Ain’t Got Time to Die

Hello, my name is Jennifer. And I have a problem with mindfulness.

In the quest to be mindful, I’m consumed by it. I’m so busy thinking about it, I don’t think I can achieve it. Two days ago, I wrote about the miniscule moments that eat up our day; how we don’t live because we’re completing chores and tasks that never end, but we keep trying to complete them anyway. True. But people like me never set boundaries, a point when reached, regardless of completion or ‘im’, I stop and begin to relax, enjoy.

Julie Metz also offered me another perspective in her book, Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal.

“Henry’s [Metz’ husband] idea of a perfect day was an action-packed race from waking to sleeping. He was afraid of the tedium of everyday life, with its chores and routines. Every real day, however, includes a portion of boredom.

I have struggled to resolve my own boredom through frantic mental activity or shoe shopping. In rare, blessed moments, I have understood that, with patience, boredom can lead to stillness and calm. And in calm, I can experience a meditation where I connect with my true self. I can greet myself with kindness, before I return to my work, parenting, and chores. These uncharted moments, whenever they happen, are as close as I have come to heaven.

Henry fought off every meeting with his true self, with all its flaws, contradictions, and talents.”

Am I, by not embracing the boredom and tedium, not meeting with my own true self? By mocking the replacing of the toilet paper roll, et al, am I missing out on whole chunks of my life? Mini-mental vacations I can take to realize, wonder, and reflect?

I can’t tell you the last time I was bored – unless you count depressive states when nothing is appealing. I often joke that I’d love to be bored, to have the opportunity to do nothing. Really, we can’t do something with our lives unless with take time to do nothing periodically. Am I physically and mentally capable of that?

The refrain of a song I heard long ago fills my head as I write this [My subconscious speaking or another sign that I can’t focus on one thing at a time ;-)] – “Ain’t Got Time to Die,” a Negro Spiritual I first heard sung by Terras Irradiant, a Christian acapella group from Amherst College.

Lord, I keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Ain’t got time to die.

I am so busy, but I think I’m filling my time with the wrong sorts of things. Or at least the balance is off. Focusing on the spiritual would make the crazy press of days fall away or at least lessen. The hectic pace would slacken, or wouldn’t bother me so much with moments of mindfulness to bring me back to center. My center as it relates to the greater world around me, my place in this great sweep of time and humanity called life.

How’s that for some high falutin’ thinking?

Now enough thinking, just be.

(Think I can follow my own advice!?)

(Don’t answer that!)

Living, Poetry, Spirituality

One

Disparate sources

Un-disjointed by you –

The common denominator

Umami

Ujjayi

States of higher being

Sizzling pan-fried hamburger

Time stops and you with it

Don’t be afraid

Let the universe hold you

I’ve got you, she says.

Let go.

You are the center from which infinitesimal spokes shoot out

But you are not the only one

Millions rotate through the atmosphere

Spun by One

Feel One thing at a time.

Living, Photography

Swinging into Home

It’s true that you wake up one morning and suddenly realize you’re a different person. In the midst of the transition, you’re usually at the bottom of some pit, miserable, whiny, and thinking the end will never be in sight. But even when you’re able to say definitively that a change occurred, you still can’t pinpoint exactly when it did. It just happened at some point and now things will forever be different.

We put up a swing set in our backyard. It was a grand neighborhood adventure. We purchased it from a neighbor whose children had outgrown it, but who had kept it in fabulous condition. He organized its transport to our yard, two houses over and one up. I met a neighbor – and his much-appreciated motorcycle-turned-tree-house-trailer – that I never had before. Two other neighbors brought their children to play and watch with mine while they helped the other men. The seller and his son stayed on to help my husband finish assembling it while the kids called to them, saying hello and ‘can we go on it yet?’ Many hands make light work and I was so appreciative of their efforts and how happy they made my children.

After the excitement died down and just our three children swung and my husband and I surveyed the scene, I realized it. I realized our life is forever altered. We are different people here.

But in a totally positive, wide-open way.

