Today, in the forest, the sound that echoed all around, even a half an hour into the walk, was that of my busy life. I was deep into the coming semester’s scheduling and the possible conflicts ahead with the juggling for time in days that have yet to arrive.
The trees, the birds, even the crickets who come out for every warm spell, were not very forgiving of the noises I brought into the woods – they asked me to let it go, already. They compelled me to sit a while on every bench made of fallen trees. They told me to listen. They called to me, endlessly, a distant longing at the edge of my compulsive mental mapping. I couldn’t stop. I could not find the wire that connected my ears to my perception – I was lost. Finally –
One tree stuck his tongue out at me and said, “hey lady,” (sounding a bit like a beastie boy). “We hear you and all your thoughts, but can you do this?” and he pointed to his naked branches stretching out in 10,000 different directions. “Hmmm? I grew out into this from just a little seed.”
Then next to him, another tree one upped us both. “Yeah, but can either of you hold onto your green all winter, even in the darkest and coldest of days?”
The heron perched nearby turned his back. He was above this playground banter. He glanced back at us over his shoulder. “Don’t drop down to her level, guys.”
There seemed to be some agreement to let me proceed on my way and to trust me to end my campaign to disturb the peace. Fields of stalking rice and grass, rooted in the deepest wisdom of mud, waved to me was I passed by, oblivious that there could ever be any other way.
The wind at last was able to toss me the rhythm of my breath by the time I had to go. He had been trying to to pitch it to me for over an hour. “Nice catch,” he offered. I caught that kindness, too.
I do have sympathy for the following monologue that was performed for me in real time on Friday:
Why can’t you be like other moms? Why don’t we have family friends like other families? Why don’t you have plans for the 4th of July? Why don’t we have a group of family friends who all get together for like bar-b-ques and vacations, dinners and stuff? Why doesn’t my life look like my friends on Facebook?
I should have stayed out of town. Why did I come home where I am unhappy? Why are you so happy being alone? Why can’t you find a step-father for me?
(Oh good lordy, on that last one.)
The 4th of July, so american, every holiday, really, brings up the pull of normalcy, the old and insidious lie of fitting in – and standing out – at once. To be like everyone else will bring happiness. To be liked. To be good-looking. To dress well – to say the right things – to have activities and people to surround us – to have photo opportunities every few hours – to package our lives in an understandable and compelling form. To be desired. To be outside of the flow of normalcy feels wrong. To be in the flow of normalcy feels wrong. It is an interesting place, to be comfortable with the flow, finally, now, but to live with others who are still in the searching mode, wishing all were different, wondering, Where is the postcard version of our lives?
I listen to the storms of discontent of teenagers who feel free to express themselves. The storms are dramatic and loud, but they pass. I offer a freedom that is so close that it is not even perceived. I offer a large space for the sound and fury, for the rage not against the machine but to be more part of the machine…
I am present and still – and content, even so (quietly so as to not intensify the suffering by the contrast).
Despite my lack of normalcy, the 4th of July dilemma works out beautifully! We jog/bike to the river, where the fireworks can be view from 240 degrees – and after our arrival, with no car to park – we find a spot on a floating dock inches from the rapid current – families, smiles, colorful explosions reflected in the dark water, together with our american brothers, yet doing our own thing, too. In serendipitous wonder, we stumble upon a restaurant with a young woman singing with her guitar and we split an appetizer and relax and talk before our jog/bike back home, late at night. We are whistled at from a car of boys and I question, Who are they whistling at? I know the answer, but it is funny to throw myself in the mix 🙂
Stepping out of the role of parent, teacher, wise one, can be tough when the voice of complaint wants a response and there is no response that pleases – I’ve tried them all.
When I talk, I imagine my voice often sounds like this:
Years move on in measured beats, bit by bit, ever changing, chinese water torture/pleasure drops; something new is coming around. Even if I think it is the same, it is not. A malcontent teen has to experience on her own, and her movement and turning may be slow and then suddenly fast – any snapshot is not the whole story.
Shift shift shift the angle of your boom and watch the wind fill up the sail, let the line go slack and watch the stillness hold you there at sea – never motionless even then. Learn along the way. Go below, stay above, jump overboard and swim with sharks, burn your skin, drink salt water, eat ramen and sardines for days. Drown and watch another avatar appear. Never Game Over – never never never – hell or heaven, every second, burn and rise, burn and rise – bread as flesh, loaves and fishes, fisher of men, age of pisces, dawning of aquarius, summer, fall, winter, spring, repeating yet never the same.
Stay in this vessel from ballast to the top of the mast, bow to stern, move throughout the river of time, see the full buffet – and do not skip dessert. Today, Chocolate Mousse for breakfast, pleasure in the unplanned days that bring bike rides and frog symphonies, and cheeky waiters, and organizing rooms, and found lost items, and rolling thunder, and fertile silence.
Ah life, said Emily Webb, you are too beautiful to imagine. Oh no, here are the actual lines: Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
― Thornton Wilder, Our Town
These words – a wave rising, not original, not profound, just a mass of water that wants to move up, then sink down again, again and again, for no reason. Living life, in the moments, in the sensations, hello.
Only one friend has ever told me her IQ; she had a high one, and she much identified with her quick comprehension and multiple, impressive degrees. I enjoyed her edgy sarcasm that felt refreshing amongst all the proper moms on the playground.
But her cleverness, after a few glasses of wine, became a cruel streak which she used to debilitate others and build herself up. She came into my life with a gift; she helped me to demystify the mind. She helped me see that being intelligent and well-educated did not lead one to happiness and heart opening. Obvious, I know, but up to that point, I had some faulty thoughts in this area.
She also helped me to detach from the importance of my own words. I remember the feeling of being hurt whenever I was cut off in conversation. This friend, in her verbal cruelty, showed me that a cut off in conversation might be a blessing, a break to take a breath, switch gears, a chance to be more mindful in our words. What this friend began in me has been furthered by my kids: they get so tired of my words and explanations.
They are always cutting me off.
They say to me all the time, “just tell me what you want me to do; don’t say because.” They want me to just say what I want, but not to say why.
Often, when I use an explanation for whatever I am asking, or doing, or thinking, there is no explanation necessary.
I am grateful for the reason to stop and just trust what they are telling me. For a while when they said to me, “Don’t say because,” I was confused…what does that mean? They were showing me that mostly the WHY is self-evident and over-explanation is tedious to listen to. Let me give an example:
“You really need to clean up your room because you have been losing things lately and your dirty clothes are not making it into the hamper to get clean.” Ugh. I don’t like even typing that.
They know all of this already. I can say: “Clean up your room. Put your dirty clothes in the laundry.”
Or better yet, “What do you think needs to be done in your room today?”
This over-explaning does not only apply to parenting. I am beginning to suspect it is more universal.
When Eden was sitting beside me while I was grading essays, she told me to stop explaining so much. I feel compelled to write out explanations to students telling them not only what is incorrect, but also explaining why it is incorrect and explaining how to correct. Goodness, overkill! “They don’t read all of that, mom. If they really want to understand, they will look it up or they will ask you.”
Something clicks inside of me.
Ah, explanations are a lack of trust!
I feel like I need to explain my actions or requests “because” I don’t trust you to get it; or I don’t trust myself in asking for it. I am not trusting my students to learn on their own when I offer all of this explanation. And the truth, they don’t read all of my statements; most just look for the number grade and move on. All that work, dust in the wind. 🙂
I am going to work on eliminating the word “because” in my home and at school and see if I can.
I think I will speak more clearly, more powerfully.
Life as Improv 