the party: the ordinary and the breathtaking

My little family of five, plus Maggie-the-dog, stayed at my mom’s house this past weekend.  We moved our bags of laundry, noise machines for sleeping, bedtime books and favorite sleep mates, along with what felt like the contents of our entire fridge and pantry to her house for not even 48 hours. (Yes, it is amazing how much we pack, and it is basically the same as if we were staying for a week).  My mom was headed out of town; she sleeps in peace knowing that her house, and her dog, are in good hands.  This forces our hands in some ways: the pause button is set on the never ending house projects, the guilt for sitting a moment in the sunshine is assuaged.  Being in someone else’s space in this way imposes rest.

We are standing still.  We have planted our feet down into warm plastic pools, into soil with earthen vegetables stretching high, into grass that tickles the ankles, and creeks that numb them.  I see this summer as I remember my childhood summers: dramatic in its expanse, a respite from the grind, daily or otherwise.  It’s easy to feel a bit wistful as friends discuss plans: to the beach, the lake, the mountains – anywhere but here! It’s tempting to feel as though everyone is going to some grand party, and my invitation is lost in the mail.  But then I remember what is true: here is exactly where I want to be.  Sometimes the best parties are the ordinary ones, impromptu ones with no awkward cocktail hour making small talk with people I don’t know.  Ones that require no proper footwear, and take place in my own back yard.  Sometimes it is fun to live out those larger-than-life dreams, but I’m learning the splendor of smallness, of what is right beneath my nose.

I had one of these ordinary parties this weekend: a moment where I knew that I was invited to this moment in its fullness. It was time to pack up our station wagon and head home, for no other reason than we weren’t needed at my mom’s anymore.  The bigger Little Ones were snoozing in the early afternoon heat, worn out from the endless frolic in cold hose water under the watchful sun.  Mark carries the Littlest, who has just discovered that his arms are useful for reaching and those little hands are perfect for grabbing.  Together we quietly wake the sleeping babes. I open the blinds, let the shifting sunlight flood back into the bedroom.  Mark sets the Littlest in bed with his siblings.  This, our family of five, with arms wrapping each other up, legs tangled with legs – the Middlest climbs over Mark’s shoulders, the Eldest fights off the pinch of the Littlest on his nose.  Again, for a minute, all these bodies connected, touching, the same blood running through us all – I see this reminder of how it all began.  For a moment it all felt too much: the ordinary wrapped up with the altogether extraordinary.  My chest felt too tight, my brain unable to compute.  This is the party that I will never say no to.

And just as fast as that moment began, it ended.  Someone needs to go to the bathroom, the Littlest cries to be held.  The dog barks to go out, and we move forward loading the car with our bags and pillows.  But in that bedroom time stood still long enough for me to know what was happening.

There is a quote I’ve seen, especially through graduation cards and toasts:  ”Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”  I’ve always thought that this was referring to the big, the grand. I thought that it was talking about those moments that are rare, once-in-a-lifetime: standing at edge of the Grand Canyon, saying “I do” with the rest of your life, holding a child for the first time.  And yes, of course those are breathtaking moments.  But I think more than that it is talking about those small moments, like the one I had in the bedroom, that are ordinary.  These moments probably happen everyday, if I’m wise enough to notice them.  It is these moments of breathtaking: not the Grand Canyon, but the grass in my backyard, the daisies growing in the garden.  Not the big wedding, but the teamwork of washing dishes – you rinse, I’ll dry.  Not the birth of that child, but the silly song he made up at bath time, and how at dinner he tells you that he loves you.  I am convinced it is these moments that will be the measure of my life.

Sometimes that feels too hard, too big, too much pressure.  If what I’m saying is true – that these ordinary moments of this regular day really are the building blocks of something much greater – then every moment becomes almost too much to bear.  And I think that is where the grace is.  Because these moments are given to us countless times a day. If I missed one this morning, it’s okay, because I just need to be ready for my invitation to the party this afternoon.  This afternoon, I’m turning the music up loud, and we are going to party.