We ask for and accept offers of help from our neighbors. We relax on our porch and watch the trees blow in the breeze. We have places to sit and read, whilst our children do some other activity nearby. We have spots on the floor perfect for laying out vintage matchbox car tracks complete with loop-de-loops. We have hooks for towels. And room to swing around in the bathroom without smashing into some manner of porcelain. There are dormers and transoms and skylights and fanlights. There are angles and peaks, nooks and crannies.

Our entire perspective has changed.

The neighbor who sold us the swing set said it still feels like vacation even after living in his home for nearly two decades. The light, airy feeling of vacation is nice, wonderful indeed.

But looking at that swing set to the profile of our home beside it, I realize this plot of land, this place and time we’ve landed in is a dream come true. The realization of some nebulous idea I formed as a child.

Suddenly and unequivocally, this is home. I can’t say exactly when it happened, but I can now say with certainty, we are home.

It never is a straight path 😉

Living, Poetry

Miniscule Moments

The tiny tasks we do throughout the day.

The minutiae that eat up our time, but bear no importance to our conscience.

Pulling back the polka-dot cardboard piece to open the window atop the tissue box.

Placing items in the corner of the bottom step to fill shelves upstairs later.

Milk in fridge.

Bags in plastic column to be pulled out as needed.

A picture frame smashing to the floor, its glass front smashing into tiny pieces.

One clear shard a tiny scimitar slicing the terracotta tile.

There is life to be lived, but the slivers must be vacuumed.

And then the hose sniffs the crumbs just around the corner,

the detritus tracked in from outside –

grass clippings and unidentifiable pieces of bark

or dried stalks from dead flowers.

Stop.

There is always a mess to be cleaned up.

But time is limited.

We must be sure not suck our precious moments into the vacuum canister, lost forever.

Living, Photography

Moving Day

On the year anniversary of our moving day, the family traveled to two of the fall festivals we missed last year because we were schlepping boxes. Maybe because I’m a glutton for punishment and need to pack as much into a day as humanly possible (well, inhumanly, but I always did have unrealistic expectations) or maybe because I felt like I had to make up for time lost last year, we visited a farm open-house of sorts to celebrate their yearly press of apples for cider and then a local park arts-and-crafts-music-storytelling-farmers’ market-hayride-proceeds-benefitting-the-community-garden extravaganza. It was the quintessential New England fall day. The leaves and fields and skies just opened up in a beautiful way. In a way that they can nearly anywhere, I suppose, but which seems to be happening more since we’ve moved.

Gourd neighbors

I half expected Wayne Carini to come walking up

Beautiful buggers

Living

The Zen of Buddy

No errands for me. No languishing in stores simply because I’m sans kids and don’t have to hightail it out the door. Not even a cup of joe to go.

The plan today was head straight home after preschool drop-off, brew a cup of tea, and write!

There was the reflection I’d entered into my journal two nights ago to be expounded upon. There was the humorous quip forming in my head that I must look good because it’s been two mornings now that another mother has oh-so-discreetly done the smile to full-body-scan maneuver. Yes, the hem of my pants meets my shoes. And yes, I wear shoes everyday. Do you need a fashion report? Urgh.

Stuff, thoughts, words rattling – all waiting patiently for me to let them free.

Until, suddenly, a dog appeared on my horizon.

As I turned the corner to my street, I spied a big black lab trotting down the side of the road. I vaguely noticed something behind him and, maneuvering past another car coming the opposite direction, just assumed it was his owner trailing along. Upon closer inspection, I realized the dog was all alone and dragging along some manner of brush. Several families in our neighborhood have black labs and I did see a collar on him with a leash of some kind, so I figured he’d just gotten away on a walk. I pulled to the side of the road to waylay him until his master came down the hill.

Knowing the dog and I were strangers, I approached him slowly and talked in a friendly tone. He was happy to come sniff my hand, but just as happy to root his nose around in the grass, bushes, dirt and sand around us. Talking all the while to him about his predicament, I realized what I had thought was a leash was actually a lead, snapped right off its anchor in his yard, somewhere, and wrapped around what looked like a pine tree. It was small mind you, as far as pine trees go, but a good size for a dog to be dragging around. I still haven’t figured out if it was an actual tree or a good size limb and whether it had already been felled or if he’d snapped it right off in his furious escape.

