tarnished

Yesterday, it was the vacuum that saved me.  Or more precisely, it was vacuuming that saved me.  For I had officially entered the Doldrums.  In fact, I probably have been here for some time now, but the condition became acute enough over the weekend to finally be self-diagnosed.  The Doldrums arrive every February – as if my internal ship crosses into the Intertropical Convergence Zone near the equator and my once filled sails become useless yards of canvas in a location where the water is flat.  Dead calm.

When I am in my Doldrums, nothing is bright, nothing feels light.  My outlook withers.  My patience shrinks.  My….you get the drift.

I knew I had firmly arrived in the Doldrums on Saturday when I couldn’t muster the energy to engage with Cole.  We’d argued and I had left the room.  I knew I should be the adult, go back in, own my part in the conflict without blame, then reach out to make amends.  The thing is, I just didn’t want to.  Not even a little.  The Doldrums.  My diagnosis was confirmed on Sunday when getting Eleanor into the bath was a monumental struggle, and all I could think of was all the other places I rather be.  I tried returning to being.  Breathing deeply.  Surrendering to the present.  Being in the Now.  Nope.  Nada.  I wanted to take the Now and shove it off the deck of my bow.

The worst part of the Doldrums is looking across the vast horizon and seeing no relief in sight.  No fresh air to clear my head, fill my sails, change my course.  A similar effect occurs 30 -35 degrees North of the equator and is called the Horse Latitudes.  Folklore holds that the name was born from the desperate actions of explorers sailing from Spain to the new (to them) world.  When you are really and truly stuck, when you cannot see the way out, you have to lighten the load.  Throw something overboard that will make a difference in hopes that with the next puff of air you’ll be able to move forward.  And the horses…you get the drift.

Right Being usually directs Right Doing, but this time of year things get twisted inside out.  While I am not at all suggesting jettisoning anything valuable, it is a reminder that when we have done everything we can for our state of being and nothing is working, it is time to change our state of doing.  Use the jumpstart of motion to shake loose that which is lodged in an uncomfortable and unpleasant state.

The day before yesterday motion = writing.  I wrote about the conflict and shared it with Cole.  I wasn’t making amends – I knew I was side stepping that – but it did push me forward.  Out of deadlock and back into communication.  Yesterday motion = vacuuming.  During the standoff vacuuming made me progress.  Lift furniture.  Create patterns in the beige rug that reminded me of Zen sandboxes.  What followed was 90 minutes of splashapalooza.

And today?  So far, my weekend of doing has propelled me out of my tarnished state of being.

And for you?  Do you ever hit the Doldrums?  How do you lift yourself out?  How do you return to warm, balmy breezes?  What horses do you throw….well, I’ll get your drift.

Stop Signs

My dear friend (she of the three points of contact)and I were standing outside.  On her driveway…or maybe it was mine.  It was right at the end of the school year…or maybe just as it was about to begin.  The day was warm and filled with a bright blue sky, that much I know, but obviously my memory of the other details are foggy.  What I do clearly recall are the words spoken, specifically hers.  ‘How do we know when is enough?  How do we know when to stop?  How do we know when we have dedicated enough time and energy and resources to our kids’ schools and activities and lives? WhenAreYouGoingToWriteAboutTHAT?!?’  Followed by, not a glare, but a look that held a level of exasperation and end-of-my-rope-ness.  For she had just finished explaining that each night that week was filled with coaching or planning or organizing or doing.  And for one evening she’d even had to hire a babysitter so that she and her husband could split and cover all of the meetings they needed to lead or attend that surrounded said events and activities.

For months now, maybe six…or maybe nine, her question has echoed about in my mind. But I didn’t have the answer.  I had an answer, or I had half an answer, or I had thoughts that skirted around an answer, but not the answer.  Today I do.  Or, at least, I have the answer that resonates for me, and I hope points to an answer that resonates for you.  And, as answers often do, it appeared when I wasn’t looking for it, in a place I least expected.

I found the answer in a pair of kindergarten-sized ballet shoes.

