LIFE BLOG 2006
09.18.06 | FALL
Fall arrived in Helena this weekend. It feels like just yesterday we were sweltering in 100 degree heat, a fan in every window, the kids running around in swimsuits and tippy toes (their word for "bare feet"). The cool breezes have been a welcome relief, as we watch the leaves fade into their brilliance, and leave the bedroom windows closed at night.
Fall and spring are my favorite seasons because of their temperateness, their moderation, their gentleness. Fall and spring don't assault you with harshness, either hot or cold. They tenderly carry you to and from the callous seasons, helping you adjust to the climate to come.
This fall, my oldest daughter entered kindergarten. It's not a harsh adjustment, though. She's only gone for a couple of hours a day. She runs back home to me before lunch time, gives me a big hug and tells me she missed me. When I ask her what she's learned each day, she usually says, "Not much." Today she learned, "that it's Matt's birthday. I ate a huge doughnut."
Other changes in life will be more difficult, but this one has been gentle. She leaves me for awhile. She comes back. Snow fell in the mountains this weekend, but it didn't fall in the valley. It's not cold enough that we have to turn on the furnace and fear the energy bills to come. It's just chilly enough that I can sit outside, with a blanket covering my legs, sipping a cup of coffee, waiting for my daughter to come home for lunch.
08.27.06 | REFLECTIONS ON FLATHEAD LAKE
The blues and greens of the distant mountains are muted against the horizon. The water of Flathead Lake is speckled with light. Blue, white, gray, orange. A gaggle of geese gathers at a nearby dock, holding a private meeting, the agenda of which only they can understand. Canoes and motorboats slowly traverse from shore to shore, the sound of the motors breaking the peace.
The swallows break the peace as well. They swoop up and down, relieving us of a few mosquitoes. The waning light tips the evergreens and yellows the aspen that quiver in the breeze. My daughter snuggles with her grandmother. Her cold feet press against Nanny's legs and it makes them both giggle. A few clouds hang low against the mountains. Flat ones, puffy ones, marshmallow ones, wispy ones, one shaped like a flying saucer. Soft waves travel up to the shore and lap the edge of the lake, wetting the rocks, revealing their true colors. Are the muted or the vivid shades more beautiful? Hard to say. It's July, but as the sun slides behind the trees, a chill settles into my bones. It's almost time to go inside. Almost.
The light is changing now. The closer mountain is military blue. The further is bright cornflower. The colors are no longer muted. The clouds that hug the hills are tinted bright peach. The peach color reflects on the water along with periwinkle, violet and medium gray. My daughter waters a barrel full of lavender. She's gleaning satisfaction from completing her little task. My husband is skipping rocks. He has an amazing propensity for it. Even the round ones are skipping for him. Five times, eight times, twenty times. It's funny the things that can attract you to a person. I like his rock-skipping talent. I like it a lot. As a young girl, I never dreamed of the sexy man who could skip rocks. Yet, there he is. Go figure.
06.06.06 | MY DEVLISH ANGEL
I spotted a little white piece of fuzz in my almost-four-year-old daughter's hair the other day. "Ani," I said. "C'mere. Let me get that out of your hair."
As only a mother can, I expertly teased the fuzz out. I held it up for my curious daughter to examine. She was excited. "That came from me?" she asked, as if I had just plucked a hundred dollar bill from her head. Her brown saucer eyes swelled even larger until they swallowed up my whole heart. "I'm turning into an angel!" she said.
She already is an angel of course. Never mind that she cut her own hair last week, or that she poured water from the garden hose down our dryer vent. Oh, and during a recent "no smoking" lecture by my husband (you can't start too soon), she leaned back in her car seat, let out a long, slow breath, closed her eyes and said, "I'm smokin' right now."
She is an angel, but she's going to want to test those gossamer wings a little. I thank God for my angel Ani today, and for her devilish streak.
05.04.06 | JOY
I feel joy today. I feel joy because the sun is shining. I feel joy because I can take a deep breath and feel peace. I feel joy because my house is picked up, because my children are beautiful, because my husband loves me. I feel excitement because tomorrow I will bask in the beauty of my niece as she sings with her lovely, powerful voice. I feel joy because my mother will be here tomorrow in my home with my family. I feel joy because I am God's child, and I can never lose His love. My daughters put on their leotards and they dance around the room. My heart dances with them and I delight in them. I feel joy today.
04.11.06 | SPRING
I'm "cheating" today, and posting an essay that I wrote in the spring of 2000. I was newly pregnant with my first daughter. It's facinating to me to see how I've changed, as a writer and as a woman, over the past six years. I think my writing has improved, but I think having children has taken some of the energy out of me! Of course, for all the energy motherhood has taken from me, it has given me so much more in terms of patience, perspective, maturity, and of course, love beyond measure. I hope you enjoy this essay. It is a celebration of life.
