8 posts tagged “neighborhood”
I am back from another magical romp in the woods.
The children self organized and made the campground their kingdom. While they ran about feral and free, we adults did the important work of cooking, tending the fire and napping. This morning after breakfast we sat around the campfire all of us, strumming guitars and singing. A pastoral Von Trapp family moment twisted only by the children's choice of songs. (I couldn't help but wonder what Child Protective Services would think about the fact that all of our children know this Johnny Cash tune by heart). No matter.
I am unpacking now. I carry the camp chairs in and put them away for the season. They smell like smoke, smoke from the glorious fire, tended by Eric, a blacksmith-wanna-be stoking a furnace fit for smelting. We sat around this fire as the night grew chilly, laughing, telling stories, nursing stout and tequila, sneaking brownies the children never knew were baked, sneaking cigarettes they never knew we smoked.
The little children have been tucked into bed in the Tent-Mahal, lulled to sleep in by the whispers of a father who's own children have grown too old now to be comforted by the cadence of his voice. Teenage fears are not easily chased away by fairy tales but here in this tent at this moment, he is a hero to seven wee ones, a hero with the power to keep the darkness at bay. Covered with children and sleeping bags he is able to relive a memory and to relieve those of us who are too weary of nightly stories, who just need a beer and some quiet. It takes a village...
The little ones are sleeping now. Soundly. The smoke blows in our face as the wind shifts direction and so do we, moving around the circle, shifting positons to talk, to pour a drink, to play. We laugh and sing to homemade music, two guitars, one harmonica. Red wine. Tequila. A few contraband cigarettes. Shake thoroughly. Instant bliss.
One by one sleepy people get up and drift away to our tiny tent city. They drift away until it is only three of us, the roaring fire turned to bright cooking coals now. My dear friend and I lay on our backs in the dirt and gaze at the seven sisters twinkling overhead. Another friend fingerpicking a guitar, Texas blues for the girl with boots, bending strings that connect right to a piece my soul.
And then it is just me, I sit at the fire, shifting the coals around, encouraging them to cool now. I breathe in the smoke, feel the soot settle on my face. I sit in the space of gratitude watching the embers. I am thankful for this trip, for the laughter, for the new people, for the joy my son felt when running free, for the easy hike, the communal dinner, for my dear friend and her family, for all the families together, for the music...for the sweet sweet music.
I lay back, the seven sisters on the other side of the sky now. I can't help but feel that everything is exactly as it should be at this moment. That I, sitting alone by the fire, am exactly where I need to be. That I can relax here in this space. That neither the past nor the future really matter all that much. That the now, these warm coals, this autumn wind, this feeling of rightness is what matters. I think this feeling is called grace. I touch it and wrap my fingers around it. I tuck it into my hair.
I hear my friends stir, shift in sleeping bags. I wish them deep sleep and sweet dreams while I stir the coals. Then, minutes or hours later, I pour water on them and watch the steam rise.
I am so gritty, so grimy from this trip. I have finished unpacking and slip into a warm shower, before I head out to pick up the take-out we will have for dinner tonight. Before I throw in the laundry. Before I check my email.
The smell of smoke wafts through the bathroom--it is washing out of my pores and running down the drain. I want to stop it and capture it. I do not want to let the smoke go. I want it to cling to my skin forever.
We just returned home from West Virginia. The house is quiet now, the unpacking of dirty clothes, of camping gear and photos has been done in a burst of efficiency. Max is fast asleep. The crickets alone keep my company.
Last week when I woke to my 7th straight day of a migraine I knew something had to change. It wasn't just the migraines however that had me shaking. I felt like I was struggling, that nothing I did was enough to make it work. The balancing of work and parenting and being a good friend all seemed to be too much. I felt myself tightening from want.
It must have been the Universe who inspired my dear Jackie to call me and invite us to the woods. At the time she offered it sounded as though it was the only thing I should do. We dropped everything and ran.
I should know now that there is nothing that grounds me like eating and sleeping outside among the trees. The energy of the woods, the mountains, the river repairs me even when I am at my most frayed. Over and over again I rediscover this about myself. I am not sure why I forget so easily.
Indeed it was everything I needed to soothe my tired brain, my achey grouchy soul. It was like an amazing power nap, a kind of (in the words of Eric) reboot for the brain. I feel as though I have been away for weeks, I am so refreshed. The stresses that seemed to paralyze me last week have floated away, like leaves carried away by a stream. Joy is now running circulating freely once more--no longer stuck in the muck am I.