Eleanor’s class begins with all of the little dancers sitting in a circle.  Then, one by one, they stand, walk to the center in relevé with arms held wide in second position, curtsy, and in a strong, clear voice say ‘present’, then return to their place.  What is the subtext?  Each child stands up – she stands for herself, apart from the crowd.  She walks to the center- she claims her space as being an important and integral part of the whole.  She curtsies- acknowledging her respect for those surrounding her.  And announces ‘present’.  Where was the answer?  Right there in that one word.  Each little girl does not say ‘here’, instead she declares her presence.

That’s it.  That’s my answer.  What state are we in?  Are we just here or are we fully present?  What is the texture and rhythm of the day?  Are we rushing along our check-list at break-neck speeds?  Does one red light throw the flow into chaos?  We are well-meaning parents who cram our calendars full of worthwhile yet time sucking commitments.  And the balance between much and too-much is individual to us all.  So the answer to the question is, actually, a question:  what is your state of mind-  here or present?

For if we are only here, our thoughts are already on the next task.  If we are only here, we are not listening to the spoken words or unuttered feelings our children are expressing.  If we are only here, then we are actually no place at all.  Because if we are too busy thinking about the future, we are worried about a place we will never reach.  For future becomes the now, and the to-do list never ends.

If these are the signs we see, how do we stop?  Eckhart Tolle writes about the ‘high quality No’.  A no that has no guilt, no excuse, no roundabout reason, no evasion.  A simple no.  A high quality no returns us to a higher quality of life.  And a high quality no offers the opportunity for someone else to say yes.  Someone who has been waiting for the invitation, someone who will rise up and find new talents within themselves, someone who will be present.

Stop Signs.  They invite us to get off the merry-go-round, to take a hiatus from the whirling, dizzying pace of our lives.  And from there we can choose another ride, maybe the Ferris wheel, where we can quietly sit by our child’s side, watch the world, talk about all that we see, and be fully present.

Thank you, dear friend, for asking.  I hope it resonates for you.  And to everyone, what are your questions?  What topics bring forth a feeling of WhenAreYouGoingToWriteAboutTHAT?  I promise to think, mull, consider and wait for inspiration, whenever and wherever it finds me.  And then I’ll write.  And when I do, I’ll keep you posted.

One Love

The evening stroll into town, a book tucked under my arm, was slow in deference to the muggy heat of New England summer days.  The meandering journey home was even more leisurely, as I stalled until the moment when, as if by magic, the fireflies would appear.  Bel Canto’s, a tiny Italian restaurant nestled in among the other independent shops along the main street of Wellesley, Massachusetts, was my destination.  It had a cozy feel with wooden tables, votive candles in red glass bowls, brick walls, and wine glasses hanging from the ceiling over the bar.

I loved to sit by myself in the restaurant, floating innocuously through the conversations around me. I was surrounded by an archipelago of people, each table its own island of humanity.  Some would self-consciously glance in my direction, wondering if I was listening to their conversations; some would peek pityingly, assuming I had been stood up by a mystery date; one older couple even offered me a place to join them.  But I politely declined.

For while I was sitting alone, I was not lonely.

I was full of ideas and thoughts and reflections.  I was consumed by the big questions in my life.  Who am I?  What do I want to do?  What do I want to be?  What is my heart’s desire?

And then life picked me up and pulled me along on its ever-flowing tides and deposited me at new tables, with new people.  Some of whom laughed, ate dessert, and lingered long into the night.  Some of whom threw their napkins down, stared with stormy eyes, and abruptly left.  Some of whom reached across for my hand, smiled, and stayed.

Over the years we make reservations; the cumulative pauses created by the voices in our heads.  Slowing us, anchor line tangled around us, dragging us under.  Where did those influences come from?  They arose from the cacophony of characters that have been seated at our past tables – it might have been an alcoholic mother, an absent father, a bullying brother, a scornful lover.  Or a coach, teacher, peer, roommate whose words and intent have created discord and disbelief.  Why did we allow them to be seated with us?  Because their painful comments were mixed with messages of love, and sometimes separating the emotional wheat from the chaff is not simple.

And now as parents, our tables are over-crowded.  For in addition to the Dickensian ghosts of meals past, we have accumulated a lifetime of spouses, co-parents, children, extended family, and friends.

