on you, Mama.” She even says that I need to get some new flowery underwear like she has. I think she is on to something.

In survival mode, certain sweetnesses and pretty things might go by the wayside. In times of stress or adjustment, we often pack the essentials, or make do with what we have at hand. Sure, this can be sweet in its own way – and empowering – like those many stories about the children who are lost and find trinkets and things to make their life in a boxcar. Or the girl in the book Island of the Blue Dolphins who learns how to live within a foreign ecosystem, alone, when she is left behind.

These were some of my favorite books as a child. I don’t know many women, or men for that matter, who didn’t love those tales. Might be the kind of folks I tend to know, but it is also that these tales about surviving and making something out of nothing are just plain useful. As stories tend to be. The tales that show us how to use our mind, body and soul to solve a problem. These are still necessary tales, even at the age of 35.

But I must say, for all of those tales, and the stalwart and steely ladies that I so admire ~ I also very much like that my daughter is suggesting that I wear pink and flowers and pretty things more often.

I think she, the intelligent and strong diva that she already is, is on to something. And it is, to my heart, very, very useful.

 

Miles Between

I recently paid a long-awaited visit to my friends southwest of here. I used to live in that region years ago, and the drive brought back memories. What most strongly I remembered was how vividly in love with the landscape, and weather that moves over it, I am. Straight-forward, full-on. As I drive between Missoula and Paradise Valley, silent but for the voices of my two children in the back seat, I feel, simply, in love. I won’t try to explain it any more than that, it is simply complete, and accompanied by the most expansive gratitude.

Several rain storms washed us on our trip down and on our return. In both directions, the phrase, “fertile green tongues and blue storm sky peaks” made its way to my mouth. We moved from “city” living through ranch land – cattle, horses, mined hillsides and idling diesels at an A&W near the old state prison – to more gatherings of townships with railroad tracks and wind. Open land and moving sky. I told my daughter about the rivers we crossed – one shared the name of her friend, the other was the same that flowed through our town.

The visit was in contrast not about expanse, but about home and the familiarities of friends who are family. Our time there was about our children playing for hours, on happy, repetitive circuits through the house, visiting us like hummingbirds to announce the next stage of a game. It was about baby dolls, bird houses, bicycles and hobby horses.

And it was also about remembering the first and simplest connection. With the small ones safely in the care of a sitter, my friend and I were able to walk out away from the house and talk uninterrupted , and savor the taste of our food and our wine. Not unlike our daughters racing with faerie dresses and wild-haired on the trampoline, we were, even if so briefly, in a universe of kindred play – or at least remembering bits of it. To walk and talk about whatever came to mind, to be singular in our selves and able to listen to the other’s story – we needed this like our children needed us so many moments of every day.

As I return to my dwelling back in a different town, I remember how easy it felt when we were all together, separated by just a half-yard and a path of circles in the grass. Easy with the children, easy with the knowledge of loving arms and friends close at hand. I’m grateful for a few reminders I received. It’s all evolving. Perpetual. Like that geography sweeping northwest to southwest and back again. There really aren’t that many miles, after all, between.