 

winter and weekends and worlds of white

My emotional pendulum tends towards bluesy-ness in the deeper days of winter. Touting my own self-awareness, I have always allowed my self to lean into it, not fight what feels so natural in the world around me.  A glimpse out the window reveals tall trees, darkly silhouetted against an often steel-grey sky, each individual tree set apart from the cluster of trees; the forsest that seems so integral in summer.  So, too, I feel individuated, alone; narrow and darkened.

This year, too, for added measure, I have a cascade of chemicals in my body as I live in this postpartum time.  Add to these things the swath of winter illness in our community.  My intense need is to cover my Littles with these mama wings, thinking I can offer some sort of inoculation.  This could be a perfect storm for my brewing melancholy to dive to deeper depths of blue.  We’ve chosen isolation, mostly, because I am fearful to expose the Littlest to much of the world just yet, and while, with the tendrils of our own hearts, we have woven a tapestry of this new version of our family, I am still missing my larger tribe. I am choosing to stand alone, guarded tall and strong, but can’t help and yearn for deeper community, too. Living this tension of my own creation, I, like those trees, am reaching skyward alone in this season.

Which is also why this weekend, so simple in its form, was so good for my heart.  I have taken to not making calendar plans for these days, and have found freedom in following our own rhythm instead.  Snow pitter-pattered down around our house, making the outside world glisten a bit like a storybook tale.  Still tightly tethered to the Littlest, I decline the snow adventure, though never fear!  Daddy to save the day!  Ever watchful from my perch, I witness the joys of winter play. Snowmen, snow angels, snowball fights, drippy snotty noses, mud thick on their boots as the snow became rain (and then back to snow again).  Most of all, though, it was the brightness which delighted me.  The sunshine, multiplied exponentially because of the snow, cut a path through the dust into my family room, and I followed that path around the room all morning, turning my face towards the warmth.  My cheeks were tugged in the crescent of a deep smile that I couldn’t deny.  Thankful, oh-so-thankful for the swath of sunlight.

It was the simple company of my family-folk, little else to do but fold laundry, and build cities, and make paintings, and read stories, and take baths, and dig our roots deep.  The weekend was time carved out to bless my soul, strengthening me for other dark days to come.

Winter has it’s purpose.  I know that Spring will soon be upon us, and those dark and lonely trees will sprout out tender little buds.  I know, too, that this Littlest one gets stronger by the day, and soon I needn’t worry so much about his shelter.  My greater tribe will still be there, continuing to march out the paces of life, and we will come alongside again, matching our footfalls to theirs.  My tree-like limbs will grow strong again and leaf out to create the dense familiar green forest of summer.

 

reflections: upon one week

Fastest week of my life, really.  It seems as though with each subsequent child the tide of life pulls stronger and I can’t seem to shore myself, or my family, up against it.  Already, he has been ours for a week, and I look back and think, where did this time go?  Our week was pock-marked with doctors appointments and preschool drop-offs; introductions and games of Candyland. When there was just one newborn, settling in at home seemed like a timeless eternity, marked not by the numbers on the clock or the days of the calendar, but instead of moments, edged blurred, of nursing, and sleeping; of reheating the coffee and dozing on the couch.  That was a gift I didn’t realize at the time.  Because, really, the bigger kids, though in transition, too, still need meals: three square.  And bedtimes.  And someone to be awake with them in the morning, to play, to read, to snuggle.

And this just makes things go by too fast.

