Great, Now That I've Discovered This, I'm Leaving- Brilliant

We've discovered the joys of the public outdoor pool.
Oh yes, one might say, "Uh, gross- all those bodies and the hot sun overhead- sweat and germs- yuck!" To which I would reply, "Don't knock it til you've tried it, baby."
We ventured out to the Westside of our fair city to investigate the giant outdoor pool that is supposed to boast a long slow waterside, a mini water slide, a very long slow current and- gasp- A diving board and 12ft deep end. No way.
Oh it boasted it all for good reason- it's pretty fantastic!
Having spent the last eight years hearing that whistle at our community center and the yell "No diving!" from the life guards, we got used to the idea that no one allowed diving anymore. I remember diving in the deep end on a real diving board as a child but, alas, it wasn't to be for my children.
Then, we discovered this pool and sure enough- you can dive- for REAL on a REAL diving board. It is the new favorite thing to do and I look at the children and realize that now we have discovered it, we have to leave it behind as well.

So many new joys to be found in our new town but they are unseen and unknown so I can't dangle that carrot in front of them to let them know it will be fun there too. They are complacent for the most part about this whole move thing- except for the angry eldest who mourns the loss of his friends and community- all of it hard won with his golden heart. And the words "You'll make new friends." Is like saying "I'm sorry your dog of 8 years died, we'll get another one." As if something like that can be replaced. I can't think of anyone in my life who is replaceable.
And then there are the things to be done and seen.

But I think, "What have I not seen here? What else am I missing? What should I see before I leave??"
Then I contemplate what I have not seen over there- in that new place that will be our home. The house, for instance, I've never seen the house we will live in- though the tales of it are of epic proportion- "It is amazing. The energy, the architecture! Such character and charm and SO much work- every single room needs serious work- like years of work. But it will be amazing when it's done. Did I mention it was beautiful-- and needs a ton of work."
And I have no doubt that this is all true.
I have never seen the river nearby or the town - or towns for that matter. I have never seen the grocery store or met anyone who lives there.
So many unknowns. Aren't there always?

So, as I leave this place, the place of my familiar that has gone deep to root itself in my spirit- this region where I birthed my children- I think that perhaps the unknowns here will wait for another time- another life even.
But now, now it is time to take my children back to the places I was raised. The place I meant to raise them, where the earth I'm made of in so many ways, is.
And maybe, just maybe, we can walk with open minds and hearts into all the unknowns that await us there.

Of course, we will miss that lovely large outdoor public pool- but who wouldn't?

And Then Someone Farts

Yes, the most deliciously poetic moments can be shattered by the soft escape of a gas bubble. It doesn't matter what end it comes from. It just happens and all hell breaks loose.
A sleepy eyed child will cuddle up, sighing, "I love you, Momma." and close their eyes and let out a fart that puts fog horns to shame before bursting into crazy laughter.
Or we are playing a game or having one of those heart felt, come-to-Jesus moments and I think, "Wow, life is so beautiful and meaningful and deep and I am so blessed and lucky." - And one of the children will belch with the strength of a Greek God and the moment is shattered in a smattering explosion of gas. And I think, "And, apparently, I am supposed to remember that we are also so very human." Thank goodness.

To lend a head's up to an oncoming gust, my youngest has taken to saying, "Step on the gas-" and emitting a fart of one kind or another before giggling so hard she turns red. My little darling, eight years old, her sweet innocent face, framed with blonde hair and her eyes like upside down crescent moons when she laughs, suddenly channels Puck and looks wickedly delighted.
And I think, "Good lord. Does the Queen of England have to deal with this?" I try to look discouraging and put on a head mistress expression in the face of it but how do you stay serious with those delicious laughing faces beaming at you wondering why you can't just loosen up and laugh with them.
Then my husband grins like a third grader and I wonder how it came to be that the merest expulsion of gas can bring on such hilarity- I doubt it brought such reaction 100 years ago.
Of course they say "Excuse me" and "Pardon me" often with gravity-- but it is still held in utmost humor despite my efforts to make them more "proper" in their behaviors.

