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Last night, walking at night in flip flops, I realized that the breeze felt … not harsh. Delicious. Summer really is here.
I love summer, but for the shuffle. It would be a wonderful season, were it not for the stress of what to do with children who are no longer occupied throughout the school day. With even the once-affordable YMCA camp topping $400 for two weeks of 9-3 fun for just one child, the options for sending the kids off somewhere for the day dwindle quickly.
So, when a meeting at work Friday required my presence, and I found myself stuck without a babysitter, I told the girls to get dressed, made a couple of phone calls, and headed toward my place of employment.
We dragged in a gigantic box full of art supplies, friendship bracelets in the works, a few snacks. The only thing lacking, as far as I knew, was space. Fortunately, a person in the organization that cohabits our building was out for the day, and the girls quickly set up shop in her office.
My boss walked in to see the kids, and was surprisingly ecstatic. His mantra since I started has been, “We are a human service organization,” and true to form, he set them up on his computer while we had our staff meeting. “You think this bothers me?” he asked, as he went on to tell me about his past experiences with children in the workplace.
The girls were real troupers throughout the morning, stayed relatively quiet as they romped around next door to the executive director of the neighboring organization. But around noon, all art projects were officially boring. Next time we’ll bring more to do, maybe find them work to do as they have for me in the past, assembling packets and mailings.
Maybe this all really will work out. I am looking for babysitters, but in the meanwhile, the best I can do is to work partly from home and fit the kids into my whole life—not just the non-professional parts. Who knows? They may even learn something.
Last year, in the throes of childcare inadequacies, a long commute, and impossible transportation costs, I figured out that I was spending more than I was making. I quit. Driving home from the big city in tears at my frustration over the whole situation, I wondered—as I wonder now—why do we do this? Why can we as a nation not figure out a way for families to be a part of our lives instead of a major inconvenience to the work week? Why can schools not be more understanding and accommodating to the needs of parents who have bills to pay, just as teachers do (but on an entirely different schedule)? Why do we have to spend so much money for otherwise unneeded things, just to keep the businesses running? The entire system just seems doomed from the start.
I have agonized over the coming of summer for weeks now. I do not want to lose my job. Summer is here, and I realized last night that I am glad it is warm, glad my kids are home, glad for the beach, and glad for my job, too. And about that… after all that worried me about my impromptu “take the kids to work day”…
After all my fretting, the thing that surprised me the most was that no one really seemed to mind. I worked, accomplished things. I calmed down, at least a little. When I really believe that for once I will not be admonished for having children but not the money to get rid of them, I will calm down a lot.
I am glad the kids can see the work I do, and even more, I am glad that they can see that they are not excluded from it.
I would be the first to admit that the chaos of my life sometimes requires an intervention. I can see where this chaos does not always fit the workday. It upsets those who have chosen to avoid such disruptions in their life, and some might argue that attending to children’s needs is not appropriate while trying to do another job. Sometimes I argue this point quite emphatically to my own children, particularly when I am on the telephone, and it is important, or enjoyable, and I want for them to get their own snack. Sometimes I feel my children are inappropriate, too. Still, tomorrow is Monday, and now, at 1:15 pm on Sunday, I still have not found a babysitter. So, working from home, maybe going in for a half hour to pick up papers and check in while kids wait, I can manage just that right now. And despite the interruptions, I have always managed to do a lot.
Some are restricted simply by the capacity to get to an office, to stay for eight hours away from home. Some have so much to offer to the world, if not for being locked away because they do not fit into the rules of the workplace. Some of us in this situation can do a lot, contribute a lot. Our lives are chaotic; the world is chaotic, and an efficient life simply cannot ignore this fact forever. Instead, imagine that we embrace that chaos, let it in. Maybe it is not as unworkable as we think.
Yesterday was Bloomsday. I remember my first attempt at reading Ulysses, carrying the book like a schoolgirl, close, and trying to hold onto the wildly accumulating words long enough for my brain to grasp some meaning in them. It was a long process for me, one that took place over years, not months. So, I recognized the words with sadness as Garrison Keillor read that passage yesterday on NPR’s Writer’s Almanac. He read, just before 9am, my coffee in the cup holder, while I was on my way to work.
