Thursday, February 26, 2015

a thought

maybe the miracle isn't the spectacular event at all.
the walking on water,
turning water into wine,
rising from the dead.

maybe the miracle is instead found
in the new light of the ordinary,
the steady warmth of belonging,
and the familiar hum of
a thousand tiny changes,


that tender hope and love
and the needed strength
to hold on.


*Cyndi Dale's article, "Bodywork and the Business of Miracles" planted the seed for this poem.  Especially her line "... it's easy to forget that pronounced swings of fate are usually preceded by thousands of tiny changes".

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

the post i didn't initially want to write today



Water and the Moon

There is a path from me to you
that I am constantly looking for,

so I try to keep clear and still
as water does with the moon.

-Rumi


I've never been very good at keeping quiet when it's come to my children.  There has been a certain amount of arrogance and assumption on my end that the boys would be interested in my wisdom and foresight simply because they call me mom.  For the most part, they have genuinely showed an interest and to be fair, they've usually respected my wishes as well- even through the teenage years which have been a breeze when compared to the terrible twos.

Where I keep stumbling is in the unchartered territory of relating to our adult children.

February 4th came and went leaving Mr. Reporter sick and an adult.  And just as it usually happens year after year, we celebrated his birthday quietly and without fanfare a few days later when his nose was no longer running it's marathon and the fevers and sore throats had healed.  He has a lovely girlfriend who has been occupying his time and holding his heart for several months now.  She presented him a Jim Thorpe hat she'd knit up and it stayed on his head continuously for the following three days-even while remaining indoors.  This love is familiar.  It reminds me of how his father used to hold me as we laid on his parent's couch all those years ago- our futures full before us.

I snatched Mr. Reporter away for a few hours over the weekend.  We went to breakfast and did a little shopping after eating our egg and sausage sandwiches- with and w/o asiago cheese.  When he spoke about his life and his concerns, I mostly kept my mouth shut and opened my ears and heart.  I validated him, supported and encouraged him.  I was a cool mom.

Until today.

Our oldest son, Mr. Tailor, has been living with us again after a five month departure to California.   He is going to be twenty next month.  He has been working two jobs and he is paying us rent.  He has plans to leave on April 1st to do some exploring and figuring of his own.  For the most part, his father and I are responding to his decisions as we would to someone running their fingernails over a chalkboard.  We're cringing, we're projecting our anxiety, we're irritated- we are struggling to live and let live (I'm not convinced that the person who came up with that one had kids).  So there really shouldn't be any surprise that his response to my questions is defensiveness.

I'm squirming between hope and anxiousness, constraint and resignation.  I don't like sitting in this space.

And then I read the words of Rumi.
And then I remembered that to love someone is to let them go- even come April.

Go run with his plans.  Go meet the people he wants to meet and make the mistakes he's going to make.   Go live his life.

When he falls down from the punches of the school of hard knocks, we'll welcome his visit, lend him an ear,  and even make him a bologna sandwich-which he'll devour because he'll be used to getting by on ramen and air and that bologna will taste like gourmet to his deprived tastebuds.

Breathe.

And then he can walk right out of our house after the twenty minutes it takes to lend that ear of ours and finish the said sandwich- and bicycle back to his very own little hovel because he was so disinclined to skip the completion of his college degree in order to see the BIG WIDE WORLD- irregardless of his struggle to make a living off of minimum wage in CALIFORNIA.  He does have the beach after all.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Forget it.  The cool mom job is overrated anyway- and I'm pretty f*@!ing certain that Rumi didn't have a twenty-year-old living at his home when he started percolating over the water and the moon.

Again.  Breathe.

UGH.