A new favorite topic is how we will make it all the way across the US with the dogs farting in the car with us the whole way.
"Oh god! We'll suffocate!" They say before giggling at the thought.
"We'll have to have all the windows down and the dogs will have to hang their butts out the window. What if it's so hot in the midwest that one of the farts catches on fire and our van has flames coming out of it like a rocket." Of course it might just blow back into the car and cause all our nose hairs to fall out and singe our eyebrows while slowly poisoning us-- there are so many options in this scenario.
All the while, the dogs are contented, not bothered by such things. They lift their heads at the giggles or when they hear their names and wait for the next meal before letting out a small sighing fart and rolling on to their backs.

They Were Paid to Learn Poetry

By the time I was in kindergarten I knew Emily Dickenson's "I Never Saw A Moor" poem (aka "Chartless") by heart as well as Robert Frost's "Road Less Travelled" and "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening". 

My grandmother, an accomplished poet herself, made sure that I was versed in poetry. Driving in her Subaru through winding roads in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I would repeat each line a thousand times, committing it to memory, my young mind soaking it up.

My children were read poetry but I neglected the memorizing part of it. When they attended Waldorf school for two years, they suddenly had poems flowing out of them - rhymes and verses. And suddenly my heart ached to have them reciting more and more:

"He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, 

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;"    

- The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

"On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot"     - The Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson

"It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul."  - Invictus by William Ernest Henley

I read the last stanza of Invictus in high school and promptly painted it on the wall in my bedroom so I could read it every day. I dreamed of old fashioned poetry readings at night with my children but life got busy and then busier and suddenly it seemed unattainable.

And then, my son surprised me by reciting a poem with such clarity and strength and such incredible memory that I actually teared up. His teacher told me that he was the one who carried the class in recitals of poetry and lines in plays and that he had an affinity for it that surprised her and I thanked my grandmother and grandfather for bringing that particular gift into the bloodline of our family.

So, my mother gave the children poems to learn and recite and she offered them a little money- $3 a poem upon recital. Since we always struggle financially, the children are always eager to earn a little cash and this was a win-win and they did beautifully.

One evening, we settled in and the children recited- Emily Dickenson, E.B White, Tennyson, Frost and many others having been given 5 poems each to learn months before. And then my son performed others that I had no idea he had learned and I sat on the edge of my seat and listened, wrapped by the force of the will in his words.

I wondered later why we had lost that- the gift of evenings full of reading out loud and poetry recitals. How our culture had bumped that off of the common evening activities list. Of how video games and movies and television are shaping the brains of our children instead of the words of books and poetry. Of how "OMG", "BFF" and "IMHO" have replaced our ability to speak clearly with full words and complete sentences and how we struggle at times to fill our words with meaning and beauty.

And I suddenly wished that I had spent more time caring about these things when the children were little. I wished that I had channeled my grandmother more and had them reciting poetry in the car. I wished that I had never forgotten the words to all the poems I had learned and that I had learned new ones. 

There is a void where they used to be, stanzas and lines coming to me on occasion but there is part of me that seems to be empty without a plethora of words to play with and revisit in my mind. 

Poetry does that- when you find the ones that speak to you, your life is richer and you have a secret joy as you run your tongue over the words like chocolates, tasting them and feeling the joy fill you up. 

Perhaps, I will make it my task to learn a new poem every few months, I have always loved The Forsaken Merman by Matthew Arnold. I would beg my mother to read over and over again to me because of the way she said, "Come dear, children, let us away, down and away below." 

Here's to honoring the magic of words and the way that magic can affect our culture, our world and our lives.

I'm Sorry, Did You Just Check Out My Daughter?

We were watching my niece run a 5k and enjoying the happy faces of runners of all ages - probably looking happy because it was still the beginning of the race so they weren't tired yet. I was smiling until I saw the boy, about fourteen, give a distinct "How you doin'" smile to someone standing just past me. When I turned, I realized that the look on his young handsome face was intended for my older daughter.
My initial instinct shocked me, I wanted to barrel him over like one of those football players you see on TV-- But that would have tripped the runners behind him- and they were innocent, after all. So that wouldn't be fair, would it? But I am not a total jerk and I saw that he was, after all, a young pup himself and I was sure in the beginning stages of his own adolescence.
I always said that I wouldn't be one of those parents- the kind that breathe down the necks of their daughter's boyfriends with suspicious eyes, while cleaning a shotgun. That was not me- is not me- I remember the embarrassment of my dating years and I was going to be the calm, educated, trusting mom- I was- I mean, am. Deep breaths.

