Keeps Going

It's September 11th, 2011.

It's a big day for this beautiful country.

My husband is out of town. Before he left he said, "You know I was flying out of Baltimore on September 11th ten years ago and I'll be flying again on September 11th." He said it in a cavalier way. It left a small catch in my throat but no time to think on that day because, well, my children were up and it was just another ordinary day to us. Lunches to make. Children to clothe.

Today is Sunday. I had all intentions of going to church this morning. What better way to spend such a reflective day?

Eve woke up with a runny, goopy nose and I thought better of exposing the other children to their first fantastic cold of the year. Plus, I want to remain friends with their mothers. :)

So I did what I do best during times of reflection: I cook. Gives my hands something to do while my mind ruminates. This morning I'm making a root vegetable soup that simmers in white wine and chicken broth. It's earthy and satisfying. The colors of the soup beckon fall.

In the background, I have Good Morning America on the television. "America Remembers." Children of 9/11 are speaking about the fathers they never met. The new 9/11 memorial is prominently in the middle of the screen, hauntingly beautiful with its vast dark square holes, memories of the twin tower footprints. It's exquisite.

In a moment of reflection, I realize that I'm immensely proud of America. We could have used that real estate for new buildings, new commerce. But instead we remembered a very important place in our history. We put aside the dollar. Planted trees. Built waterfalls. Felt the names engraved on the periphery of the falls. We refused to forget this humbling, horrible day. We refuse to to let it crush us either.

While I'm simmering the soup and listening to the background of the broadcast, my little Eve is barking. "Wan watch Wild Kratts! Wan watch Wild Kratts," she shouts again and again. She wants today to be like every day. She wants to watch her little program about animals. "Am-mi-mals," she calls them. She has no idea that this day is special in so many ways. I admire her innocence.

Frustrated, she turns on my ipod and begins to dance. "Wan dance! Wan dance," she demands. She wants me to dance with her.

Life is that way, isn't it? Pulled in so many directions. Laughing while crying while remembering while cooking while parenting and wiping runny noses.

Can't contain life. It's bursting forth with sounds and colors and textures of seasons.

Some we don't want to remember. Some we will never forget.

The Quiet

The summer is still here, technically.

But Labor Day has come and gone; with a perfect 68 degree day I brought up my wheat wreath for the door and some little fall decorations to place around the house. It's my way of giving autumn permission to enter my home.

The past winter was so difficult that I told myself no matter how hot and tired I was by the end of the summer, I needed to soak in every last bit. I convinced myself that if I concentrated on each day and enjoyed it to the dregs I would be able to "bank" summer and draw upon it in March, when I needed it most. By July I worried that fall would come and I would be devastated. I so enjoy the sun.

But I'm not devastated.
Granted, I'm not psyched either.
I'm yielding.
You know the way a person dips one toe in the pool first, then a leg, then both legs before immersing? Yielding.

On an emotional level, I bottomed out early this summer. I'm unsure how this occurred, but somewhere between the twelfth time I said "yes" to something that I should've said "no" to, I went numb. I auto-piloted my days until I realized that my daughter Morgan started to say things like, "I'll do this so Eve doesn't wear you out so much, Mom."

Summer became healing for me. Allowed me to get off the grid, off the regimen of the school year. Refocused my priorities.

During this time of withdrawing, I realized that I very, very much miss designing. I don't miss corporate life or putting things in my portfolio... I miss the act of taking a blank canvas or screen or piece of paper and making something out of nothing. So I began to design again.

I didn't let things hold me back. I skipped naps at times. If I ran out of pencils, I used crayons. I needed to get on paper what was skipping around in my mind.

During this unplanned sabbatical, something spiritual has happened.
I'm quiet.
Right here (pointing to heart)... right here is where I am quiet.

I'm learning to say "no" to things that disrupt the quiet, that take me off course. I'm learning to listen closer to the quiet nudgings God gives me...

I'm pretty sure I'm annoying some people who would like a helping hand.

I'm letting go of what people expect of me. It's hard for this people pleaser, but I'm trying.

I'm in love with the quiet.
The still small voice.
God's muse is speaking.

Creative Motherhood

Being a stay at home mother is an amazing journey of discovery. I'm constantly amazed at how often I am amazed. Does that make sense?

I'm amazed at my daughter Morgan as she made her own kite yesterday. After informing her as gently as possible that it probably won't fly and "don't worry we'll find you a kite", I marveled at how she used a pencil and a roll of ribbon for the kite string, attached to a piece of colored chip board. If hope alone could lift this kite, she had enough to send it to outer space.

I marveled less when her younger sister unwound it and played with it like the kitty cat that she is.

I delight in Morgan's highly creative mind. She's resourceful. She doesn't let anything hold her back. She yields to the inspiration that drives her. She doesn't care about timing or impossibilities. She attacks creative projects with effortless energy.

Because of this, my house is not my own.
Craft bins are left as spoils of war: torn open, the contents strewn as if a wild creative animal attacked.
Bed skirts are swiss-cheesed by my scissor-handed daughter who needed white fabric RIGHT AWAY. (A talk ensued.)
There is paint on my daughter's carpet, a half-painted mural on her wall and wax strings are hung artistically on the wall above her bed.
Gone are the carefully chosen vintage Wizard of Oz illustrations I hung with care on her wall when she was a baby.
Gone are the vestiges of anything that matches or looks coordinated.

I don't even open Pottery Barn Kids catalogs anymore. They're totally fake.

Gone are the things that are "baby".
In its stead are little poems written on scraps of paper.
There are occasional "GO AWAY" signs on the floor, evidence of a girl who is learning her boundaries in life.
Her room is a physical representation of her mind: small groupings of play here and there. I don't think there is one square foot of her carpet that can be seen.

When I talk to her about cleaning her room, she melts. Her head bows and she begins to get misty eyed. She doesn't know how to be organized.

She is me thirty years ago. Struggling to be organized. Not understanding why I can't think as neatly as others.

But fortunately for her, she has me for a mother. Organization is my arch nemesis. I hate papers. I can't get rid of things and yet on certain times of the year, the left side of my brain takes the right side of my brain as hostage and I begin to purge vast amounts of things from our house.

I need to breathe. And she does too.

So today, with her permission, I plan on packing her room into boxes.
"Don't put them in the basement, Mom. There are bugs and spiders."
"Don't worry, Morgan, I'll put a lid on the boxes."
"You won't sell my stuff, will you? When you put them in the basement, you like to sell them."
She's right, but I reassure her, "I'll put them in the basement and let you bring them up to your room one box at a time until you find a home for everything. I won't sell them."

The adventure continues. The dance is perfected... the carefully choreographed steps give way to improvisation.