To me, spring is the most exciting time of the year because it is a time for new life and for mothers. I don’t know about you, but seeing nature renew itself and burst forth with all sorts of colors and smells makes me long to be creative — to write, to draw, to plant, to bake. Spring is the time when plants create their leaves and flowers, animals make their babies and people rub their weary winter eyes and look at the world with a fresh perspective.
While winter is the time of death and dormancy, spring renews us with birth and hope. I love the fresh smell of the air, the moist, gritty texture of the earth and the soft, innocent green of new leaves peeking out from gray stems. A tree or bush that has looked dead since fall suddenly surprises us with tender sprouts of life. Seeds that have lay dormant all winter slowly, but surely, awake from their deep slumber. Their tiny shoots faithfully reach for the surface of the soil seeking the sun as their roots diligently tunnel for moisture and nourishment. It’s as if these little modules of life have held a juicy secret for the many months since they were released from their parent plant and now can’t wait to shout it to the world.
As spring unfurls itself, I find myself compelled to gaze at every new bit of life as I walk past, to inspect my lilac bush every morning for new leaves and new buds. Somehow spring's arrival enchants me more each year. I think I’m actually somewhat surprised by its coming, as if I didn’t expect it to be so beautiful, so vivifying.
My first memories of the arrival of spring are of coming home from school to see the crocus peering out from under the snow in my mother's flower garden, their purple petals bravely facing the world despite the adversity that they might face. The crocus are the scouts of the flower army, the courageous souls who rise above the soil first. They can bear the cold and the frost and the wind and they give us hope that all their comrades are soon to follow.
I remember shouting to my mom as she walked from the garage to the house, “Mom! The crocus are up!” Her tired face would sparkle into a smile and together we would examine them and talk about how the grape hyacinths would be next and then the daffodils and then the tulips. We shared the joy of spring together and I learned by her example how to appreciate the little things in life. I learned that even the triumph of the smallest purple flower over the harshness of winter’s cold should be appreciated and celebrated as if it were the greatest victory ever achieved.
Last year, living in Missoula, I first noticed spring’s arrival while walking to work. Tiny buds started appearing on the trees and the tips of the tulip leaves began emerging from the earth. It didn’t matter that the temperature was still dipping well below freezing at night and that it would occasionally snow in the afternoons. Somehow spring always wins out. Winter cannot hold its grasp forever, La Nina or no La Nina.
This year the arrival of spring has seemed more subtle; the season arrives more slowly on this side of the mountains. Here, spring awakens like a groggy teenager prying himself out of bed for school after hitting the sack too late, instead of like a two-year-old whose eyes pop open at the crack of dawn ready to hit the ground running. But spring has sprung never-the-less and its arrival is no less exciting.
It is entirely fitting that spring is the time of Mother's Day and babies and Easter and optimism. This is the metaphor of spring — eventually life always beats death. Even though things may look hopeless, in time, the cycle of life will repeat itself. Even when we die, somehow we live on. Whether you believe that you will go to live in heaven or that your spirit will live on in those who loved you, or whether you simply believe that your body will be recycled back into the earth to give energy to other living things, life always wins over death. There is a chartreuse-colored sprout of life waiting to burst forth from any bad situation.
This spring, as I feel my own baby's first kicks, I'm not only an observer to spring, I'm a participant. I am helping the cycle of life to continue. And just as I wish the lilacs were already blooming, I wish my baby was already here, but I know he needs time to grow and develop, as the lilacs need to get enough sun, water and nourishment before they will bloom.
For, all too soon, chartreuse will give way to emerald and emerald to gold and gold to brown. Before we know it the lilac blossoms will have long since faded and it will be time for me to start teaching my child to appreciate the small things in life, to celebrate even the smallest of victories. And as he faces the trials of life, I will help him to remember the brave crocus, the tiny little victor that is a sign that all is not lost and dead, that life in its fullness and grandeur will soon return.
04.09.06 | TAKE A HIKE
I told my husband to "take a hike" this afternoon, but it's not as bad as it sounds. He had also taken a hike last night, and afterwards, we talked about how men need to retreat to their cave every once in awhile. I guess the theory goes that way back in the day, cavemen would lumber to the back of their cave. Once there, they would have the time and space to lick their wounds, or reflect on their life, or develop their next plan of attack against the mammoth.
