the creek

I can barely see my toes inching out underneath my gaze full of baby limbs and breath.  It’s not all that different from the bulgy baby belly that I wore last year, but this summer I wear this babe, who wraps his arms around my body, on the outside.  I may not be able to see my toes exactly, but when they finally reach the creek water, I know it instantly.  It shocks my feet into feeling, and my initial reaction is to pull up, step back to the pebbles on the bank.  But I go forward again. The rubber of my flips flops cools. I brace for it.  Of course, that second time doesn’t jar so much and I pause my feet longer in the water.  The arches of my feet relax and I release my breath, allowing myself to feel the relief in this hot day.

I am at the creek that runs behind my mother’s house, the house where I grew up.  It meanders it’s way through the nature conservancy that I was lucky enough to have in my backyard.  These pebbled crusted mud banks were my playground. This chilled water was my sea; the banks on the other side my faraway lands.  Today, as so often I am inclined to do in this squelching summer heat, I gather up the Little Ones, push forward with nothing but the promise of reprieve calling us creekward.

The beauty is not lost on them.  They find wonder in all the smallness, and are awestruck with all the bigness.  The cold water is just another part of the creek’s deliciousness for them.  They dash in and out without hesitation.  I wonder when it is that I stopped being so numb to it, became timid at it’s edge.  I take note to remember this tenacity that I see in them.

Our collection grows: piles of sticks in various sizes, in differing stages of decomposition.  Rocks with smooth weightiness, pebbles with jagged edges that remind me of teeth.  Always a piece of glass or two, a jolting artifact that seems uncharacteristically out of place, reminding us of the world that seeps in on either side.  Our treasure hunt stretches out as indefinitely as our time playing here.  Has it been fifteen minutes? Or two hours?  Under this tree canopy, I am uncertain of time’s harsh constraints.

The sun streaks gloriously through the trees, leaving mottled shadow pictures on the surface of the water that dance as both the creek and the trees move in rhythm.  I hang back, witness the confident steps of independence from the Eldest. He proves his meddle and charges his sister onward into the unpredictable current away from the safety of the edge.  He tells me strongly “I’m not worried about the creek, Mama.”  In his world of anxiety and impotence, I am thankful for a place that, though not under his domain, is somewhere he can experience mastery and peace.  And it becomes my peace, too.

The Middlest, in all her gatherer glory, is chasing after a rock deep under the surface of the water.  Those shadow pictures dance and deceive, and all it is is one faulty step too many toward the edge of our sand bar. She looses her bearing and the mud sucks her down.  She is on her belly, swimming more fully than she had intended, gulping that brisk water.  She comes up wailing, though no worse for the wear, and we praise her brilliance, her pluck, her strength.  The rock is lost.  Her hiccuping tears wane, and later she again treads out to that very spot.  She wears her insecurity visibly, but with her bravery, too.

At some point I nestle myself and the Littlest onto the pebbles, and he hungrily grasps at my shirt, my neck until I can satisfy him.  It may just be the oxytocin as I pull him in to my bosom, but I feel overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment.  I listen to the chickadee whistle out “cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger.” I follow the path of a white butterfly as it darts from this side of the creek to the other, lighting on the tall grass, stopping to rest on a branch before traveling back again.  The squeals from upstream as my mother and her dog chase the Little Ones in great big splashes turns the edges of my mouth up in their harmony. I suck in the earthy mud smell deep into my nose, down into my throat.  The warm breeze tickles at my skin, and I feel enveloped as it seeps around my body and into my creases.  Even the far off sound of the highway seems magical in this moment, a hum almost like distant chanting.

The sun is falling behind the trees now, and the cold of the water is finally settling into our bones.  Without the sun’s warmth, the teeth have been set chattering, and we reluctantly rinse the creek dirt from our hands, our feet. We hold hands, and with great remembrances already, slodge our way down the worn path back to the house.  My brain gets a little stuck, because I can’t quite seem to tease out this miracle of time: these are my Little Ones, telling their story, but it is such a familiar one I can’t understand that it isn’t mine.

thankful tuesday: sleep edition

Today I’m linking up with Micha Boyett of Mama:Monk fame to share in the work of spreading gratitude.  Won’t you join us? 

My sanity is oh-so-terribly linked with my sleep.  I’m one grouchy mama when I’m in that daze of sleep deprivation.  Three kids in to this whole gig, and I’ve learned how to function on so much less sleep than I was used to before.  When the Littlest was born, the usual chit chat always turned to sleep: “So, you must be tired?” Let me tell you, I’ve been tired for going on five years now.  That’s nothing new; it just comes with the territory.  My kids are not the greatest sleepers.  They are yet to understand the grace of a good ol’ nap.

But.  These past few months have really darkened the circles under my eyes.  It’s just been a combination of factors, not the least which is my own inability to sleep when I should be sleeping, or the Littlest who just loves to be held.  Or the Four year old who worries, lots.  Or the two year old who wants to run, run, run forever.  You get the picture.

