Spider

I spent the last week at school, my final residency dedicated to defining my thesis and planning out my schedule for the next few months. Each time I make the trek there, I am please to reunite with certain students. It's a treat to spend time with them at meals or walking to the library. Sometimes, though, I feel like a fish out of water - I don't share much common ground with many of them. Social justice and books about Trotsky and the Revolution occupy their thoughts. I'm more likely to rhapsodize about my favorite children's books as a source of inspiration - Mrs. Frisby, Caddie Woodlawn, and Charlotte's Web just to name a few. There are moments at school when the connection is like an electric zing, a phrase or a certain sentiment that's expressed and I feel an instant bond with that person. When engaged in a conversation about creative writing, photography, or what I'm reading now, I can go on for hours. (My friend M and I spend many an evening comparing notes on the novels we love.) On my last day at school I spent a few moments in the Garden House. I had never noticed the intricate carvings: the essence of lizards, turtles, pigs and owls was somehow capture in the wood. On each corner of the roof a bunny or squirrel, sculpted out of stone, stood watch. The house itself, though immensely charming with a few stained glass windows framed in the doors, is in a bit of disrepair; reminding me of the Secret Garden and treasures that await for those who seek them. I instantly felt an affinity with all of the carved creatures, and for the spiders who contributed their own webbed masterpieces to the windowsills.
~b



I used to be afraid of spiders. Not any more. I don't think we lose fears as we grow older; we just find other things to be afraid of. Now I'm afraid of pain. The pain of my children. The cost of college. I'm still a bit afraid of ghosty things, that fear hasn't diminished since childhood. I'm afraid of the demise of the planet, but only in a vague sense - my own five-acre patch of planet is quite lovely and willingly gives us food to eat, so the idea of global devastation is a hazy one. Some days I'm afraid of coming to the end of my life having accomplished nothing but the laundry. Other days I recognize that laundry is a fairly huge accomplishment and if that turns out to be the case I should be proud anyway. I'm afraid of early-onset dementia. I'm afraid I'll grow more and more uncomfortable in crowds and one day decide never to leave the house again. I'm afraid of failing my kids in a million ordinary ways. But spiders I've made peace with. They decorate the front porch with their webs, they eat flies and mosquitoes. They're quiet neighbors. The spiders can stay.
~a

Feet

When T was little, one of the cutest parts about him were those two small pudgy feet. We constantly marveled at the notion that they were just like ours, but miniature. When he was first born and sleeping in his vibrating seat (often the only way to get him to go to sleep) we would hold one in our hands and gaze at it in wonder. As he grew, so did they. For a time our feet were roughly the same size. If he needed to take a dog on a quick spin around the yard, he inevitably slipped on my galoshes. This past year he has grown at an alarming rate, and so have his feet. They have surpassed mine, and his curls tower over my own. Somehow I've become the shortest member of our household, a position I didn't think I'd hold for another couple of years. Oh how he adores putting his arm around me and reminding me of our height difference. Believe it or not, his feet have almost surpassed M's. I'm certain one day they will stop growing, but who can say when that will be. No matter that they leave deep tracks in the sand or large mud prints in the house, they give him such a strong foundation and provide a solid base for a steadily growing boy. Hopefully we've also helped him to learn that putting one foot in front of the other can take you wherever you wish to go.
~b


Baby feet never look capable of any of those activities we take for granted when we are old – walking, dancing, standing on tiptoe. They're more like soft stumps that need to be kept warm, delicate peas for toes, smooth purply skin that's never seen the inside of a shoe. Bizarre alien appendages that require frequent kisses. Of all the strange parts on babies, feet might be the strangest. These feet belong to the new baby of my oldest friend. Someday H and I will describe what our boys are up to during our annual visit – she and I have a friendship that lies dormant beneath the surface of daily life and blooms like desert flowers in a yearly rain. Someday she and I will share a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and describe how happy we are that our boys are at college/in Europe/married/having babies and then we might fall quiet and feel sad, the tiniest bit sad, that those baby feet have carried our babies so far away from us. But mostly we will be happy at our amazing good fortune, that we made healthy children with strong feet, that we are still friends after so many years. That we are full and giggly from ice cream, like we used to be so often in the sixth grade. Here's to the years ahead.
~a