And Valentine’s Day presents us with the opportunity to, in romantic fashion, yank the tablecloth out from under the place settings and to reset a table for one.  So put on your best dress, your favorite tie.  Invite yourself to dine alone.  Open your heart and fall in love with the person you are, right now.  Discover how witty, charming, bright, strong, dedicated, wonderful you are.  See that you are the sum of amazing traits, not the subtractions voiced by your internal detractors.  Have the maître d’ (who bares a striking resemblance to Jacob Marley) escort all of the ghosts out of the establishment, so that you can no longer be poisoned by their voices.  Then lean in and listen for the answers to the questions of long ago:  I am.  I do.  My heart is.

Once we recognize that life is not prix fixe, but an à la carte affair, we can invite our children to examine their own menus.  For a year of Valentines, consider creating a circadian custom.  Each morning, as you break your fast, express out loud one trait you love about yourself, and have your children do the same.  Teach them to be the voice in their own heads, filled with messages from their own hearts.  It is the upside-down inverse of the dinner conversations sharing one good and one bad from the day.  Instead of slicing the day’s events into labeled categories of things that happened to us, it is an opportunity to open the day with things we love about us.

It all begins with One Love.  One heart.  Let’s get together and feel all right.

you say you want a revolution

Many moons ago I was an Astronomy major at Wellesley.  One of the benefits of studying at a small liberal arts college is that every evening, once the students from the introductory level courses are finished with their night labs, the telescopes are turned over to the majors to play in the heavens as we please.

Wellesley has a pair of refracting telescopes, made by hand in the mid to late 1800’s and constructed of wood, brass and glass.  The majestic long cylinders are conduits to the skies, revealing details of our solar system’s planets and their moons.  When using these instruments we could feel a connection to all of the other young women whose hands and eyes had touched them in the generations before us.  Standing in the dark, you could almost feel their presence guiding our work.

But more serious research on campus is conducted on the modern, metal reflector telescope with a 24-inch primary mirror.  This telescope is driven not by warm hands, but by cool electronics.  We would enter the stellar coordinates into the computer and the tube would slew into position.

I spent hundreds of nights gazing at the stars, and this is the story of just one evening.  A couple of us were using the largest telescope to work on an assignment for class.  It was well past midnight and we were punchy with exhaustion.  We were looking at double star systems; suns that are gravitationally bound together, spending their lives in a revolving dance of elliptical orbits.  We entered the right ascension and declination data, the celestial equivalent of longitude and latitude, and waited for the telescope to move into place. Then one of us peered into the eyepiece.  Instead of the expected pair of pinpoint lights, what was seen was a couple of diffuse rings, small circles of light with soft edges.  Another classmate looked to verify the sight.  It was true.  We double-checked the coordinates, we had, indeed, entered the numbers correctly.  But what were we seeing?

The mass of a star determines how long it will live and what will happen at the end of its life span.  For large enough suns their death is marked by a brilliant explosion.  The collapsing mass will rush inward, imploding at the center and in the process throw off a ring of debris, creating a supernova.

Our bleary eyes and weary minds quickly jumped to this possibility:  a rare (had anyone ever seen such a thing before?) double supernova.  Our thoughts raced at the speed of light, traveling to the conclusion that we must be the first to see this prodigious phenomenon, because surely we would have heard of its discovery had it been previously observed.  We were ready to contact the IAU (International Astronomical Union) to stake claim to our findings.  But first, in a moment of clarity, we recognized we should call one of our professors.  The phone rang many times before a groggy voice rather incoherently answered the phone.  With the rush of confidence we, in raised and rapid tones, explained all that had occurred.

There was a long, long silence on the line.

Our hearts slowed with each second that passed, deflating our surety and our hopes.  The voice of reason and experience explained our error.  There was no double supernova.  The telescope was simply, yet extraordinarily, out of focus.  If we had bothered to slew the telescope in any direction we would have found that every star in the night sky would also appear as an ethereal disk.  Click and dial tone.

Sheepishly we returned to the dome and held the focus button for long moments until the stars resolved into pinpricks of light.  We had been blinded by our assumptions, and failed to see the truth.