So it is with the greatest gratitude, the highest praises of thanksgiving that I can say for two nights in a row, now, I have slept at least four hours straight.  That’s right, folks.  And I feel like a new woman.  I am thankful that for four days in a row the bigger Little Ones have successfully shared a room (this has been a long time comin’).  I am thankful that because of this, the “baby” room has been freed up, and the Littlest slept in his crib for the first time, two nights ago.  It could be complete and absolute coincidence (though I think not) but as soon as he was rocked and nursed to sleep in a dark and quiet room, and then snoring peacefully in this room all to himself, that he had the best night’s sleep he has had yet.  Let me tell you: for this I am thankful.  (Just this past weekend he had been up every two hours). I am thankful for Mark, who so faithfully parents through the night with me.  He changes every diaper that needs tending in the middle of the night, and is often the one to deescalate crises of heart.  And because of this, and for so many other reasons, I am thankful that he is sleeping by my side at night, now, too.

Because I am more rested than I have been, I have more patience with my Little Ones.  I have more energy to be fully engaged in the tasks of parenting.  I have new eyes to see these blessings here, before me.  I am thankful for the chance to read and write a bit.  Because I haven’t spent all morning draining my coffee cup and watching the clock until I can get horizontal again, I am able to do the things that need to be done while the Little Ones are taking their rest: I am thankful for the black bean soup simmering on the stove for dinner.  I am thankful for folding laundry in quiet.  I am thankful for each Little One: the Eldest reading his books in his bed; the Middlest snoozing in mine, my grown-up covers tucked gently under her tiny chin.  For the Littlest who has found comfort in his own space in his own crib.  Thankful for my lonely arms, empty for only a moment.  Thankful, knowing that they will be full again, always.

Today, I am thankful for rest. 

Now, head over to Mama:Monk and count your blessings with us!

ritual of reflection

I’m a gal of ritual.  Slightly different from routine, ritual to me signifies something greater — a symbolism that recognizes deeper meaning.  For instance, the bedtime routines we’ve established with our Little Ones often feel like ritual, as we change our day clothes for pajamas, or lift our voices together in Thanks.  These simple daily acts remind us of something greater.  The trick with ritual is to pay attention, so that it doesn’t become mundane, routine.

As far as ritual goes, there are many that may accompany a new year.  I prefer the simple, small and ordinary:  taking down the old calendar, hanging a new one.  There is something about readying ourselves for this trading places that calls us into reflection, isn’t there?  Now, I’m a bit of a sucker for introspection anyhow, and can spend too much time being stuck in my head for my own good, but it is nice to have a check point, a bench mark, to line up and look back, take stock and recalculate course before headlong marching into the next year.  Isn’t it interesting to see, perhaps, the meal plans scribbled in margins of this same time last year?  Or the events that we so looked forward to, now come to pass? To recall birthday celebrations, even plans gone awry?

Our family keeps a number of calendars: a wipe-off white board hung in our kitchen, easy access to last minute change of plans, quick glance of the month.  We keep a master calendar on the computer that contains all the nitty-gritty appointments, reminders, date nights and school activities.  My favorite, though, is the family photo calendar that I create every year, featuring our best family photos and memorable moments from the year prior.  This calendar gives great opportunity to contemplate the year.  We reflect on our growth and change that the pictures illustrate so clearly, as the Little Ones bodies have thinned out, their physical prowess grown mighty, month upon month.  The Eldest has taken it on as his job this year to flip the calendar forward each month, and he will revel you with his in-depth memory of the stories that our photos tell, the Story of our family.

Little pomp and circumstance will accompany the task of washing clean 2011 from the white board, or even presenting our newest photo creation in place of last year’s.  But this practice, this marking of time’s passing, will again call to a deeper meaning.  As I reflect on 2011, I wonder how I’ve grown, if I’ve grown.  This year has brought it’s share of surprises: upheavals and provisions.  I’ve accomplished things that I didn’t anticipate, and I’ve been disappointed in my own sense of limitations.  I’ve surrendered.  I chose a word, an intention for my year: breathe.  This breath has been my undercurrent, even if I haven’t been aware of it.  What will my word be for 2012?

I know that I’m not alone in my need for ruminating on the year as it closes.  In a sense, isn’t that what New Year’s Resolutions are about?  We set goals for ourselves, getting to work for some sort of betterment.  But resolutions are short-lived and disenchanting; often full of failure.  I’d rather reach for Grace.

I’m thankful for small acts that make me pause.  We’ll ring in the New Year as a family, cozy and full of anticipation for all that 2012 will bring. I will do my best to be awake at midnight to kiss my dear husband, then dash our lips across sleeping foreheads of the babes we love so much.  Later, with my little helper by my side, we’ll take down our old calendar, “oo” and “ahh” over how much everyone has grown, and perfunctorily hang the new calendar in it’s place.  But with each of these small rituals, I will pause for a moment, to pay attention and consider.

of celebration and rest; breathing in circles

We found our way through the mystery and joy of Christmas this year, and have come out the other side.  It was a glorious treasure to share these celebrations with friends and family alike, but always, (always) after times like these I find that we need to recalibrate — to fall back into the familiar, unhastened rhythms of our own family, in our own space.  This year, more than ever, I’m feeling this heavy return of the pendulum as we share this last few weeks as a family of four.