Mark is back to work today.  And I grieved, last night, I did.  I mourned the end of our family nesting time.  I welled up, full of hormones and melancholy.  It’s not that I’m fearful, or anxious.  I’m not overwhelmed, mostly.  I know that we’ll survive these days, and I’m watching deep growth in our family in ways unexpected.  But we won’t ever get back this first week.  The world around us demands that we fall back into line, get back to the grind.  Of course, our budget demands it also, and so we send him off today. My body tells me to be slow, easy, and my psyche echos this pull.  And I have to believe that his paternal instinct tells him the same.  So, though today is hard for me, it is hard for him, too.  I know that he, too, is grieving this.  This.

And as in all things, this is a time of balance.  Balance between newborn needs and bigger kid needs.  Balance between my needs and the needs of the house, the home.  Balancing standards, balancing expectations.  And balance only comes after unbalance – tipping the scales, setting them right again.  I’m especially finding difficulty in balancing this intense call I have to do little else than hold a new babe against my breast, and the sense that the bigger kids might benefit from a return to normal way sooner than I am ready.  The Eldest has school, and I’ve been flexible with him, letting him choose when he wants to go and when he would rather stay home.  Not surprisingly, he has missed his friends and the structure of these days.  Me?  I’d rather have him here with me.

There is an ebb and a flow to this time; a changing rhythm.  Smaller movements, slow and still, but it’s rhythm all the same. Maybe this is why I’m drawn to winter babes:  it is bracingly cold outside; there is no rush to change out of our pajamas to have grand adventures out in the world.  Instead of the daily or even seasonal beats to which we often march, the rhythm I’m tuned to now is the pulse of my heart, inside my body and out.

pause

It is so easy to want to speed things up right now.  I’m living in the anxious limbo of baby-almost-here.  But I am constantly engaging in this self-talk of slowing down, pausing, to remember these moments.  I’m not sure if I’ll be pregnant again; I want to remember what this feels like.  Every squeeze in my belly, every swift kick to my ribs is a reminder of this miracle that I am chosen to be part of.  I’m not sure when The Littlest will sit in my lap and rock, as The Littlest.  I want to remember her body in it’s perceived smallness, because I know she will appear giant the moment she meets her new brother.  There is chaos in this swirling time: coming down from the intensity of the holidays, filtering through all the indulgences that came with them; honoring this nesting instinct (which at times has felt more like a panic!); bridging the gap between family of four and family of five.  Within this chaos, I’m choosing to pause; to know the peace that is mine for the taking, the peace that I can give to my Little Ones.  Instead of speeding up, let’s slow it down.

Our house is a little up-ended.  We’ve scurried around, putting away Christmas decorations in a hurry, not knowing when I’d get to them if left a bit longer to linger in the sacred space of the twelve days.  We also needed to make room (a theme for us, always) — all of our bedroom furniture had to be moved out of our bedroom for new carpet to be laid, in an attempt to make our room a little more warm and cozy for a newborn.  It’s not like we have anywhere extra for this stuff to go, so piles of books, laundry baskets, dressers and yes, our bed, landed in the family room.  For one night, we experienced what it might have felt like to our ancestors, as our living space doubled as sleeping quarters, too.  Though our house can often feel teeny-tiny, I’m thankful for the bedroom that we do have.  And after ripping up lots of carpet in our many houses, swearing we’d never put intentionally choose it, I am thankful for the thick padded warmth and the degree or two it will add to our chilly bedroom above the garage.  While the timing of this project, of course, has added another dimension of crazy to these days, it has also encouraged it’s own sort of pause.  Pause to take stock at the stuff I’ve been moving around: the books, the journals, the nick-knacks, the baskets, the clothes. A nesting purge has settled over this room now, and we continue to make room.

There is lots more to be done in order to feel prepared.  But I know that this baby cares not if my clothes are folded and put away, if the kitchen is mopped.  This baby will care for little else than a warm, tender breast and arms to sleep in.  This is what I love about newborns: they are so simple!  He will have clean blankets, clean clothes, fresh diapers.  He will have his family to love and adore him.  And that is all that he will need, for a while.  This is another reminder for me to pause, and lavish the Little Ones that are here now with the extra that I have to give, now.