On this New Year’s Day, as our planet starts a new revolution around our sun, we have an opportunity to bring our own parenting lenses back into focus.  Over time, we see our children from certain perspectives, creating a rut of expectation and response.  We are unaware of the bias that clouds our view, fogging the reality of who our children truly are.  So let us resolve to clear our vision, to release old assumptions and embrace the technicolor nuance and verity of each child.  What wonders will we discover?  Let’s keep each other posted (but might I suggest we postpone contacting the IAU).

in a nutshell

Darling Clara,

Tonight we open the curtain and welcome our audience, inviting them to experience the magic of our story.  Winter season after season our tale is told, and retold, in small community spaces and on grand professional stages.  The setting is always the same, our family Christmas Eve party.  Yet each production finds its own unique voice in telling our tale.  Despite the many interpretations, there are some constant central messages in The Nutcracker.  Boys break toys.  Uncles perform magic.  Dads love their little girls.  Dreams come true.  As a mother to a daughter, the lesson I hope you remember most is this:  within you, everything is possible.

In the traditional narrative you, dear Clara, take a simple slipper and change the course of your dream.  It is the heat of the battle scene, the Rat King is about to kill The Nutcracker, and chaos reigns with swords and cannons and soldiers everywhere.  And in that moment you save the day.

You.

You with your slipper.  Armed with a clear mind and a true instinct, you vanquish evil.  By striking the Rat you distract him from his purpose and the Nutcracker is saved.  The tide is turned and it is the Rat who perishes.  With the sole of a slipper you set your life’s journey along a new path.  When you could cower in a corner, you draw upon your inherent bravery and stand up for that in which you most believe.  Love.  You illustrate for girls and women, boys and men everywhere that each of us is enough, just as we are.  For true power comes not from size or rank; it matters not if you are soldier or king.  Enduring strength comes from listening to the quiet within, finding your deepest dream, and acting upon it.

So even once the final curtain closes, the snow has stopped falling on stage, the lights have been dimmed, do not think your role is over.  You are the artist, the director, the dancer, the choreographer of your life.  There will be times when your stage will be dark, times when the spotlight will be blazing and even other times when the cacophony of the distracted audience will be overwhelming.  In all of those moments, pause, take a deep breath, and become aware.  Aware of your voice, your inner light, your deepest truth.  Find the arc of your own story, and tell it.  It is both that profound and that simple.

And remember, too, no matter where you are, I am at your side whispering in your ear- I love you.

Mama Stahlbaum

Calling Collect

Packed away in my attic in a box in a box in a box lays a Christmas ornament I received as a very little girl.  I cannot remember a year it didn’t hang somewhere on my family’s tree.  The spun sugar globe, adorned with a red ribbon, has a clear plastic window that allows you to peek inside at the miniature snow scene within.

When viewed from a distance, it invokes nostalgia.  When seen up close it invokes the sense that its halcyon days are well past.  The cheap, overly bright ribbon is threadbare and frayed, its ability to support the weight of the ornament questionable.  The back looks as if it has been misshapen by the years in the box.  But no.  It is flat because I used to sneak quietly, when no one was looking, and lick it, my soft child’s tongue insistently rasping the sugar, wearing it down layer by molecular layer.

Its appearance is ratty enough and I recall its lure vividly enough that it has not graced our tree since we’ve have children old enough to be able to hear the siren call of sugar.  But as the season approaches, I think about all that I saw when I peered inside; as the little girl I once was, the young woman I became, the adolescent I thankfully left behind.

What image does your child see when they peer inside their own personal globes?  What collections, physical or emotional, do we curate for our children?  Are they the smart one?  Athletic one?  Artistic one?  Clumsy one?  What messages do they gather from us and store in the attics of their minds, to be replayed and reinforced year after year?

Soon our tree will be bedecked with angels and santas, as each year our children receive a new ornament to add to their burgeoning collections.  Eleanor accrues angels, and I wonder, do we adequately acknowledge her devilish grins?  Cole’s assembly of santas imply being jolly and good, does he know we love his Evel Knievel side, too?

As we rush into a season of copious buying and generous giving and boisterous celebrating, we need to remember the contributions we make to the treasury of children’s hearts.  Taking quiet, small moments not to do anything, but to simply be with our children, to call to the collection of their whole selves.  No matter our faith or family traditions, love for a child, deeply given, speaks to the spirit and magic of the season.  Be.cember.  Fêting the is-ness of our children.  What aspect of your child will you revel in each day?  Keep me posted.

birth marks

It all began innocently enough, when we were little.  But there is something about turning five that genetically turns this year of life into the witching age in my family.  And, let’s be honest, by ‘my family’ I mean me, and now, Cole and Eleanor.  Some secret whisper of DNA turns us into sprites and imps, creating mischief and mayhem that well exceeds our own benign intentions.

