Tentative

Here I am, standing in a small corner, looking out a giant expanse of possibility. It's wide and bright and I can't make out the details except what's in front of me, small things, 4 mile runs and vintage books and fresh coats of paint.

So I will take a step forward and name the things I see waiting before me, the things I can reach and hold or pass by and observe, but either way, moving forward.

Make books out of Mad and V's blogs.
Send children's story off to publisher.
Work on the Cactus Black and Cactus Pink story.
Become an expert in three different areas.
Go to Iceland.
Run a marathon.
Learn a language.
Create a living space for my family with intention, a place for us.
Take kickboxing lessons.
Institute Savory Sundays, where every thing we eat is delicious and thoughtfully prepared and good for you.
Have a garden that produces leafy greens, lots of tomatoes and onions. At least.
Get crafty again.
See Chris Bathgate live.
Tour the northeast at the peak of fall colors.

To be continued.....

I finish reading "The Geography of Bliss" while sitting on the bathroom floor at about 9 p.m., waiting for Madeleine to pee and/or have a bowel movement. Preferably the latter. As I read the last paragraph, Madeleine keeps making silly noises, kicking her feet and chuckling to herself. I look up from my book and scrunch my face at her. She stares at me in surprise for a second, eyes twinkling, then she bursts into delighted laughter. I smile and look down at my page. As I'm reading the last sentence, she asks me, "Are you happy, mama?" She asks the question like she knows I am.

"Well, yes," I respond, closing the book. "Why do you think I'm happy right now?"

"Because you're reading your book," she says.

"Yes, that's right," I say. "Reading this book makes me happy. But you know what else?"

"What?" She looks at me expectantly.

"I'm really happy because you are making funny noises, and when you laugh it makes me happy."

"Uh huh," she nods, like I was just confirming something she already knew.

I reach out and poke her tummy, and she laughs again. "I love you," I tell her.

"I love you, too, Ducky," she replies.

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My happiness is here, in this house, this bathroom, this moment where I am not angry because Madeleine is delaying bedtime, exasperated because she doesn't pee or poop, frustrated because I fully expect her to go back to her room and poop in her diaper. My happiness is just letting the moment be what it is, a quiet, gentle time that it is not at all ideal, but fine nonetheless. More than fine. Her brown eyes so bright they sparkle.

freewrite 3

There are dishes to wash and I just don't want to wash them. I keep returning to them over and over, washing one dish and then wandering away to do something else. So I guess I do want to wash them. No, that's not right. I want them clean, but I don't want to put in the effort. I think this is probably the root of every single problem in my life.

::::

Mad's wearing butterfly tights and Lightning McQueen rainboots. She's also wearing fairy wings. Violet's in purple plaid tights and cherry rainboots. Violet's running through the muddy puddle in the driveway, while Mad pokes mud nearby with stick, digging it deep, looking for worms. I'm on my back in the driveway, staring up at the sky - just turning blue again after three straight days of rain - and breathe in the air, the wind: it feels like fall again. A squirrel high in the tree above me keeps sending down acorn after acorn to hoard for the winter. He chatters at us.

Even though I'm sure it will be hot tomorrow, even though I'm sure that summer's not gone yet, I can tell from this moment, this wind, that fall is coming, and it's enough. "It's a perfect day," I tell my girls, sitting up to help Mad find worms. I dig and dig, uncovering fat, squirming worms and tiny thin ones, and drop them one by one into Mad's waiting, eager hands. Violet picks up clumps of dirt and drops them into Mad's worm container.

I think this is probably the root of every good thing in my life.

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It's cliche to start anything with rain, so I'll start with the car, humming warmly in the onslaught. I'll start with the headlights in the gloom and the slices of drops they illuminate. I'll start with the sound of rain rushing over metal, shooooooosh, and all the quiet in between, and the still. My daughter spent half the night tonight trying not to sleep, working herself into a frenzy over thunder, and part of the time crying because I wouldn't let her return to the couch to watch TV. I curled with her on her bed, finally, and just let her scream and cry, and in short order, she worked herself down into quiet whimpers, turning in toward me with her eyes clenched shut, one hand over her nose and the fingers from her other hand in her mouth. She sucks on the tip of her pointer finger and I am surprised; I didn't know she did that. I rub her back in circles and she giggles suddenly. And again. She's decided that this tickles her and I don't cut it short, I let her laugh, her little giggles popping into the air over and over, legs kicking in delight, and she doesn't even hear the thunder now, or see the lightning, everything is okay.

And suddenly my perspective shifts and I'm not annoyed any more, and I just pick her up and take her to the computer. "Mad, they have pictures of the storms on the computer," I tell her. "We can just take a look and see if it's going to storm anymore."