Instead of wearily living in the anxiety of the question mark of time, I’m going to emphatically say “yes” to today.  Yes, let’s sit on the floor doing puzzles!  Yes, let’s read another book!  Yes, I want to play play-doh with you!  Because today I can.  And today, I’m pausing to do it. I will answer to Wendy, and call you, oh Littlest, Bob, all day, lest I forget.  (Though this is where any similiarity between Bob the Builder and her imaginative play ends).  I will thoughtfully answer the questions that the inquisitive Eldest throws at me, even if it means having to search with him for an answer.  I will lay my hand on my belly, forever imprinting that squeeze, this stretch, in my brain, and bite hard my tongue when I want to complain of the back ache and indigestion.  I will pause, and rest, too, so that I can have it all to give when the time is ready.

 

November’s Call: on seasons, ritual and hibernation

It is with a sigh, of relief, almost, or more accurately surrender, which I see this November sky.  It is familiar: gray and haunting, threatening snow from the formless clouds, curlicues of wind blowing crunchy leaves skyward.  This makes more sense.  Yesterday’s rain storm brought down what was left of October’s regal color: hues of burnt sienna traded for shadows of heather gray. This is the weather that, though I don’t long for, I do sink into because it is just so November.  Unlike the days we’ve had recently, full of sunshiney surprises.  But the truth is that I need these authentic November days to remind me of where we are.  This sky acts as a compass, pointing me away from October’s harvest, towards November’s feast.

We’ve turned our clocks back, tucked into the darkness as it creeps closer to our living space.  In college, once that change took place we would even eat our dinner meal earlier, longing for the shelter of the warm dorm against the blistering reality of winter in upstate New York, swapping clothes for PJs, microwaving  hot chocolate to nestle in for studying.  There is something about the gray, the dark, the barrenness of this landscape, that feels like a natural reprieve: a calling towards hibernation.  I, for one, am thankful for the call to stillness, especially to ready myself for the jubilation of the holidays.

There is rhythm to the seasons, ritual that has been integrated in the lives of generations past, as we mimic this change.  It is one thing that I yearn to teach my little ones: the sacredness of each season.  The new growth and promise of Spring means little without the desolate underbelly of a dark Winter.  The harvest celebrated throughout Fall is not possible without the sweat-drenched long days of Summer.  Though our lives are more about this metaphoric rhythm than the literal dependence of previous generations, I feel it is still important to stay connected to these rituals.

This sense of rhythm, of ritual, of time moving forward but with repitition and familiarity, is something that I want to incorporate in our family life.  I want my Little Ones to be influenced, as I am, by the movement of the sun, the moon, the earth around its axis.  I want them to know this air to feel different in their lungs, recognize it’s perfume in their noses.  Just like I crave this hibernation and stillness in these November moments, I want to give this gift of season to my Little Ones.  I want them to feel freedom in the unfettered glory of sitting before a fireplace and peace in those places where only piles of books in pajamas will suffice.  I want them to know the way a mug of hot tea feels on these cool days, just like a cold lemonade quenches July’s blistering heat.  I want them to lean into the full days in the kitchen baking up pumpkins and apples, knowing that it will one day, not too long from now, be time again to return to the simple meals of grilling outside.

Of course, the school calendar and curriculum dictates some of this seasonality, and the commerical consumerism we see every where supposedly taps into some sort of change.  And it is easy to see one day bleed into the next, and forget to even notice the changes until all of a sudden it’s dark at 4:30pm and we have a long list of Christmas goodies to shop for.  I guess that is why I so strongly want to root myself in what I feel is more natural: to choose our own rhythm and ritual, to emphasize what we already hold sacred instead of glumly swallowing the mock values around us.  It takes intent: to choose how we see this season, how we live into this Fall, this Winter.

I will put on my pajamas after dinner tonight — a dinner, set with candles,  a bit earlier than our summer meals.