It all began innocently enough.  It was the mid-1970’s and I was in kindergarten.  My mom was on a long-distance phone call.  Remember telephones from waaaayyyy back then?  They were tethered to the wall by a cord measuring, at most, six feet.  And long distance meant you had to work to both listen and hear the person on the other end of the line.  I (in boredom?  In subconscious awareness of my mom’s inattention?) meandered through the house until I came to my parents’ room.  The mysterious place you were allowed into, but never fully understood.  I stood in the center of the room and slowly turned around, assessing each object in my view.  Bed.  Dresser.  Bookshelf.  Books.  I examined a few.  Binding held tightly, covers arched so that as I flipped through I could hear the dull slapping of one page softly striking the next.  What is this?  Inside one of the books was, well, I had no idea.  It was about the size of my fist, flat, dry, molted-brown, with crispy small pieces attached to a center.  I could break parts off, and they would crumble into dusty shards in my hand.  And this is how my mother found me.  Sitting on her bed with the book labeled H-O-L-Y B-I-B-L-E completely forgotten at my side.  In my hands were the remnants of a flower.  Not just any flower, though, the one gardenia she had saved, dried and pressed from the lovely plant that grew next to the headstone of her dad, who died when she was 13.  I had, in my few minutes of five-year-old freedom, silently shredded the symbol of her memories of the day they buried her father.

It all began innocently enough.  It was the mid 2000’s and Cole was five, Eleanor an infant.  We had a friend and her children over for dinner.  Cole and his buddy were using cell phone car charger cords as pretend water hoses.  Great imaginative play, right?  All seven of us were together in the living room, yet out of the blue I heard ‘Mom, is it ok if I write my name on the piano?’  Write?  Name?  Piano?  My great-grandmother’s baby grand piano?  I could only gape in disbelief when I noticed, already carved by the hard tip of the car-charger, on the side panel of the piano C-O-L-E-L-O-C.  A palindrome of insult to the nearly century-old wood.  It was a moment of stunned disbelief.  It wasn’t possible that he had just carved his name into the piano, was it?  It was.  He had.  The surface of the wood was compressed inward and the finish removed.  My mother’s furniture pen (who knew such a product existed?) returned the tone and color, yet the topography was permanently altered.

It all began innocently enough.  Last spring Eleanor was busy at the sink doing another round of her favorite science experiments.  This time it involved mixing bold food coloring hues together to see what secondary tones she could create.  I moved in and around the kitchen, glancing her way, appreciating her focus.  The phone rang.  Long distance.  My attention was diverted.  Capable Eleanor had an accidental spill, and, without asking for help, got out lots and lots of dishtowels to wipe up.  Wiping.  Wiping up red, blue and green food coloring.  Wiping up…spreading around.  Red.  Blue.  Green smeared on walls, cabinets, floors.  Finally I descried.  And it was too late.  We labored together.  Then I toiled alone, after bed time.  Walls clean.  Floors clean-ish.  Cabinets?  Stained.  Stained with dark rivers of color.  I scoured the internet for ideas, scrubbing with all sorts of homemade science experiments of my own.  And when none of those noble tests worked, I measured cabinets throughout the house hoping I could swap doors with ones in less high visibility places.  Finally, failing to find identical options, I turned to the social network.  And it brought me a chorus of suggestions for the magic eraser.  And erase it did.

The gardenia?  Immutable destruction.

The piano?  Indelibly indented.

The cabinets?  Still slightly flecked.

Birthmarks.  Some are on our bodies when we enter the world.  Some are those we create in the world.  Shredded.  Dented.  Blotched.  The birthmarks our children leave behind.

And the ingredients in the magic eraser?  Love.  Compassion.  Forgiveness.  My mother taught me that morning, while we sat on her bed, that in moments of incredible emotional distress, if you quiet the soul, there is grace.  She perceived my handiwork as a small piece in the big arc of a family story.  And so as Cole left his letters and Eleanor her spots, they shaped new birthmarks on my heart.  And mine on theirs?  I hope, when they retell their own stories, they will inherit the lesson of abiding forgiveness and grace.  Will it stay on their hearts?  I’ll keep you posted.

