Clothes strewn on the highway
Crumpled masses of cotton,
t-shirts, shorts,
a tent of denim
Spurned just like their owner,
a lover spurned,
a woman scorned
Flung from the window with reckless abandon
but in effigy
isn’t as edifying
as the real thing
“May I go outside and play?” Shau-yu asks.
“I need you to go to the store first,” her father replies.
On My Way to Buy Eggs by Chih-Yuan Chen starts simply enough. In this father-daughter exchange, it seems Shau-yu’s intentions for the day are reversed, but her trip to the store becomes the play, not a postponement of it. She chases shadows, greets neighborhood animals, transforms found objects into treasures and the back alley ways of her surrounding area into magical places. Imagination allows her to see her ordinary path in a new light – that and the discovery of a blue marble and lost pair of glasses.
The everyday nature of this story is where its power lies. Not only does it showcase childlike wonder and the power of play, On My Way to Buy Eggs proves that life occurs in the small moments. The true experiences occur in the in-between.
Shau-Yu returns home at the end of the book. The two final pages of the book, a spread of illustration, show her playing in the background while her father prepares supper with the eggs in the foreground. The wordless scene incorporates all the facets of her journey. Whimsy and the necessary intersect. Real life and the imaginary merge.
Children form identity through a sense of belonging, a place to call home, a combination of play, responsibility, and autonomy – all of which Shau-Yu encounters on her way to buy eggs.
Putting a woman who has given birth three times, the last time nearly splitting her in two, on roller skates probably isn’t the best idea. But that’s what I did this past weekend at my friend’s daughter’s birthday party.
My eight year-old was fine once she remembered what she’d tentatively learned at other parties, but my four and six year-olds needed assistance and my there was no way my husband was getting out there. The last time he skated was the ice variety and let’s say the ice nearly melted from the heat of pain-induced oaths he uttered. Plus, I enjoy skating. I loved it as a girl, forcing the wheels over the pebbly asphalt of my street, gliding along the multi-layered laquer of roller rinks. There was a freedom and euphoria in the way the wind pushed my hair back and the music thumped as I floated along. I thought I was the cat’s pajamas when I mastered cross-overs.
But that was when I was young and nimble; limber and loose.
The other day I used muscles I hadn’t used since childbirth – or at least since the physical therapy following childbirth to put me back together. Keeping my feet from drifting too far apart, I had to pull those adductor muscles to attention and, oh, that got my attention. I managed to haul my foot over for one cross-over before I felt the other one start to slide out. The thought of my pelvis in the aftermath if I ended up in a split on the floor was enough to dissuade me from trying any more. My groin muscles were already pulling; I didn’t want to strain any of their neighbors.
But, when one of my girls took a break, or refused to take my hand, I would speed up, feeling the familiar rush of air. My godson, brother of the birthday girl, took a shine to the disco ball at the center of the rink and kept gravitating toward it whether he had skates on or not. When his father went out to be sure he stayed in the center, out of the melee of circling skaters, an impromptu dance party popped up. His brother and sister, my girls, and husband sans skates, joined us and grooved to Daft Punk disco-style. It still had the same effect as my favorite Michael Jackson song way back when.
I don’t know if it’s the act of skating itself or the associations it engenders, but it’s a whole lot of fun. There’s no way I could last as long as I used to when I could feel myself rolling around the rink even after I’d taken off my skates. And I’m sure my body wouldn’t forgive me either if I tried. But as the birthday girl asked me as she rolled by, “How’s your skating going? Is it going good?”, I can say, “Yes, yes it is.”
Apparently I’m drawn to morbid and depressing children’s books. Save a sweep of the memoir section on our walk in, the children’s section is the only one I get a chance to truly explore while at the library. So perhaps it is some deep-seated need for adult content even if it must come in child format.
Ironically, I try to keep my ‘child’ selections from my own children, keeping them with my books rather than their stack of picture books. But if they look like ducks . . . my kids expect them to waddle like ducks and inevitably find them.
One such duck is Under the Big Sky by Trevor Romain. The main character is sent on a journey by his grandfather, approaching the end of his years, to discover the secret of life. If he does so, the boy will receive all of his grandfather’s riches. Not a bad carrot to waddle after, and so, the boy sets off, querying objects, animals, and people as he goes. The answers he collects are rich examples of metaphors, which present wonderfully teachable moments for young readers in trying to suss out both their literal and figurative meanings.
Understandably, there is no one easy or straightforward answer. Expecting that there was one, the boy becomes discouraged. He finally crosses the world and many years, searching. Upon his return to his grandfather (who, honestly, I was surprised had not died by this point), he reports that he has not found the secret of life.
“But you did find it,” said his grandfather. “Your journey itself was the secret of life. And along the way you have learned everything you will need to enjoy a full and rich life.”
And so the boy does attain his grandfather’s riches; in fact, he had them all along. As do all of us on this journey of life. Apparently it takes an adult reading of a child’s book to remember this. Who knows? Perhaps if children do read books like this, they will discover the secret sooner.