Citizen

T is a cub scout. T was born a cub scout. The checklists, the parades, the vows of effort, duty and faith - the whole process appeals to his acute sense of order and justice. When he first brought home the brochure - pictures of grinning boys in wooded settings, hanging from ropes and lugging canoes - he slapped it on the dining room table and asked, "Can I do this?" And I winced. I've nothing against camping. Or even weekly meetings. And I'm happy to go for a six-mile Family Fun Hike in the cold rain. But BSA is notorious for being unfriendly toward certain...types. The gay type. The atheist type. And I like to think we foster a sense of inclusion in our family. But when your oldest son looks excited about uniforms and derby races, you make some room in your schedule, you recalibrate your moral compass, to gather with members of an organization that won't allow some of your friends to join. You let go of the worry that another cub scout will notice your permanent absence in church, that your son will overhear a predatory remark. Instead we offer our time, we show up to meetings, we give rides to kids who need rides. Mostly the people we meet at cub scouts are like us, only with more church. We all want our children to learn, love, overcome fear, and find their way, to become good citizens and great people. If I had said no to T that day he asked to be a cub scout, I'd have been basing my judgement on politics and fear; instead we'll be open and learn. And we'll go camping.
~a




Summer for us has a certain rhythm and tempo different from the rest of the year. Unlike our friends who dust off their passports and visit other countries, we often stick close to home. In July we always venture north to take part in a camp that's located in the community where we used to live. T has been going since he was 5 years old and I often lend a hand in the kitchen, making grilled cheeses for the masses. This is the fourth year T's also gone to sleepaway circus camp. There he juggles and clowns to his heart's content. Often towards the end of summer we plan to attend one of the local Circus Smirkus performances. We've been to see them in Burlington and Montpelier, but this year we wanted to see the final performance in Greensboro. T and I made plans to meet M there for the first Sunday show. Due to unforeseen circumstances we arrived late and ended up rushing into the tent, only to be seated in the back. I was furious. I couldn't see the kids performing and I didn't feel like clapping for anyone. Instead I sat and silently fumed. Then came intermission and the chance to sit on the ground with the little kids for the second half. I felt all my anger slipping away as I watched the jugglers, aerialists, kids tumbling and riding unicycles. After the show ended I wandered outside, a movement caught my eye and caused me to look up. Somehow I had never noticed the flags around the outside of the Big Top. Several countries were represented, which made perfect sense. In the years that we've been going, we've seen kids from Spain, France, Poland and Mongolia perform. When they get in the ring, though, it's their talent that shines, not their nationality. After many weeks together, I'm sure these kids feel as if they were in their own country, one where race, gender, age and background don't matter. No wonder people want to run away and join the circus. Too bad we can't take up permanent residence there. It's rather like a good book or special place in your mind's eye, we're happy to immerse ourselves while we can, pleased to have the opportunity to visit. No matter how we enter the tent, we always leave smiling - eager to be good citizens and stewards, spreading the whimsical word of the circus to those who haven't yet heard of this magical land.
~b