Guide Dog.

Once upon a time, a rather long time ago, a little boy watched a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  In it, there was an Abominable Snowman who longed for a companion, sweetly saying ‘I will name him George, and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him…’

And one day the boy grew up, and got a dog.  And named him, of course, George.  And then he met a grown-up girl.  Luckily for the girl, both the boy and the dog loved her.  And the threesome became a family.  And thus George predated our human offspring.  He was our first.  George was a Rottweiler and parents with children either crossed the street to avoid him or, if they knew the Carl books, would cross the street to seek him out.  ‘Look!  It’s Carl!’  He was such a sweet, amazing soul that when it was clear his cancer was causing too much pain, I’m not sure who cried more, me, my husband or the veterinarian.

And now we have Coco, a puppy from a local shelter who is a pinch of this and a dash of that.  Mostly, she is full of love.  But this time, the dog is the dog.  The third young creature in our family competing for time, affection, direction, and attention.

There are things I know about Coco.  She likes to sit on my feet.  She likes to wiggle her back end with delight whenever the kids come home.  She likes to roll in deer poop.  Some of these things I find delightful, others, not so much.

I know Eleanor feels out of control when she puts the collar on the dog, attaches the leash, and announces that she is going to work on training the dog.  Verbalized commands: Heel!  Sit!  Down!  Good Dog!  Non-verbalized subtext:  I may be the youngest, but I still have power.  I can still be in charge.  I am capable.  Coco willingly obeys.

I know Cole is learning to see his own behavior and how it is transmitted to others.  When he jumps and shouts to burn off extra energy, it is amped up and reverberated by the dog. He has gone from denying culpability to accepting accountability to asking for responsibility with Coco.  Now I often find him curled on the floor, calmly stroking Coco’s fur and crooning gentle words to her.  Coco contentedly connects.

I know my husband is in a relaxed state when he sits quietly and, almost absent-mindedly, reaches out to touch her silky soft ears; or when he takes Coco outside in the transient moments of dusk to play and frolic with her.  Coco buoyantly fetches.

So as much as I know about Coco, Coco clearly knows far more about each of us.  But does she know I much I dislike it when she licks? I find myself thinking ‘she’d be a great dog if only she didn’t lick’.  The irony is not wasted on me:  the less I pet her, the more she wants attention, the more she licks, the less I want to pet her…a downward spiral that ends with my hands thrown up in the air.

Coco is asking me to pause, even for a few seconds.  To simply be.  Pet me.  Take a moment out of the scheduling and foreshadowing and managing to not multitask but unitask.  Pet me.  And please don’t mind that I lick.

Today, for the first time in their lives, our children head off for school together.  One to begin his last year in elementary school, the other to start the first day of it all.  Lunches are packed, hugs are given, kisses for luck applied to each forehead.  Smiles abound, nerves unsettled, tears swiftly coursing rivulets down my cheeks.

The final images of fingers waving goodbye are fading after these first 15 minutes of solitude.

So here we are, Coco and I.  The two of us are a bit bewildered, a bit overwhelmed, a bit in awe of just how silent a house can be.  My musings are interrupted by a low whimper and whine, and I glance down to check that it is, in fact, coming from the dog, and not me.  Stillness descends once again, and the quiet of the house allows us to hear that autumn is whispering in the leaves.  Time for change.  Time for new beginnings.

I reach for her leash.  The dog and I are headed out, just the two of us.  To carve a path through the shaded woods and along the stony shore.  I’ll stop to pick up rocks, individual memories, striped, smooth, jagged with barnacles.  Slip a few in my pockets, solid reminders of a life’s work that I can reach and touch and reground myself in whenever the recollections begin to rise and float away like the spray of the ocean’s wave.  And predictably my reverie will be interrupted by warm chocolate eyes begging for a thrown stick, a kind word, a warm hand.

Coco is a dog.  We adopted her from a shelter.  But who is rescuing whom?  I’ll keep you posted.

ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

There is a tiny grove of young maples along a road I often travel, planted by children from a nearby school. I sit up a bit straighter as I come around a gentle curve, anticipating that first glimpse before whipping by at the posted limit of 50 m.p.h. The trees are harbingers of seasons: diminutive, nearly fluorescent green buds in late winter; bright, vibrant, verdant leaves in spring. Since mid-July, however, I have avoided them. Not enough to drive an alternate route, but enough to keep my eyes askew so I cannot see the truth.

The leaves are changing. And so is my life.

I am no longer the mother of an infant, toddler or preschooler. In less than two weeks Eleanor will join Cole at elementary school and life as I have known it for the past decade will end.

Denial is a swift river, traveling, let’s suppose, at 50 m.p.h. And despite my best efforts, I can see it, my reluctant peripheral vision perceiving the bright reds spreading across the branches. I can feel it, the inevitable pouring from my tear ducts at random and inopportune moments. Yesterday, luckily, it was during meditation and no one was aware of the symmetric puddles I was filling on either side of my yoga mat.

Some of the women in my book club adventure annually with their families by rafting the rivers of the Pacific Northwest. I remember such a trip from my own childhood, the water’s dance of rush and calm. And as the start of school beckons us ever closer, I find myself gathering that dance of memories in salt waters and on dry lands. The rapid exhilaration of a fast boat ride on choppy waters. The tranquil sloosh of oars dipping, propelling our canoe. The cacophonous shouts of friends splashing in the shallows for hours. The pacific awe of watching dolphins leap, spin and play mere meters from our bow. The equable reverberations of kaplink, kaplank, kaplunk in our blueberry pails. The potent flood of childhood joy while pirouetting across the lawn at dusk. The peaceful repose of our children’s faces when sleep finally claims them, lying on a row of cots, a camping trip on the porch.

This journey of weeks and months and years has layered strata of reminiscences, forming the epoch of juvenescence. The river I raft takes me through the canyon walls of each recollection, and the footprints left on the sandy shores are imprints of my children’s growth and change.

So now, how to harvest and savor these times? How do I impress them into memory foam? Another member of book club has such a mattress, and it remained in her garage for months until the intense odor finally released and floated away. How to contour the lumps and bumps of cherished times while allowing the bickering, whining and grumpiness to outgas? How, in the expanse of the everyday, can we catch and commit to our minds the sacred seconds of love and connection?

In the weeks ahead the trees of the maple grove will begin to drop their leaves. I will drive by listening to music of my own choosing, not that negotiated by the junior member of our familial constituency. And it will be time, as Mr. Bowie reminds us, to ‘turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes’. Maybe I’ll stop. Gather leaves colored ginger, cerise and chestnut. Take them home to carefully press and preserve. Will it be enough to keep my heart filled even when the back seat is empty? I don’t yet know. But I’ll keep you posted.

No Man’s Land.

Thank you for braving this final frontier, boldly going where no man (or at least not your own father) has gone before.  You are an intrepid explorer, entering the wilderness of parenthood without GPS, Sherpa or map.

Thank you for entering the twilight zone, reading bedtime stories until the words dance behind your eyelids, waltzing a newborn in the wee small hours of the morning, groggily stumbling from bed even when the name a child calls out in the night isn’t your own.

Thank you for touching, creating connection through the tousling of hair, tossing up in the air, wrestling on the ground, hanging upside down.

Thank you for navigating the sublunary schedules of early morning dentist appointments, middle-of-the-day school conferences, evening coaches meetings.

Thank you for competing as an iron chef, baking cupcakes for birthdays, finding meal inspiration in near-empty frigs, and especially, especially for washing the dishes.

Thank you for stretching the bounds of fair play, watching your daughter in her little league games, and your son at his dance recitals, valuing the passions of each child.

Thank you for standing in our global village, teaching kindness and courage, equality of humanity, respect for our earth.

On this Father’s Day, thank you.  Thank you for the times you look up and the rock face appears too daunting, and you reach anyway.  Thank you for the times you are lost, and find your way back.  Thank you for the times the descent is steep and slippery and you fall, scraping pride and ego and still get up to try again.  Thank you for surveying unexplored boundaries, discovering pristine vistas, charting neoteric lands so the next generation of fathers know how to enter every man’s land.