I also realized that his owner was not coming down the hill. It was just me and Buddy, as I’d taken to calling him. Great, I thought, he jumped his lead, his owners are at work (and therefore not looking for him), and I have no idea where he belongs. I picked the first house I knew of that had a lab somewhat known for wandering. Their cars were in the driveway! Awesome!

Before I reached the door, I heard the calling and whistling. I couldn’t make out the name, but I knew it was Buddy’s master seeking him. Good news. Bad news. The voice echoed through the woods behind the neighbor’s yard in which I stood, which meant it was from another dead-end street nearly a quarter-mile away. To double-check my instincts and echolocation, I checked for Buddy’s identification.

Buddy was Bruschi and he did live on that presumptive street.

So Buddy/Bruschi and I set off, me coiling the plastic-covered wire around as many times as I could to rein him in and not get my hand cut off should he bolt, he happily and haplessly sniffing, peeing, bobbing, and weaving. I kept telling Buddy/Bruschi that we could not dally, could he not hear his master? He was worried about him. I hurried as best I could to assuage his master’s fears. I jogged as much as I could, Buddy/Bruschi excitedly keeping pace, but was glad after awhile for his pit stops. Though, he eventually made so many to leave his mark, I highly doubt he had any pee left.

I knew where Buddy/Bruschi’s street was, but wasn’t familiar with the house number. I checked mailboxes as he sniffed. Does this smell like home, Buddy? I asked. A man walking another dog approached and Buddy sped up. Oh, great, I thought, is Buddy/Bruschi one of those dogs that mauls strange dogs he meets on the street? I shortened the lead when the man started talking.

“Where did you find him?”

It took me a minute to realize this was Buddy/Bruschi’s owner. Obviously overcome with worry and relief at his return, he’d skipped formalities and headed straight to questioning. He was exasperatedly impressed with Buddy/Bruschi’s prowess at mowing down brush when I recounted how I’d found him. He asked how I’d known to come to his street, I guess forgetting in his mania that he himself affixed the tags with his address to Buddy/Bruschi’s collar. Good thing he’d thought of this precaution when he had a clear head. Then he introduced himself, ‘by the way.’ And thanked me profusely.

I removed my sweaty fleece and walked home, feeling like a good neighbor, a good citizen, able to problem solve and help others at the drop of hat – or pine bough, in this case.

I was glad I didn’t have to jog this leg of the trip, but I found that I missed Buddy. Maybe finding myself in the new situation of all three children in school at once has left me wanting someone to ramble on at incessantly. I most definitely used my singsong mom-voice with Buddy. It was nice to have someone to be responsible for, but who couldn’t talk back. A fun-loving companion. Someone to whom a roaming walk through the woods meant everything, every new smell a discovery, every moment a present (get it?). Buddy was completely present in the moment, though. I’m sure he heard his master calling, but if a mailbox suddenly presented itself, he was going to pee on it. If there was road kill to be sniffed, it would be sniffed gosh darn it. One thing at a time, people.

When I picked up my youngest daughter at preschool a very short time later, I told her I’d made a doggy friend. I want to make a doggy friend, she said. Well maybe we’ll take a walk and meet Buddy someday, I said.

You wouldn’t think meeting a dog determined for discovery this morning would make such an impression, but Buddy did.

Just keep running, just keep running . . .

Living, Photography

Scenes from a Sun-kissed Morning

The days are warm enough, the nights cool enough that each morning my girls ask me if it’s rained. Caught in a ray of sunlight, the fog tricks you into thinking it’s misting, which it is, I suppose. The dew clings to every angular surface.

I feel like a studio photographer!

So delicate. I love the texture of the buds and petals.

Living, Photography

Scenes from a Secret Neighbor

Walking in a woodland wonderland . . .
I have woods! In my yard! And the woodland creatures that come with!

Quite a difference from our little suburban plot.

After a hurricane, a blizzard, the taking down of six trees, and the impending purchase of a wood stove, we’ve got lots of wood laying around. Lots to chop, split, stack, etc. In the meantime, the piles have become part of the landscape. So much so, that little friends have moved in. This little guy peeking out is going to be supremely pissed when we clear everything out!