No, no: these words are not for busy mornings. The inappropriateness is not so much that they are wonderful, gushing words, but they are the last of them in that novel. Their images, so full and inviting, made me long yesterday. For what? Damn. I had just fixed my face, just got ready. Damn bleary eyes. I hate these endings, knowing that words you read for the first time will never come back again in the same way, knowing that the next book will not be as satisfying, and with a long, difficult book, I hate leaving it after all that. Well…
It is also that time of year, when school ends with a flurry–no, a blizzard–of activity, with too much to do, far too much to do. And everyone else is rushing, too, just to make it to that end.
I always hate the end, hate the goodbyes, hate the disruption, the worries of how to manage time, manage children, how I can work and make things work. I hate not seeing the people who make life work for us, with us, during the rest of the year. I miss them. I miss the familiarity of the year, the schedule, the routine, and the surprises tucked beneath it all. It abruptly stops.
I wonder what this end will mean this year. It has been a year full of change already, and letting go of yet more feels so unwieldy. I wonder what will happen. I wonder…
And yet, this year, I want change.
It became all too apparent during the last week that life as I know it now is not the life I want to lead. I worked hard, which usually feels good. But this time, work seemed more of an escape than an accomplishment; too much to do felt like an excuse. Maybe days were too long, too little time spent with the things and the people that mean the most to me. I came out of it all feeling that the sacrifice was not a means to a better end for all of us. Money in the bank, eventually, perhaps, but at what cost?
The work is good, in theory–in practice, too, for the most part. I believe in it, and wish to do more in my role there, to make a difference. Maybe we all do. We all tend to wonder in frustrating moments where that fulfilling life is. It has long been my stoic family’s way to chastise dreamchasers… and yet, the absence of meaning has nearly destroyed me at times. So, when my coworker suggested that I may need to cut back hours this summer, or figure out ways to work from home more, I was surprised. There is always too much to do in the office. But then there is life, too.
Hearing those words from Ulysses, too, I realize that the sadness came from the overflowing sensuality that I long for, if only just a little. I long not for all of it, not for “the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar”, but I do crave the yes.
Oh, yes, this year has felt like such a year of no. I find myself clinging to endings, but now letting go, releasing the pain and frustrations, at least just a bit. Yes, I maybe do want pink and blue and yellow houses, and gardens, and yes, maybe I do want even more than I let myself wish for. Oh yes! I do crave the yes.
Mr. Bunny is going to be disappointed… or more likely, my kids are going to be sad not to see Mr. Bunny hopping around our backyard jungle. Why?
The jungle is gone. Anticipating today’s heat wave and the mosquitoes that normally come with it, I woke up early to pull the lawn mower out of the garage for the first time this year.
I realize it’s a little late, but if you saw my yard, you would understand how I have gotten away with not cutting the grass all spring. There is practically no grass. The yard itself is small, but not tiny, and it should have grass. Instead, it is a mixture of sand, rocks, mulched leaves, pine needles, and weeds. Oh…. and legos. Lately, though, the weeds have gotten a little high, providing nourishment for the rabbits, but a big, buggy mess for me. The time to cut had come.
Over the past several years, I have developed a thing for power tools. They come in handy for projects, and there is something almost cathartic about cutting things down, or blowing them away, making holes in them, sanding them smooth. I am a year older and wiser now, and I have started buying my own peonies again, and have more or less given up on the idea of finding true love. So, in the spirit of do-it-yourselfness, I find myself enjoying these little moments of accomplishment more than I resent them, much to the disbelief of my mom and brother. It is true that they were the ones watching This Old House while I headed out the door on whatever night that show was on, but I did absorb a few things. Or at least, I have Google.
I didn’t need Google or This Old House just to mow the lawn. For one thing, I never recall a discussion of lawn mowing, or the importance of removing legos from the yard before mowing. Amazing how big a bruise those little plastic bricks can make! I finished, and swept up (could not justify getting out the leaf blower). I scraped more paint off the front porch (which is almost ready for the new coat). A shovel (or the leaf blower) may have been a more appropriate tool than a broom in my daughters’ room. Nonetheless, the past-due book (Roald Dahl’s The Twits, if you are curious) has been recovered, and no one will be hiding in the school bathroom during library this week.