Indeed I feel the entire universe conspired to make this weekend perfect. The sky was the most intense cloudless blue, the air temperature was perfect. It felt as though the forest was in cahoots with our merry band of travelers. The river was perfectly refreshing for us. There were long stretches of little children laughing, shrieking, falling down from silliness. And beautiful moments of silence. And music. And endless firewood. And the perfect amount of yummy food.
Alone and together in shifting combinations we moved about the day, collecting, observing, creating. Each moment unfolded effortlessly as both chaos and community flowed as sweetly as the Potomac around the bend, rippling and bubbling and smoothing out the edges of our lives.
I feel so inspired in so many ways but I feel I cannot unpack it all just yet. I struggle here, tripping over my own bliss as I try and write about it, about the way I feel somehow knit back to together around my frayed edges. I just know that I am. And that at this moment is enough.
For more photos of our adventure, click here.
It is cool and rainy today. An August Monday disguised as a rainy November Sunday. It's a sleepy sort of day that reminds me of bookbags, and rainboots and being 8 years old again, curled up next to the fire with a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.
For the third time in a week, something happened today where I thought I had been left out only to later realize it was a mistake and that I had been included the whole time. I have to admit, even though I imagine myself strong and tough, this week I have found myself touching a vulnerable part of my heart--the part that feels really hurt not to be included in the game. It surprises me how strongly it stung to feel, even momentarily, like I was on the outside looking in on my precious little tribe.
Even now, thinking about it, I wonder why I, someone who feels so well loved and cared for, am so in touch with the feeling of being left out. As a child it was the theme of my school day angst--much to the bewilderment of my parents. Is it the fact that Max will be starting a new school that has brought up all my own childhood anxieties?
I ask myself what I need to learn from it, as long as I am feeling it. I breathe in and think about all the people in my life who might be feeling like that right now. I wonder if there is any innocent mistakes that I make that leave others feeling a little more lonely. I remind myself that I need to be careful and vigilant to be inclusive and expansive and welcoming and not to treat my community as an exclusive club but rather to think of it like a mecca of connectedness.
And I smile a slighly bemused smile to learn that being included even now at the ripe old age of almost 38 I still long to be part of the gang and that my heart is still as tender as it was when I was 8. I marvel at how being connected and included and wanted and not forgotten still is powerfully important to me. And I find myself arguing with myself over whether this discovery is a good thing (self discovery, in touch with the tender inner part of our hearts) or a bad thing (I am too sensitive, not rational, childish). My inner mother ends the debate by declaring it just is and reminds me that this sensitivity is usually a signal that I need to hold myself with a little bit of kindness and love for awhile. That maybe I need to rest and drink tea. And be thankful for the big loving and expansive community that does hold me and has me feeling loved, cherished and appreciated.
Tonight is Boys Night at our house.
Alex, Julian and Max have been buddies since infanthood, sharing a babysitter, toys and their food. They fight and love each other fiercely. Like brothers. When Alex went off to Kindergarten, Max and Julian held hands and met him at the bus each day. When Julian joined Alex at the Spanish-immersion elementary school, Max waited patiently for that yellow bus to pull up for an hour of bliss each afternoon.
But now that school is out for the summer, they luxuriate in long sleepy days together under the watchful eye of their Nana. Building, running, climbing, hour after long hour wrapped up in imaginary play. Good hard physical boy play. Rolling on the ground, pretend fighting, all poopy jokes and pretend farts. And giggling. There is always lots of non-stop giggling. In the evenings it is hard to pull them apart.
So every now and again we don't. They will sleepover at one house or another. But our house has a special mystique--There are no big sisters here. Boys rule at our house. The will spend all night screeching with laughter, building blanket forts, and launching pillows at the mom at the computer and no one will roll their eyes or beg "MOM...make them stop!".
Tonight they wait at the door for me to arrive home from work like puppies, wagging their tails and begging for pizza. Please please PLEASE can we order pizza AND have a movie?!?. I pick up the phone and call for delivery. Who can resist making such dreams come true?
As I write this they tumble through the dining room at full speed. Strip off their clothes and pull on pajamas, and then explode back downstairs to finish the movie, pure joy and silliness. I want to bottle their laughter.
And tonight, when the movie is done they will curl up like the puppies that they are, together in each others arms in a big pile in the living room. Sweet sweet boys.
Some days its not all bliss with these three. There are hurt feelings, hurt limbs. But usually compassion rules the day. When one of them gets hurt, the other two run for ice. When there is only one icecream sandwich left, Max and Alex let Julian have it because "We know he loves them SO MUCH."