I was going to be evolved, having educated my daughters by that point on the dangers of STDs, pregnancy, the preference for abstinence, proper condom use and the importance of true respect and a healthy relationship. I was going to rock that whole dating age thing with my kids. I mean- I am going to rock it. I hope.
Then, this young buck runs past, makes eyes at my daughter and I react like a momma bear. Way to be evolved.
"You know it's only going to get worse." My friends told me, "Your kids are lookers."
Thank you for the compliment - can you excuse me while I enroll them in ninja training classes and build a 200 foot tower in the backyard with no door and one window at the very top- they're going to need the fresh air after all.
Since the price of stone has gotten rather high since Rapunzel was around, I sought the advice of someone who has been there- someone with five daughters all of them lovely, intelligent and almost fully grown.
Her advice was simple, "I think it's time to move to a small town in a rural community." We laughed considering that is exactly what I am doing and she knew that. But she also has the ability to trust and I have got to work on that.

It is remarkably hard not to build that tower in the yard- especially since our new home has a nice plot of land. I can hear the conversation now:
"Yeah, we were going to build a barn but then our daughters started to turn into young women so the tower seemed more pertinent. Hold on a sec while I send this bucket of food up for them."
Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky. (that would be the sound of the pulley as the bucket goes up)
Then I look at these people who grew inside of my body (how odd that seems at times) and who they are, their strengths, their personalities, the way they hold themselves and I realize that I have to trust not just in the universe and their individual destinies but in them. Because as much as I think they are extensions of myself, they are not, they are themselves and have been and will always be and I am going to have to let go of the idea that I have even an iota of control over anything.

"Mom I need to tell you something, please don't be mad."

He was about ten or eleven when he said it. And, man, did he look nervous. He met my eyes- he usually does- and squared his shoulders.
I admit that I was worried. What would he need to say that would be pre-empted with "please don't be mad." Did he take something? Did he break something? Did he- GASP- eat all the CHOCOLATE!! But no- something else was eating at him.
He looked at me and said, "Look, Mom, I don't want you to be mad. Please. I, uh, I- uh-" He gulped and then, "I'm not gay- I like girls." He looked abashed.
I stared at him, "Why would I be mad?" I asked.
He shrugged, "I thought, maybe you were hoping I'd be gay and I was worried that you'd to be disappointed that I'm not."
I smiled, "Honey, I just want you to love who you love and know you are okay no matter which way you swing. We will still love you."
He nodded, "I'm glad you aren't disappointed."
I hugged him. "Be happy. Be who you are and be proud of it. Love women, love men- be authentic- be yourself."
"Okay. Now I don't want to talk about this anymore."
Yep. That's how he rolls- the truth, done and then let's not discuss this anymore.

I didn't know that I knew anyone who was gay growing up but, like most people, I did. I was shocked when I found out that I did and then intrigued but never, ever, repulsed or deterred in any way from being their friend- they were still who they were. Then I moved to this amazing city where you could be gay, straight, bi or transgender and people just are and it was what it was.
The children were surrounded by people unafraid of being who they were in their love and we meshed with hetero and homo sexual families. I admired that and was grateful that my children could see the diversity around them and know that as we grow into who we are (not that we ever stop becoming), we can be held in that love and not rejected or cast out because of the gender of who we bestow our affections and love upon.

Of course, this also meant that when he was about eight and we were visiting my mother and a whole pack of Harley's tore past her house loud and wild, he climbed up to the top of the fence and yelled, "LOOK, MOM!! IT'S THE DYKES ON BIKES!!" at the top of his lungs whooping with joy.
I turned to my wide-eyed mother, evolved and accepting but surprised as all hell and shrugged, "Gay Pride Parade- it makes an impression on a person."
Then I turned back to my son to explain that not all motorcycles are ridden by women proclaiming their right and pride to be who they are and love who they love. --Some of them are people just making noise and loving the way the wind whips at them as they speed along in freedom. And that, is okay too.
Be who you are, love who you are and know that your journey is just as important as the next person's. Respect the diversity that makes this world a rainbow of culture, color, tradition, sexuality, art, religion and belief and the world will know peace.