It is after 10:00 on a warm Saturday night, and I find myself self-sufficient, happy to have a fresh-cut yard, a few loads of laundry folded, a shoveled-out room, groceries in the kitchen. I am happy, but also a little… Well, words escape me. I love my house, love my kids, love life.
But really, is this all there is? I do cherish the bunnies that hop into my yard, the delicious feeling of heat that overwhelms me, makes me feel lazy, and then invigorated when the cool shower water hits my face. I love the haze after rain lets loose unexpectedly, and the evening that becomes balmy.
Yes, I do love all these things, but somehow today I find myself noticing the absence of a smile returned, or a gesture offered. I miss kisses, words, laughter. I miss breaths, heartbeats, steps. I miss things I have never had, and maybe I miss things that do not exist. In all the busy days that run together with no time left for anything at all outside of the bare necessities of life, I find it hard to stop—there is always more to do—and I wonder again, is this really all there is?
I love this life, this beautiful, imperfect life.. if only to know it, to wallow in it… but yes, I need more than power tools and a never-ending list of things to do. Passion, trust, fun… I want these things, too. I need them. And resignation never got me more than … resigned. Well, I am not quite ready to give in to cynicism.
Tomorrow is a new week.
“Heavenly shades of night are falling,” indeed.
I am shivering, holding onto a cup of hot tea on my back step, spoiled after the summer like conditions that woke up the trees this week.
It is quiet here, a different house without movement or voices, but nice for one evening.
Just before I took this picture, the neighborhood was cast in dramatic shadows, as the sun peeked out from behind clouds that have now disappeared. The sun has gone now, too, and this light is all that remains of the day. The leaves of the Japanese maple opened just a little today, promising more.
More. More spring, more warmth, more quiet, more voices, more love, more “rendezvous beneath the blue,” more you, whoever you are, wherever you are, more.
Spring. Yes, it is here, really here, in full bloom, literally, making me wonder if. If ever.
It is supposed to be just talking, just talking, and then, it is not. We are no longer talking, the room is warm, warmer than before, too warm—and yet, just right—and I know he is going to, think he is going to, want him to, am not sure (can anyone ever be really sure?) that I would want this to stop.
And yes, it would be wondrid and splenderful, and would it be too much like a teenager to say I would never wash again? Yes, of course it would, but it never hurts to think it.
It must be spring.
I love walking in the woods. I hesitate to call it hiking, because I’m rarely in search of a summit, or conquering some trail. I hesitate to call it birding, because I feel none of the obsession or competitive spirit that I associate with that particular pastime. My fascination is neither botanical in nature, even if I like trees and other plants, know some of their names. I just like the woods, and I always have. It started before I even remember, way back in the wilds near Route 66 as it winds through St. Louis.
Route 66 was a wondrous thing when I was younger, but its true appeal was not a Target, or a strip mall, or a subdivision—which is apparently what people (or a market survey group) wanted, or at least did not argue. It is largely that whole thought process—the apathy for special things—that made me leave St. Louis when I did. Not that it is really different in other places, but it felt so personal twenty years ago. The drive-in movie theater—the first movie I saw was there—gone to build a huge grocery store. Shopping galore, chain restaurants, anything unique obliterated by the brightly colored coziness of a ubiquitous logo—could we really need more? I hear things about my hometown, and they sound nice. Could it have changed now? Would I like it better now, or would I cringe at the thought of I sometimes wonder, but it is no longer my city.
When I was younger, though, one of the great things about riding a bike down 66, or Laclede Station (which ran next to it) was that in the hot St. Louis summers, there were many areas of shade. Full stretches of land were undeveloped, still wooded. That was my backyard.
The old binoculars were kept on the shelf of the hall closet, often not handy enough to catch a clear view of whatever bird was pecking or perching on the oak tree down the hill. Still, we looked. Birds were important, it was clear from early on, and a sighting of something unusual would often result in an exchange of ringing telephones.
“Look outside! The flickers are back,” our neighbor Jean used to call.
“Did you see the great barred last night?” my mom answered.
“Mama mallard is down in the creek,” we all noticed while out in the backyard.
Our house was set on a hill, an ordinary ranch with a walk-out basement to a small backyard on a terrace, then down the rest of the hill to the creek. Beyond the creek was a large, level wooded area, which we were not supposed to explore—a rule we respected for quite some time—but the creek was open for exploration.