Rough

Last week B got his first splinter. "My foot HURT," he said. I was washing dishes, cooking dinner, sipping wine, and trying to explain the concept of infinity to an eight year old who is pretty sure he already knows everything anyway. "Poor foot," I answered. I bent down and brushed the top of his foot with my lips; usually a Mommykiss is the best first defense. But no. "MY FOOT HURT!" he calmly explained again. I took a better look and there it was, a sliver of wood piercing the tender skin of his still-new arch. This called for tweezers. B was patient. He likes tools, and tweezers count. As a reward for patience and stillness he got to play with them and thus they are missing. Our new porch, not yet two years old, delivers few splinters. Our old porch was infamous for its poor treatment of bare feet; I got quite adept at pulling out bits of it from the pink skin of sleeping babies. The roof of our garage has gone the opposite way, rougher instead of smoother. Ten years ago M threw several pieces of stale bread onto the shingles for the birds - that bread has decayed into patches of lichen in which the birds show no interest. Enough grass grows up through the cracks to make me think of mowing and those asphalt shingles sport more and more jagged canyons every year. We all do. Some parts grow smooth, some rough. Smooth: finding a hot cup of coffee on the kitchen counter made by the man who got up earliest. Rough: being woken several times during the night by two different children. All we can do is be patient and still and hope we can find the right tools.
~a



Years ago I worked for a short time at a small publisher. I was there over the holiday season and I remember a co-worker telling us the story of shopping with her boyfriend for a present for his children who were now living with his ex-wife. They decided upon a rock tumbler for the boy. Turns out that a gift such as this is quite loud and it runs continuously. (This part may have spoken with the teensiest hint of glee.) Needless to say, the toy was relegated to the garage where it could do its work in solitude. I often think of it out there, tumbling and tumbling, making the rough edges smooth; only to be opened later to reveal a tiny treasure. Come to think of it, the loudness shouldn't have been such a surprise; making something smooth is never simple or even quiet. Rough hands, rough drafts, rough patches - they all take hard work and discipline to get through. There is much construction in our town at the moment, most of it involving the creation of a sidewalk that spans most of downtown. It's a project that has been going on for quite a while, from idea to sketch to near-completion. I'm longing for the day when I can ride my bike from the library to the park, the smooth, unbroken surface under my tires stretching out in front of me clear and unobstructed. If only difficult times in our lives came with warning signs. Caution, rough patch ahead. It wouldn't matter for some of us, we'd just keep plunging ahead. It's true: often the only way out is through.
~b

Window

This past week has been restorative, and magical in ways I couldn't even have begun to imagine before we arrived. There has been much reading, writing, knitting, napping, biking, chatting and walking on the beach. I'm writing this on our last day here on this beautiful island. I think what I will miss most are the windows. They let in the wind, the sounds of geese, children laughing and the waves crashing in the distance. And the view of the sky and the water below, it's enough to make you catch your breath, repeatedly. I think Frank Lloyd was “wright” when he set about designing and building houses, the best should be a part of Nature not in opposition to it. The windows here make me feel as if I am connected to everything going on outside of the house. There are 30 windows in this house-- I counted cause I was curious-- and the view out of each is memorable. One evening I ran upstairs to the upstairs bathroom to catch a better view of the sunset. After fiddling with the screen and leaning as far as I could go, I caught it; at least enough to remind me of it when I gaze at these photos in the years to come. When I get home I want to be able to conjure up the view from our diningroom table whenever I need it most: flowers swaying, birds flying, bunnies hopping, swans swimming and the slow steady movement of the water calling me home. Now close your eyes, can you see it...
~b



My room at the beach had bars on its window. To keep people out, to keep people in? Whether it was the bars, the lack of distraction beyond flitting birds and curious wild bunnies, or the wish to not waste this unexpected gift of wide-open time, I did stay in my room, quite a lot, and finished a project I've been working on for six. damn. years. When I started this project L was an infant, we still had Bay, Baba and Tupelo, and writing time was devoted exclusively to my own files. Now there are three little boys, new horses and dogs, plenty of freelance work to take precedence, and the ever-present whisper "never going to finish" ghosting in my ears. But I did. I finished. And then I looked out the window and said hello to the spider. And goodbye to the house where I had felt peaceful for a week. Goodbye to reading on the chaise lounge with a glass of wine, watching the shadow of the house spread over the porch, over me, over the yard. Goodbye to leaning against one of the many windows while drops of rain streamed down, close but unfelt. Goodbye to the view above the sink which made the dish washing painless and fast. Goodbye to my own characters I've lived with for six years who know the importance of the sea air and the sound of the ocean.
~a