I ordered a gift subscription to an inspirational magazine for my great aunt last year. I signed myself up for their email newsletter as well. Free spiritual advice and inspiration? Why not?
Over the year, I’ve amassed quite a collection of unread inspirational emails. Their subject lines lure me enough to prevent deleting them, but not to click and read. Usually, I save them to read at another time when I can devote my undivided attention to them. We know how that usually goes. It would be better to do a cursory review, pausing on a point that piqued my interest, rather than not at all. Plus, most times, the title is the most appealing part of the missive, much like a short story that does not live up to the promises its title made to its readers, which I would find out if I took two seconds to glance at it.
Still, I let the siren song of one entitled “The Secret to Happiness” captivate me and I clicked – not right away, but the other day I finally did. There’s a simple secret to happiness? Do tell. I must apply this magic solution as a salve to my weary soul. My cynical side did cry out, saying it’s a spiritual newsletter, you dolt. Of course, they mean to pray and worship and turn everything over to God – like you’ve been avoiding doing, but know you should. You already know the secret to happiness, but refuse to do anything about it. But, like most weak humans, I would much rather find a simple solution outside myself than do any real work inside myself. I viewed the video expectantly.
Surprisingly, there was no explicit reference to spirituality except for one man’s personal testament in which he cited Jesus Christ as his Savior. However, there were allusions to spirituality all over it; transcendent precepts such as gratitude, thoughtfulness, mindfulness, treating others as you’d like to be treated. By not directly referring to it, the filmmakers even more strongly prove that spirituality must be woven into the fabric of everything we do, every interaction. It must be innate, unconscious. It will lead us to things like gratitude, which apparently is the secret to happiness.
The day that I watched the video, I had tried three times to get a snarky post out of my system. While not full-strength, there was still some venom bubbling in my veins from residual stress and I wanted to purge it. But the fits and starts of writing and watching of this video gave me pause. Maybe what I needed to get it out of my system was to shift my mindset and get grateful! Being so gosh-darn cranky, I wasn’t feeling it and I sure as hell didn’t feel like writing a letter to the person I was most grateful for, let alone calling them to read it. But maybe just the shift in the current, the river rock blocking the stream, can divert enough to at least create the space for a change.
However, if in the meantime you should come across any quick-fix secrets to happiness, let me know 😉
I dropped some balls.
Not all of them. In fact, there were some added ones more involved than the usual ones. I’ve been getting a lot accomplished, doing a lot. But it’s hard to see the progress when some of the more essential tasks have fallen by the wayside.
Sleep. Sinus health. Writing. Clean dishes.
It seems like the mania that accompanies summer weekends has followed me into fall and beyond. And chock full days are not conducive to sleep, when late nights are the only chance for a quiet respite. And hay fever season compounded by a deviated septum and lack of rest, forcing of fluids, and neti-pot usage is just nasty.
The treadmill I’m on seems to have unrolled and stretched to the horizon like a ribbon of roadway.
I need to say no. I need to relax. I need to prioritize.
But, aside from the mundane daily requirements, a lot of what we’ve been doing is fun.
I was bone-tired by the end of last week and the attendant bunkbed mania that ensued. And I’m still digging out of the misplaced objects and displaced duties that occurred as a result. My chi is not where it needs to be. And it snowed for the first time today and my husband is leaving for a business trip. And I’m a worry-wort who does not take things one at a time.
But I stayed in my pjs till early afternoon yesterday and wrote an exciting short story in its entirety. I’m catching up on laundry and the pile of dishes in the sink is not as high as it was. Only one half of throat hurts now and I’m not drowning in mucus. My daughters are thrilled with their three-quarters of the way done big top bedroom. And tight squeezes from beloved family members feel even better when your body is battered and broken.
After all, the object of juggling is not to hold all the balls at the same time, but to rotate and transfer them, holding each one only lightly at a time
In the inbetween time,
the meantime
when you wait for the pain to stop,
the congestion to clear,
something to pass.
Long periods of indecision
followed by a flurry of panicked action.
Exhaustive measures
after exhausting nothingness.
The miserable day isn’t helping –
a logy stasis trapped in time.
Meanwhile, the next generation is languishing.
The one you thought was safe.
The one you thought could pull from those before and after her.
She is trapped in her own middle space.
And you can’t pull either one of you out.
Two nights ago I stayed up until two in the morning searching for Ikea hacks.
Yes, that is correct. I deprived myself of precious sleep to troll the internet for the most perfectly imperfect set of bunk beds I could find.
I’m in that seasonal state of flux that rolls around every 3-4 months. This time the feelings are even more urgent because ‘winter is coming’ (at least I don’t have to deal with white walkers – thank goodness!) and everything – our minds, our activities – turns inward.
I’m starting to notice that maze of boxes I left in the basement after a summer scavenger hunt; the piles of clothes that need to be sorted into bins after leaving the drawers to be filled with sweaters and fleece that -just-won’t-fit (at least if I want the drawers closed!); the clothing, supplies, books, toys . . . that my children are starting to outgrow that don’t need to be junking up the joint.