My husband hasn't been able to spend much time in his cave for the past five and a half years. Okay yeah, he hasn't spent any time there. The last five and a half years were a whirlwind of babies, work, school, diapers, more diapers and still more diapers. Now that our twins are almost four-years-old however, there is actually time for him to take. We can breathe just a little easier. Ahhhh.
Last night as he was describing the trail system near our home, and hikes he could take on them, he kept using phrases like, "I would just be gone," and "I could just disappear." Now, to a woman with abandonment issues, these aren't exactly the phrases I like to hear normally, but I knew what he meant. He needs to go into his cave. Despite my issues, I've known Eric long enough to know that he never goes too far, and he always comes back to me.
Last night after his hike, my husband's head seemed clearer than it had been in a long time. He could see our future. He had goals. He had plans. He felt alive. So he's out there again, and I can't wait for him to get back. Not because the kids are driving me crazy, because they aren't. They're actually outside playing happily. I'm excited because he'll be excited when he gets back. About life. About our future. And about me, because I'm the one who told him to "take a hike."
04.08.06 | THE PLAYGROUND
We took a walk today, down the hill to what can only be described as a child's paradise, the playground. Playgrounds bring back lots of memories for me. Memories of sitting on the monkey bars for an entire recess. Leaning back. Hooking my feet through the bars. Feeling the blood rush to my head. Memories of pumping my legs as hard as I could on a swing, getting as high as I could, then standing up. Feeling like I would flip over the bar if I went any higher.
I also remember helping to invent a game called "Around the Pump house." Maybe you've heard of it. Probably not. When I jokingly asked my husband if he'd ever played it, he replied, "No, I was a good boy." Okay, okay, it does kind of sound like a "bad" game, but it really wasn't.
In the middle of our school-yard was a pump house. Now that I think about it, it must have been the house where the pump for the well was kept, but none of us cared about that at all at the time. At one corner of the pump house was a pole. It must have been a power pole that supplied the pump with power, now that I think of it, but again, you don't care about stuff like that when you're a kid.
The point of the game was to run around the pump house and get back to the power pole without getting tagged. To tell you the truth, all of the intricacies of the game are escaping me as I try to recount them now, but trust me, this game was chocked full of intricacies. Anyway, we loved the game, and we spent many a recess running around and around the pump house (hence, the name of the game), peeking around the corners and being surprised when our adversary was right there ready to tag us. We would scream, turn on our heel and run as fast as we could to the safety of the pole, cringing at the thought of feeling the other kid's hand slap us in the back. Ah, the memories.
Recess was often a fun time, but it could be very stressful as well. Our playground was really old and it had two forts built on it. They were very cool, with two levels and several rooms and ladders going up and down and windows. The forts were eventually torn down because the teachers said they promoted "aggressive behavior." I thought that was stupid at the time, but thinking back on it, you know, they really did promote aggressive behavior. One group of kids would get up in one of the forts and proclaim themselves the rulers of the fort. The best way to keep other kids out, of course, was to throw rocks at them, or to step on their fingers as they climbed up the ladder. In order to get in you had to be aggressive too, poking at your opponent with sticks or launching back rocks that had just been thrown at you.
In addition to aggressive behavior, the forts also promoted gossip. (As if gossip needs to be promoted among elementary school girls.) They were a great place to hide and sit in a circle and whisper about the other girls, the cute boys, and the plans for next recess, when we would launch an overthrow of the other fort.
I know my girls will experience the joys of recess, swinging from the monkey bars, spinning until they're sick on the merry-go-round or just lying on the grass looking up at the clouds going by. But, I know they will experience the dark side the recess as well. The gossip, the blacklisting, the "aggressive behavior." I hope they get through relatively unscathed. I did, but I know others who are pretty scarred from recess. The worst thing that happened to me was the time the entire class signed a letter, stating that they all agreed that they hated me. That was pretty harsh. Okay, one person didn't sign it, my best friend, Michelle McAllister. She stood by me even when the others said my new perm made me look like I'd put my head in a blender. (It actually did. That was my first and last perm.)
I hope my girls have a Michelle McAllister, a true friend who won't leave their side even when everyone else has. And, I hope they swing as high as they can, and feel the wind in their hair, and look out at the world over the bar of a swing set, and feel a thrill in their stomach because they're going so high that they know if they pump their legs one more time they just might go over.
04.07.06 | MY FIRST BLOG
I don't really know what I'm doing, but here goes my first blog. The other day, we are in the van and Joe Cocker comes on the radio. "You are so beautiful. To me." My three-year-old, Ani, looks out her window at the falling rain and says with total confidence, "That's my daddy singin'." I laugh at that moment and feel pure joy. She's so innocent and she loves her daddy. Daddy has sung that song to her many times. She KNOWS she's beautiful. Her daddy said so.