The creek was rarely full of water, though it could fill quickly in a downpour (we were caught a few times on the wrong side of one of those). There were still areas that were usually wet, some great for wading, which was our main pastime before we were allowed to wander farther. There were interesting rocks, sand, fallen branches. It was a great playground, one that grew as we grew older. It wound around forever, it seemed, went under Laclede Station Road at some point, and on to Watson Road, which is Route 66. I once tried to follow it to the River Des Peres, because someone told me that’s where it went.
The woods behind the creek were private property, but it was understood after some time that no one would stop us from being there. A ways down, the creek leveled off, anyway, and wandering was irresistible. A dead tree covered in vines, endless ground cover all around, no houses anywhere in sight: the area invited birds of all sorts. It was a wonderland. I had my favorites. Flickers, wrens, the owl, the occasional pileated woodpecker. I could walk for hours, often did, often found myself heading off instead of doing homework, exploring until late at times, until dinner was ready, or it was getting dark, or until I absolutely had to be back. For some time, my cat came along. She was sort of a wild thing, never warmed up much the way the Siamese kitties always had, but she followed me like a dog through the trails.
For all the time in those woods, I rarely saw another person. Occasionally someone was throwing grass clippings from one of the bordering yards, or a few kids wandered on their own creek adventures, but it was after the era when the high schoolers were avidly seeking that much privacy in wooded areas—maybe the thorns and bugs didn’t go with pink and green. The wildflowers sprouting up in spring, the leaves in fall, the barren cold brush where birds still hid, my own dreams—they were a private oasis.
The owner of the property lived in the area, but not on it. At one time, my dad entertained the thought of buying part of it, but never did. Instead, the owner eventually sold all of the land to a religious charitable organization—a move that sealed the land’s fate ultimately. It was developed, but despite (or maybe because of) the vehement opposition some residents expressed against the project, the cottages that were built were nowhere near as destructive to the woods as the budget castles and strip malls that popped up as land was clear cut on the other side of Laclede Station. I imagine, actually (and it astounds me to hear myself say this, as much as I disliked the idea of development at all), that those cottages are quite wonderful, surrounded as they still are by the trees and birds.
I am far, far from those days now, but woods still call me, birds do, trees do. I don’t have woods in my backyard now, but I find places, anyway—it is vital!—places to wander, explore, to remember and regenerate: places simply to rejoice the world and all its small and everyday wonders.
Now, finding fresh snow, I’m not sure I was ready for a new season, anyway. In fact, the snow is lovely, the day sublime.
This afternoon, I walk in newly cleared streets, not so cold, the old piles of snow that lingered through last week’s warmth new again, covered in softness. The sky is white, the world is white again, cushioned by the pale, puffed snow.
I like this, like this layered lightness, blurry at first glance, but distinct on closer inspection. Scents layer upon the clean slate: wood fires and restaurants. Sounds of the street are muffled, but only slightly, still fading faster.
I need this moment, one more moment, before spring. I need icicles and sweaters and just once more.
I find today’s thunder soothing, like a cup of hot tea, like promises of spring sometime, hope—always hope.
The rainfall comforts, acknowledges the absence, washes away the cold snow that covered the gap left behind, the unanswered questions—cold snow, no virgin snow now, but a tired, stained white spot in my yard, now nearly melted, dirty leaves settling into the yard, becoming a part of it. Beneath the snow, somewhere, spring.
My little girl asked me this morning if I knew what she liked about rain. She said she likes that thing that happens when one drop falls on a quiet puddle, and it all spreads out. Rushing through the streets, late, I was surprised she noticed the change in the water, but it made me slow down, look at it, look at her again, just look.
Ripples cut through the surface of a lake, and yet the lake remains.
When you have gone without rest for a long, long time, mere pleasure can seem decadent. So I discovered, as I rested over a two-week break. Back in the swing of life, kids in and out, the routine starts again, but for today, I rest. Just one more weekend to relax with friends, to sleep, to dream.