I don't know about you, but I want to help bring that peace as much as I possibly can.....

"Stop Sword Fighting in the Living Room" - And Other Things You Never Thought You'd Say

Uh, yeah- I've said that. Along with-
"Stop pretending the chickens are dragons- you're scaring them."
"Please don't lick the wool- you're twelve you should know better.- I think." (as I sniff it to see if there is something I'm missing).
"I'm going to have to give a big, giant 'No' to the idea of sneaking into a hotel just to use their pool- they wouldn't like that but the ninja outfit and ski mask are brilliant."
and,
"I don't know why princesses in fairy tales only marry princes and never other princesses, it is strange isn't it? We could rewrite a couple- good idea."

Oh yes, there are so many things I've said that I would never fathom having to say. The children seem to have retained open hearts just by the surroundings they were raised in and I can't take the credit for that- there are so many other factors- our city, our friends, our family, our pets, our neighborhood- it's a ripple effect.
The swords were made by their father who carefully thought of each child before embarking on the journey of each wooden creation. Then, of course there are the bows and arrows, the tools of Robin Hood and his merry band- of course all the children are Robin or his sister in their play.
These tools have been loved and used and I still have to say, "Put the sword down."
"Don't shoot arrows in the house."
"Wands are not for poking people."
and "No unforgivable curses!"
Even now they get so far into their roles as knights and warrior princesses and princes that they are completely immersed in another world-- and they are teenagers and tweens- except for the littlest who is on the brink of double digits- but not until next year. Pretend play is still intact and real for them and with that simple reality, things become that much more magical.

These are the gifts, these are the joys- of raising children - human beings that are always becoming.

So- About That Safety Net Thing

Yeah, that whole issue of health issuance and dental insurance has been weighing on me- like so many others who find it hard to come by or taken away.
We will have it some way or another but I started to really think about it. Why am I, in particular, so stressed about it? What is it? Can I break it down far enough to really understand what is going on deep below the surface of my own mind and heart?
It's sort of like a layer of asphalt that once in a while lifts up and you see that below there is this strange hole in the earth and light is radiating from it and then the asphalt slaps back down on it, paving right over the truth you caught a glimpse of. Well, at least that's what it always looks like to me.
That truth is that I found myself terrified of being in charge of my own health. When I picked apart this issue that was weighing on me, I discovered that of course, years and years ago, humankind did not have health insurance. We had healers and doctors but we didn't have that safety net. People paid out of pocket with cash or animals or trade of some kind. Or they didn't. Many people died. Many people lived. It continues to this day but this idea that health and life and illness are a business with go betweens and all these complicated processes-- And not a right-- is odd the more I think of it. It was always odd but the more I think of it, the more odd it becomes like when you say the same word over and over again and suddenly it is not familiar but foreign and strange and you wonder whether you have the right word.
But beyond that, what I stumbled upon was the fear that I held in myself of my own health and how I felt so detached from it, as if going to the doctor had given the responsibility of my health over to someone else and it was no longer on my to do list.

My mother in law is remarkable and the thing that gets me the most is that she is so very aware of who she is in her body- a trait that I admire highly since I feel so strange in this body so many times. And that strangeness becomes a fear of what my body can and will do without my permission. Chalk it up to an earth sign issue but it's true.
For me the idea that I would be the sole party responsible for this body, is overwhelming and yet, --it has always been this way even if I refuse to admit it. When the children were tiny, I used my knowledge of herbs and homeopathy to tend their ailments. Pink eye was rampant and with careful diligence we had it treated and gone within a couple days and I was not afraid. Then we got rockstar health insurance and suddenly I handed it over to someone else. Someone with vast knowledge of ailments and treatment there of. But I also handed over any knowledge I had of my body as something that was mine or the bodies of my children. I transferred ownership but kept my tenancy. How silly.

Now, I find myself journeying back and remember that I must read the copper bracelet that matches my mother's every day that reads "Sapere Aude" - "Dare to be wise."
I am the only one who can truly know my body and I must teach this to my children so that we can care for the remarkable tools that these bodies of ours are. What if my safety net is just the illusion that I suspect it to be? And what if that is what I must make peace with?