Can you see me now?

Children, Literacy, Living

Neville

It starts with a colorless world.

The only color comes from the belongings he’s brought with him to this foreign land.

An unsanctioned move, an unfamiliar school, and unknown classmates, who most certainly won’t become friends.

This is the bleak landscape in which a young boy finds himself at the beginning of the picture book, Neville, by Norton Juster.

At the beautifully gentle suggestion of his mother, he takes a walk down the street on the off chance of meeting someone. Reaching the end of the block, he looks skyward and bellows a name.

Neville

Is this the name of a friend he’s left behind? A pet who’s wandered off into this new neighborhood?

It’s unclear who he’s summoning, but first one, then a whole slew of children answer the call. They all begin to seek out Neville without even knowing who he is. Not exactly synchronized, but part of a collective effort to find this unknown friend.

“Hey, I don’t know anyone named Neville who lives around here. Is he new?”

“I guess so,” the boy said uncertainly. “Everyone has to be new sometimes, don’t they?”

The anxiously-sought-after Neville becomes a great source of curiosity, the children clamoring for information and hoping to meet him soon – though they’re pretty impressed with his friend, perhaps even more so than the mysteriously absent Neville.

Returning to his new house, it looks a little less bleak. Closing his eyes that night, his mother wishes Neville goodnight.

The surprise reveal of Neville’s identity is a clever twist. The entire book is a poignant look at the void a move can create; what is left behind is no longer accessible, but it’s unclear yet how to access the new resources available. The tentative way Neville approaches it all is such a realistic depiction – for children and adults alike experiencing a move. Readers will feel for Neville’s plight (even before we know it’s him), but not just because he’s a nervous kid; because he represents the ambiguity we all face when we experience a move.

We’ve all been tempted to raise our face to the sky and bellow our own name to see what comes back.

In the case of Neville, it’s all good.

Identity, Living, motherhood, parenting

Contemplative Meandering

It is 8:52 AM and I am alone in my house. I rush in with the usual sense of urgency, keys jangling, purse pulling on my arm, slouching the jacket off my shoulders and – what?

The light in the living room still has that early morning hush, shadows mixed with brilliant swathes of light. But it’s not just the light that’s hushed. The house is actually quiet. No talk radio emanating from the alarm clock radio my husband usually leaves on. No little voice accompanied by the thud of rubber-soled shoes in the middle of the floor.

The silence is deafening.

For the first time in, I don’t know, forever, I have two hours and 57 minutes to myself.

I could hand wash those clothes I’ve left languishing. I could peel the shower curtain liner from its moldy seal on the bathtub and scrub it. I could transfer summer to fall in my daughter’s clothes drawers without interruption.

Yes, those would all be worthy endeavors. Useful. Productive. Jobs easier done without little people becking and calling.

But for the first time I am alone in my house for longer than five minutes, is that what I should do with my time? It might be what I want to do, or feel I should do from some deep-seated guilt (Where does that come from anyway? Heloise’s shadow people?), but I know it’s not what I need to do. I need to decompress, to learn how to shut off these urgings when I actually do have time to myself. It’s such a foreign concept, my mind and soul freeze up at the suggestion.

And while I do write even on days my lovelies are around, it’s always with one ear to the ground. And one hand in the snack bin doling out goodies. And half my attention elsewhere. Either that, or I’m writing in such a small window that it is with a laser-like focus, barring out the kind of contemplative meanderings that we all need to do now and again.

So I’m contemplatively meandering.

That is a damn good goal in and of itself. That could sum up an entire bucket list in two succinct words.

But aside from writing, I do not know how to do that. I can feel the needle and thread pulling my hands. I hear the chipmunk squeaking in the woodpile. Even the mold growing and multiplying.

I may not achieve the ultimate level of transcendence today, but there is the desire. That is worth something, right?

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Living

Ain’t Got Time to Die

One

Swinging into Home

Miniscule Moments

Moving Day

The Zen of Buddy

“Where did you find him?”

Scenes from a Sun-kissed Morning

Scenes from a Secret Neighbor

Neville

Neville

Contemplative Meandering