I pray that they will always have each other these friends who knew each other before the Boy Code reared its ugly head, before society tried to convince them that they shouldn't cry in public, or express affection for one another. I pray that when the storms of adolescence rock their world that they will remember the security they felt on summer days falling down laughing and summer evenings falling into each others arms.
everyone I know read this post by Jen Lemen, picked something on it and did it by Saturday next. I think the world would shift in small but amazing ways...I double dog dare ya...
It is Day 1 of our campaign to get the Racoon Family who moved into our chimney to move on to different living quarters. They have lived here since at least the end of April. It was then that I heard the squeaking of the newborn babies in the morning. To be honest at the time I didn't even think that they were racoons--birds or bats perhaps. I was happy that they had chosen my chimney and happy to share my space with creatures who would help us by eating the bugs and mosquitos in the swamp that is our yard.
As the babies grew it became apparent that they weren't little flying creatures. When the day turned dusky an enormous clatter arose as the family woke up. It sounded as though a herd of elephants had taken residence in my house. All night big racoons returned home to bring food to the babes and the little ones cried for their mama. In the early morning as I sleepily dragged myself out of bed and sat down to write my morning journal pages I could hear the drama of the racoon's bedtime rituals. I would smile in solidarity.
I have to admit I have enjoyed their visit, even though everyone I know has told me I MUST get rid of them. For one, I have enjoyed the company of the litte babies on many a long lonely night. Their little voices were a comfort to me in the quiet. Second, I liked the idea that my little home could provide shelter to so many--That we could share our little space on earth with other creatures. I knew that flu was solidly closed and I know from winter evenings how damn hard it is to open it so I am not worried that they will get in and eat us at night. As a mama myself I could identify with the mother's racoon's desire to keep her babies somewhere safe and dry, warm in the chilly spring evenings, cool in the heat of the summer day.
But a call to the wild life rescue organization assured me that they do carry so many other viruses and diseases--its really not a great idea to have them here. And just a few days ago the summer breeze brought just a whiff of barnyard down from the chimney. This morning as Max and I sat down on the couch to read we had to hold our nose. The deep musky organic and disgusting smell of racoon poo was taking over my living room. Time for the campaign to begin.
From my call to the wildlife rescue organization I learned some things. For one, because of Maryland law around rabies specter species, any adult racoon that is trapped must be euthanized. The babies could be moved to a shelter and released into the wild if there were folks licensed to raise them but there were currently no spaces left in any of the Maryland shelters so they too would be euthanized. Therefor unless Max and I wanted to end this visit by killing our smelly little friends we must do this ourselves. We must convince these house guests that they would be so much happier somewhere else.
Now we are no fools We were warned not to get close enough to them for them to scratch or bite and I frankly have no desire to move them myself. So we must encourage them to leave by being bad hosts. We are going against our welcoming nature and trying to be as obnoxious as possible. Doing this without losing friends in the neighborhood will be a real delicate balancing act.
I moved the stereo over to the fireplace and all morning have been blasting music at a volume so loud that the music sounds tinny and horrible. I briefly wondered what type of music would be most offensive to the mother racoon. I considered for a few minutes putting Jimmy Buffett''s "(Why Don't We) Get Drunk and Screw" on a continuous loop but realized that this would provoke questions from my little one that I wasn't ready to answer at worst and at best would lead to Max singing the song in the grocery store, on the playground and at friend's homes at the top of his lungs. So instead we have blasted Benny More, Jimmy Buffet (minus THAT song), and soon I will switch to Broadway musicals. My neighbors must love me. Five hours and running and the racoons haven't even stirred.
While it was fun to blast music for the first hour, there was much dancing and being silly, but the last few have been a bit more annoying. My ears are ringing. I took advantage of the beautiful weather and painted the front door (one of the many tasks on my long to-do list) but now have realized that I must keep the door open for 12 hours tying me to the house. The house that smells like a barnyard and sounds like a disco. Max has wandered off to a neighbors house. The little traitor.
Tomorrow if there is still a racoon family in my house we will have to up the ante. I will put a rag soaked with pinesol in the fireplace. I will buy a bright light and shine it down the chimney. And if none of these tasks work I will continue to invent new ways to be obnoxious. If we get really desperate we can pour urine down the chimney and then move to a hotel for about a week while the smell clears out of the house. Lets hope we don't need to get that desperate. But I can't even bear the thought of calling in a trapper. I am not ready to teach my son that lesson. Not yet.
Yesterday my friend Nick and his lovely wife Kate stopped by for a quick tour of the neighborhood. I have been on a campaign to get them to move to our neck of the woods. Its been unrelenting really and a bit over the top. But missions are missions...