I pull up the weather radar and see that we are squarely in the green. "See the red, Mad? That's the really big storm, with lots of thunder and lightning. And see the yellow? Those are teeny tiny storms, no big deal. You might hear just a little bit of thunder, but nothing super-loud. See the green? That's just rain. And here's where we are," I point. "Right there in the green. So it's just rain for us, and all that red -- the big storm -- is far away from us. No big deal! And Mad, that red is probably not going to come back, but if it does, I will come and get you."

And she is okay with this, and repeats it to me as I take her back to bed. "We're in the green," she says. "It's just gonna rain! But if the red comes, you will come and get me. And if the yellow comes, it will just be little thunder."

"Yes," I tell her, and tuck her into bed. And she is fine.

It's not graceful to end with rain, either, but I'll do it. It's still raining and pitch black, and there are lizards running up and down the windows, reveling in the moisture, hunting for bugs. Thunder rolls through, low and quiet, and lights flash dim in the distance. Everyone is asleep. Everything is quiet.

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Sticky hot, and miserable, my limbs are heavy and tired. My eyes are fuzzy; it feels like sand beneath my lids. Things are slightly out of focus and I have the stirring of a headache at my temple. I don't really want to be here, but I'm trudging along, trying to find my way through the muck, to find comfort in old patterns. It's not what I want to do, but I know it's what I should do, and that right now, when I feel this way, what I want to do is a trap. I don't want to get stuck there.

I want to smash through this fuzziness, plow through it, remember energy coursing in my muscles. Remember joy. Remember that life isn't this gross haze I've been slogging in.

My husband is walking just behind me with Violet; I am walking with Mad. Mad is carrying a clear plastic tupperware container, excited at the prospect of catching a lizard. I wonder at her dogged enthusiasm for the endeavor, and wonder at the stirring of excitement I always feel at the prospect of lizard-hunting. I'm sure that one day we'll find The Big One, meaning that we'll find some lizard, any lizard, and bring it home. Mad would be ecstatic.

Violet's been in a mood, but when she sees me ahead, she breaks into a smile and runs to me yelling "Mama!" And I am worried she's going to trip because she's still so....loose, her legs folding around each other, arms open outward, she's reaching for me.

But she makes it to me as I close the distance and I pick her up and swing her high into the air and she is all smiles, and I take a minute to appreciate her smile, the way happiness just beams from her face when she smiles, the way her eyes pop with joy.

We make it to the dead end and stop for drinks and Wayland and Mad go down a side path looking for lizards, and I peer worriedly down at them as they navigate a steep wall leading down to a chasm where the river is winding through. I don't worry too much, because I know Wayland would never let her fall, that he's careful, and then I wonder at my steady belief in that.

Violet is thrilled because Mad's leaving her stuffed cats unattended, and she's talking to them and moving them from cement block to cement block, sorting. I lean back on one of the cement blocks and stare up at the sky and wish I had my camera because the light is beating through the trees overhead in a different way. It's still summer and still hot, but it feels different somehow, less oppressive, and as the sun warms my skin and I rest and listen to Violet playing happily. I wonder why people feel compelled to take pictures of the sky, and I know it's not really so much an attempt to capture what they're looking at but how they feel when they look at it, that there are days when the sky and you match perfectly, the wide expanse, the sun the stuff of life and you believe in it, you feel it's blessing you: go ahead and hope. Really, it's why you're here.

And Wayland and Mad come back and they don't have a lizard, but they go to another side path and a few minutes later they come back out and Mad is holding her tupperware container out in front of her, looking triumphant. "Tell her," says Wayland and Mad is so excited she can't really tell me anything. She thrusts the tupperware container out and finally says lizard! And I am on my feet peering inside.

"She caught it herself," says Wayland. "I had nothing to do with it; she just plucked it from the ground and said, 'A SKINK!'"

I look at it. She was right -- it is a skink. I look at her beaming with pride.

In a few seconds the moment passes because Mad notices that Violet is playing with her cats and there is the usual fight over stuff. It is time to go home and the girls fall apart; Mad is tired and ignoring our directions, Violet is tired and crying, wanting to walk but not really wanting to walk, so the whole walk home is trying to make her okay with being held but mostly just juggling her weight, trying not to drop her as she thrashes angrily. And I am miserable in it, miserable again.

Life is that. A journey that is sometimes miserable, sometimes not, toward a goal that may or may not pan out. But you go, you do it anyway, because that moment of realization, that second of attainment - the smiling daughters, the caught lizard - is what you live for. It's what you ache for. It's what sustains you on the second leg of the journey, when all you want to do is run away, or at least stop moving, or just fast forward yourself to the next destination.

I want to learn these things, then remember I have to relearn them over and over again. I want my daughters to know these things. I want them to always look for lizards. I want them always to seize the moment, grasp opportunity, like Violet did when she played with Mad's toys. I want them to always stare up at the sky even when they are tired and restless and feel miserable, and recognize it, I want them to always want to take its picture.