I think this now, as I lie around with my balcony door open just a little, a breeze blowing in. I have managed to darken the room enough to induce sleep. A bath helps, too. Which aromatherapeutic wonder is by the tub today? Ah… jasmine and myrrh. Sure, that’ll work. I love my huge bed, soft sheets. This is just about perfect in my book. Lou Rawls is telling me that I’ll never find another love like his, and I don’t care, although you’ve got to give the man credit for persuasive arguments. It’s not anywhere near the midnight hour.
In fact, it is just past 1:00 pm. That means afternoon. And here I am, about to fall asleep for a while in the early afternoon of a beautiful, near-fall day. I love this time of year.
Yes, decadent.
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Now playing: Lou Rawls - You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine
via FoxyTunes
Hello. It is evening, dark already by 8:00. School started today, the official end of summer as we know it.
Fall is by far my favorite season.
I was browsing through pieces from the past, and came upon this one, from last year. I remember the day, and it was indeed glorious. It makes me anticipate all the more the season we approach in September…
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In some unknown corner along rows of apartment buildings, I found the banks of the Charles River, coated in sunlight, dappled by the shadows of trees blowing in the wind. It was no longer the soft breeze of summer, but a crisper wind of cinnamon and crimson, of school days and football games, of sweaters and hot, milky coffee. Canoes lay overturned throughout the woody marshes, like the toys of distracted children. It was there that I sat, watching the walkers and wanderers, I myself meditating on the wonder of autumn and that symbolic repetition of the seasons. Now we were in the time of year when things begin to fade and die, and for years I had always rejoiced in that. Something in the leaves, the smell of it, the busy, musty beauty of it, always seduced my senses like nothing else, like a fire, like hands beneath my sweater, touching my skin and making me shiver, both from the cold and from the excitement of feeling bare skin so deliberately against mine. Summer revealed too much; spring was too new. But the maturity of fall, covered, but gloriously so, always felt right to me.
So I felt a sense, too, of remembering and renewal before winter’s cold settled in. As the trees turned to red and gold, I threw bread into the river—not a tradition I grew up with, but one that friends share. It seems to fit so well. There I thought about the last year’s amazing changes, the regrets and hardships that gave me so much wonder and mystery. It is from there that I look for new beginnings.
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Song of the day: “Sand River,” Beth Gibbons with Rustin Man
It’s the end of July. Hard to believe. I slept very little last night, thinking, and took a drive this afternoon so I could try not to. A tree on the north side of town had given in to the tinges of red and yellow, and the air had that feeling of letting go.
Right now, at 8:30, it is already dark. I hear my kids upstairs, reluctant to go to bed, but soon, they’ll give in to sleep, as well. It is still warm outside. The sun blazed through the day, leaving bronzed, happy campers for me. The air conditioning is still running a little. But summer is getting tired.
Crow’s feet and laugh lines mark my face, remembering joy, remembering more sweet than the joy itself, I do believe. It is bittersweet, thinking of spring’s promise, dreams, wonders. I love this, love this time when summer is quiet. The fireworks have dwindled, the swimsuits faded, the glories exhausted. It is time for August.
When I was younger, I used to swim laps. I still like to. I rode my bike every night to the pool, an hour before it closed at 8:00. In early summer, I always hit all sorts of younger kids dodging through the lap lane. By August, they were mostly gone. The pool was mostly empty, in fact, save another addicted swimmer or two and a lifeguard. Back and forth, I used to swim that hour before they blew the whistle. Back and forth, I hit the rhythm that took me to another world. Back and forth, summer slipped by. The whistle blew, and I used to pull off my goggles to see the orange sun low in the west. I got on my bike and rode the same streets home, through the football field parking lot, to the street that jogged before Chestnut, to Selma, then Florence, Edgar Road and up the hill to home. It was almost dark by then, and I used to have ice cream sometimes, read, write, dream. Nothing could bother me there, in the water-induced peace I had found, looking out the window at the stars, listening to the radio, and figuring out who I might become someday.
Tomorrow is August, the beginning of the end of summer. The best time. The time we remember our real lives, left hanging through the never-ending days of June and July. We remember, but we do not retrieve those lives completely… not quite yet. Farmers markets. The people we love. Practices, but no games yet. Coming home. Plans for the future, but the date book is hardly filled. Another dive off the deck, more cherished because it is nearly the last.
Tomorrow is August. Savor it.
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Now playing: Bebel Gilberto - August Day Song
via FoxyTunes