In this sorting and stowing maelstrom, the need for bunk beds in the room my middle and youngest daughters share is making itself vehemently known. As if the insistent reminders of my middle daughter would let me forget. 😉
In my dreams – that’s right I said MY dreams – I would get a bunk with a rock wall to scale the top bunk, a slide to descend, and a secret nook below. If not for the problem of maintaining a marital bed, I think that would still be my ultimate dream bed – regardless that I’m supposed to be grown up. Alas, I don’t think my husband is looking to relive his days on a tight bunk on a Coast Guard ship. Besides, I can’t afford and/or justify the exorbitant price tag.
If you can afford or justify it, get one – they’re gorgeous!
Bunk beds in the midrange are still overpriced for the level of quality the consumer receives. Wood? MDF with a veneer that looks sickly plastic? Weirdly placed slats and drawers? So I figured, since I’m not going to get what I want, I may as well make the price a little more tolerable.
Enter Ikea.
But I’m stubborn and still trying for the extra storage and whimsical details of other bunks I’ve seen and so went searching for hacks to make my own. If my bedtime that night is any indication, I did not find one. Some of them looked like hacks. Some of them would work for a college student used to precarious positions, but not for my rowdy children (especially on the top bunk). Some of them included far too much carpentry for my tastes. So I guess that makes me lazy and cheap and incredibly hard to please.
I almost broke up the marital bed even without my dream bunk because my husband was none too happy with me when I finally crawled in. Call it my seasonal nesting, I could not rest until I’d found a solution (or given up in defeat that morning). It’s driving me nuts that the current system is not working and yet I can’t find a satisfactory replacement.
Then the neon postcard from a local charity came in saying they would be making the rounds soon to collect. That’s all I needed. I went into hyperdrive, stockpiling all I could to clear it out!
If I can talk my father into going to Ikea with me while you’re at work, I can get the bunk and we can break down the crib and donate that. And the mattress. And the crib sheets and the crib set . . .
Maybe it’s reverse nesting. But that’s another post.
If you’ve learned nothing else from this post: Know that bunk beds are ridiculously overpriced and one should not shop for one during a seasonal stir-up or under the effects of extreme sleep deprivation. Happy Purging and Dreaming!
Amazing description of that feeling of wanting to jump out of your own skin. And so reassuring that it’s not some freak occurrence on my mommy part.
“My life was mostly touch in those days. . . All day long I touched the clean plates and bowls as I put them away, and the children’s heads slimy under shampoo in the tub, and the softness of their faces, and the scrape of poop off their goose pimpling backsides, the hot noodles, the heavy wet laundry as I threw it into the dryer, and the brick front steps as i sat reading to myself for eight minutes while they played just beyond the page in the prickling new grass, and then when one of them fell down I touched the grass and the mud and the scraped knee, and the sticky Band-Aids, and the wet cheek, and my jeans, and the dangling shoelace.” — Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves.
I used to think of myself as an affectionate person. At least I don’t remember being repulsed…
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A woman told me the story of her mother, who found faith late in life. She had fallen away from God prior to becoming a mother and her children never saw her as a practicing person. Around the time this woman began having children of her own, her mother rediscovered her faith in a fervent way. No matter what trial befell her, she turned to God and leaned on her faith to see her through. She went from a woman intent on controlling every single factor of her life with an iron grip to someone willing to trust that God would take care of it and her as He saw fit.
I met this woman five minutes before she told me this story. I had no right to delve deeper into her personal family story – and yet I was transfixed by this last detail of her story: she relinquished control, fully. Like that. With a snap of the fingers, it seemed. And so, the words escaped my mouth before my mind realized what a prying question it was: What happened to enact this absolute turnaround?
The woman gave me an abbreviated, antiseptic version of her family’s history precipitating the change, which made both of us squirm a little, I think, sharing such personal details within minutes of meeting. But my burning desire to know trumped my sense of propriety because as far as I was concerned, this woman has achieved a miracle!
I’ve practiced my faith my entire life. There were times it was stronger, of course, but it’s always been there, God has always been there waiting for me. I say waiting because, increasingly, as I get older and more responsibility gets piled on or taken on, I whir into hyper-drive control mode. As much as I know slowing down and ‘letting go and letting God’ will make life a whole lot easier and enjoyable, I can’t. Can’t be done. Not gonna do it. I don’t think it’s a trust issue. I think it’s part of my perfectionism. No, I don’t think I can do things better than God; I just need to take my best crack at it or I think I’ve failed.
So, if I, as someone who considers herself a faithful lifetime follower of Christ and God, cannot relinquish control and this woman did so seemingly with the flip of a switch – what in God’s green earth is wrong with me? (Besides taking the name of the Lord in vain, of course)
How do I let the proverbial water roll off this duck’s back?
I wanted to hold this woman – or better yet, her mother – upside down and shake her till answers poured out her pockets. Alas, it wouldn’t work – never mind the lack of upper body strength and desire for assault charges – for I know the answer resides elsewhere. Somewhere deep inside the silence of my heart. That silence I haven’t been able to access in quite some time.
Chopping Potatoes 