Blessings abundant have been poured out onto us — in time, food, love, attention, devotion, hugs and kisses, laughter — but of course in gifts.  Real and tangible, things to hold and cherish.  I truly blush at the myriad ways that my Little Ones especially have been lavished.  It is good; of course they are beyond thankful. But all of these blessings, all of these gifts are now lined up in my family room, staring me down.  I’m being mocked by my desire for simplicity, scoffed at by these piles of toys and books.  What I know this means is that it is time to sift and sort, time to cultivate and curate.  But oh, how easy it is to be mastered by those piles!

Likewise, though I was more protective of our family time and our need to just be in the holiday, instead of making our way, doing the holiday, it still is just so much.  There are people who love us dearly, whom we love, that need our time and attention.  While spread over the course of four days, it was definitely a long four days, and even with copious amounts of time at home to play and drift and nap, by that fourth evening out I had two fragile Little Ones.  And really, I of course can’t say that I felt any differently.  When I had to prompt the Eldest, who is usually overly polite and bursting with manners, to say “thank you” for a gift, and received defiance and tears, I knew that we were on our very edges.  And oh how I long to teach my Little Ones to respect their edges!

The overcast sky and its imposing drops of rain tell me today that we are right at home: resetting, finding our center.  The Eldest is still cozy in his pajamas; I’m still reaching for my tea cup.  I’ve traded our endless loop of Christmas music for a soundtrack to mirror the darkened sky.  Laundry is being pushed through, a constant reminder of the circles we weave in our home, leading us back to center.

The Blessing of the blessings is that we breathe; we settle in. We circle ’round.  We continue to make room.  We make room for Light that has come into this Dark; we make room for the toys and gifts that will rearrange our play area.  We make room for newborn diapers and burp cloths; for swaddling blankets and newborn hats. We make room for Peace, incarnate, and peace in our home.  We leave space for fragile ones, arms open wide with extra grace.  And rest.  Deep, abiding rest.

waiting on a name

This Advent season, I’m embracing waiting for all it’s worth.  It is our constant posture now as we wait not only for a coming Christ, but also for this little babe who will join us early in 2012.  I can empathize with Mary as she arches her back, lifting her soul to the Lord, a bodily offering, though there is of course much of Mary’s journey that is so unfamiliar to me.  One thing that God had already given her: a name for her babe.  Of this, I am lacking.

Oh, the responsibility of naming another person!  I felt the weight of this with each of the previous two.  We still have some time — I’m not yet full term, and I often excel under pressure.  This time, I find that it is even harder: there are more criteria that we are trying to meet.  A name can be something that shapes a bit of a person, something to grow into, or live up to.  My mother has been known to say that when she named me “Campbell” she knew that I couldn’t possibly grow up to be a stripper.  There is jest in that, of course, but she was aware of the power she wielded.

Biblically speaking, God gives Adam the power of naming in the garden of Eden, and with it the responsibility of stewardship.  Quite often, God changes a person’s name as that person takes on a new identity, seeking after God’s heart, or conquering Godly challenges.  Many of the names in the bible mean things: great things, funny things, images of time or place or instance to call upon later.  My understanding of Native American culture and history seems to point towards a similar naming philosophy.  Names were earned by personality trademarks, by victories or follies.  Though our culture of naming is very far from these literal, formative and reflective naming traditions, these traditions continue to remind me of the power of Name.

Mostly, at least in my circle of community, parents choose names because they like them.  Sometimes there is inheritance in a name, a grandfather’s name being passed down, a son being made a junior.  Just as often, I hear names from popular culture that seem to stick.  Characters from hit movies are just as likely to be the reason behind a name.  Some families find a letter of the alphabet and stick with it.  Other families search out great nicknames, allowing for flexibility, perhaps, a name to be adapted to stages in life, or individual desires.  (In our family?  No nicknames, please).

We try on names for our babes — what does it sound like bellowed in scolding throughout the house?  How about cheered on the soccer field?  Whispered in Holy prayers of thanksgiving, desperation?  Especially as we ready ourselves for Babe #3, I am wondering how well it goes with the other names in our family.  Of course there was a time when I was uncertain about their names,  but now they seem so set, so firm in character and a defining aspect of our family, that it is equally important for this third child’s name to be a part of that puzzle, too.  And of course we can’t forget how this name with work with our last name.  See what I mean?  There is such a list of criteria that accompanies this responsibility.

When each of my Little Ones were born, we had a few names that were in the running. It wasn’t until the afterglow of birth, the joyous occasion of meeting, face to face, this person I had been feeling within me for such long months, that we could settle on a name.  I’m certain that this will be our experience for this babe as well.

We wait on a coming Christ:  He of endless names.  We will press in to this season of waiting, of anticipation.  Each moment of waiting is holy. We will unfold each door of the Advent calendar, a secret revealed, as we draw closer to the celebration of His coming.  We wait for our own babe, too: we grow quiet in our waiting, and this little babe will begin to reveal his secrets. And with joyous celebration, he will have a name.