Nick is work friend--and a relatively new one at that. I have lately tried to make real distinctions and firm boundaries between my work and private life. But Nick is one of those rare exceptions. He deals with me in a way that is completely and utterly accepting. He and his wife seem to me to be the kind of people that you want to live right around the corner, close enough to walk there in the span of time it takes to make a drink. Spontaneous and warm. The kind of people who would walk in your back door without knocking when they need something from your cupboard. Who step over the clutter without blinking an eye. People you could invite for dinner just as you are throwing the food on the table.
And it if for this reason that they must live here in our community--be part of our tribe--this ever expanding group of people bound together by the strings of everyday life and a thousand tiny acts of kindness. We eat at each others tables, love each others children, weed each others gardens and occasionally clean up each others messes.
Last night my friend Eric organized a potluck in the park. All evening people streamed through carrying yummy healthy food. Children rolled in dirt and were scolded for wandering off too far. When Max fell on the pavement there were at least 5 grownups he consulted to share his pain.
And for every person I saw that I knew and loved, I met two more people.
I had been worried about the whole school thing because I feared secretly that I would lose part of my community if Max didn't go to school with a certain group of kids. But now, I see how silly that really is.
I belong to a tribe--not a cliche. While cliches contract and are quick to exclude based on a finite list shared experiences, tribes expand in all directions and delight in new connections, new reasons to stop by, new friends to welcome. The tribe I belong to won't change--it will grow. And me, I'll grow with it.
Max and I don't seem to be very lucky with lotteries these days.
Me, I play the powerball every Wednesday and Saturday. Its my dollar for hope program. Funny, I never have won a dime--not even a $1 for getting the powerball right. Its just how it goes. I keep playing, just in case. I don't expect to win, but how does the jingle go--You got to be in it to win it? And I have to admit, when the numbers come in I feel a wave of momentary disappointment wash over me like a little light breeze before I feel thrilled for the winners. (and I DO always feel thrilled for the winners)
Today we learned that Max lost the lottery that would determine who would get into the Spanish immersion elementary school. Not getting into the Spanish program is not that big a deal but this is the school that ALL of his neighborhood and preschool best buds will go to (those who aren't going to Catholic school that is). Instead of climbing on the shiny yellow bus with all his friends, he instead will go to the neighborhood school where he knows noone. Disappointment hangs over our house like a thundercloud.
Its one of those really intense lotteries--10 people entering for each spot etc. but we must have a lucky group of friends. And while we both knew the odds were really against us, we had been staking our hopes on it. (If everyone you knew had won the powerball wouldn't you have bet a $100!) This is a child who has so much transition and disappointment in his young life I was really hoping that kindergarten could be a bit easier for him--that he would be able to go to a school where he knew all the big kids, and plenty of the little ones too. Where his friends could tell him all about the teachers, the festivals, where it would feel so familiar--so much like home. All he knows about elementary school he knows from these kids and he had really been counting (perhaps too much) on learning the ropes directly from them. We had wished upon a star for it.
I too, was hoping that I wouldn't have to start over again either. New parents, new community, new rules and noone to show me the ropes. How much easier it would have been just to get the skinny on all things elementary school from my own precious community. Instead both Max and I will go at it alone. The pouty me wants to add for very dramatic emphasis...AGAIN.
Not getting into the school feels a little too familiar--being on the outside looking in. So many in our group have so much that we don't--happy marriages/dads that are around, financial security, immediate family in the area to help out when in a bind--and now they are together at school while we sit on the outside again, just Max and me. I haven't been jealous at all of any of my community and the abundance of gifts they have until just this moment. And now I practically poisonous with all the envy I am spitting.
I am sure the Universe has some greater and different plan for us--some lessons we will learn--some new and amazing experiences etc. I know all too well that normally when doors are closed, windows do tend to open---blah blah blah. I can't listen to that anymore than I can listen to a friend tell me that Max will be OK--it will just be hard the first few weeks etc etc. I can't bear to watch this precious little boy who loves being part of a tribe as much as I feel lonely and left out again for even more more minute. I can't stand to ask him buck up one more time. Not now.
It is quite true as friends have pointed out that we might be on the waiting list, that a spot might open up, that perhaps I could write the principal and beg him to take pity on us. Tomorrow all of that will make a lot of sense and we will move from there into action or acceptance. Tomorrow I am sure the jealousy will fade too, and I will be thrilled that they have what they do and I will be grateful for all we have--for we truly do dwell in abundance. I know it intellectually.
But tonight we sit again on the outside, our noses pressed to the glass wishing we had something different. Disappointed with how it all turned out.
