As we go.

We're at Open House for the girls. Mad sits in front of the dollhouse in her new classroom, playing quietly by herself. Another girl comes and sits next to her. "Hi," the girl says cheerfully. "Can I play, too?" Mad freezes, I mean literally stops moving, hands going still in the motion of putting the baby into its crib. Her hand hangs there, awkwardly. Another little girl comes and sits on the other side of Madeleine. Mad immediately gets up without saying a word and tries to walk away. I stop her.

The second little girl gets up from the chair and waves at Mad. "Hi Madeleine," she says. "Remember me? I'm Lily."

Mad frowns and won't even look at the little girl.

I crouch down. "Mad, do you remember Lily?" I ask her quietly. Madeleine won't respond even to me now. She's very still, staring off into the distance. It's like she's not even there.

I try again. "Mad, Lily is saying hi to you. Can you say hi back?"

Mad still won't speak. She does move, finally, but it's to try and climb up my body so that I will hold her. I don't pick her up. Lily is still waiting for Mad to say something.

I don't think it's a good idea to jump in on Mad's behalf, but I don't really know what to do. So I turn to the little girl and give her a smile. "Mad's feeling a little shy," I tell the girl. "Why?" she asks, and I shrug. "I guess she has a hard time finding words sometimes," I say.

Mad is burying her face into my leg now, no doubt listening intently. I wonder if I'm teaching her things about herself that I shouldn't, planting ideas that weren't there before. Offering her excuses. Because the truth is that I don't really know if she has trouble finding words. I always get the impression that she just doesn't know what to say. But maybe she's willfully choosing not to speak. Or maybe she's like me when I was a kid. I wouldn't open my mouth even when directly called upon to do so, for the longest time -- and I wasn't necessarily choosing not to, I just felt like I physically couldn't do it. I had some strange fear response to the idea of opening my mouth and talking to someone. So for a long time, I just didn't. Or maybe she's not like me at all. I just have no idea.

The little girl has gone back to the dollhouse and plays with the other little girl. They talk happily, interacting beautifully. I turn to Mad, who is still completely silent, and catch a glimpse of another parent across the room, who gives me a smile. "She'll talk when she's ready to," she says, and I can't tell if it's for my benefit or for Lily's benefit. I feel awkward, then, like any flaws I have in parenting are on display, that everyone has noticed them. I lead Mad from the room.

::

Mad's new teacher seems wonderful, and she is trying hard to engage Madeleine. But Mad won't talk. Not a peep. While Wayland engages Mad in a separate room, I take her teacher aside and give her a debriefing of Mad's issues. I doubt myself even as I'm telling her. I shouldn't have told her that we looked at an Asperger's diagnosis, I think to myself. I don't want to put her in a category unnecessarily. I don't want her to get the wrong idea. Because Mad will talk, eventually. It will just take a long time. It took her more than a year to open up in her two years of pre-K classes. She was just barely learning to interact when it was time to move her to Kindergarten. I tell the teacher about her other issues: with change, with routine, her little rituals. I feel a little crushed, explaining these things, while the other kids are chattering happily around the room, checking things out, seemingly thrilled.

::

Mad and V sit at a table in the 4-year-old classroom, where Violet will be starting on Monday. They are coloring, quietly. Violet has a crayon clenched in her left fist and she's coloring in the letter A very tidily. Across from my girls, two other girls, Lily and Olivia, are making big plans while they color. "We can have a sleepover," says Olivia. "I will bring my sleeping bag and my owl." Lily asks, "Is it a real owl?" And Olivia says yes. "Wow," says Lily. "You have a pet owl?" And Olivia says no. Lily laughs. They continue chatting, planning out their big sleepover they've hatched all on their own, without the help of their parents. The parents are hanging back, smiling at the girls indulgently, bursting with pride.

It's such a stark contrast to my two girls, sitting side by side, so silent, barely glancing up at the two best friends in front of them. I feel wistful.

::

We're in the car on the way home from Open House, and I don't know what to say to Mad about any of this, or if I shouldn't say anything at all. I settle on this:

"Mad, do you ever feel lonely when you're feeling shy? Like, do you feel sad when you don't talk to the kids who want to talk to you?"

"No. Can you turn the music on?"

"In a second," I tell her. "I'm still trying to talk to you. So....you're just happier by yourself?"

"Umm...I guess so," she says.

"Well, I just want you to be happy, so that's good," I tell her. "But if you ever start to feel sad because you can't talk to the other kids, or if you are having a hard time making a friend and you really want one, please tell me. Because I want to help. Okay?"

"Mom, can you turn the music on now?" She asks.

I feel the weight of a thousand worries pressing on my chest, hear all the unsaid things hanging in the air, and I realize that there's not really anything I can do with them. They're just there for now, for awhile maybe. Likely. So I turn the music on and hope we'll be able to figure it out as we go.

A place for you.

There is a name, and a room, and a cramp.

There is a name, a room, and the window is open. A cramp, and you're in the window. Summer heat oozes all around you.

There is a name, it is your name it is your mother's name it is the name of all the people in the window. There is a room and a cramp.

There is a cramp which is just folded time, a crumple quickly unfolding.

There is a room, which is just a place for your blood and bones to rest.

There is a name. It is yours.

And you live there until you don't anymore.

I was not magnificent.

This video combines two of my favorite things: Bon Iver and Iceland. Now when I tell people I want to go to Iceland, and they say, "Iceland?! Why?" I can make them watch this. I am sure when you are in Iceland, this song follows you around, adding to the beauty. Surely it does.

Beet cake.

Every time I bake something, it happens just like this. Very magical and moody and lovely.

beet cake from tiger in a jar on Vimeo.

(I WISH. This is the kind of baking that leaves no mess. You measure and stir and bake and enjoy the end result in your shining spotless kitchen. MY kind of baking ends with chocolate on the ceiling and flour in my hair. I am exaggerating, but only slightly.)

It's you, it's you, it's all for you.

Seeking refuge.

a clutch of rain
at your fingers.

heat swells the form
of this day like old wood.

a wincing breath, and glare,
you squint against
the bleached white air.

seeking refuge
you rake your fingers across the sky

but nothing happens except
a rip rendered, dry dust in the blue

seeking refuge
you curl inward to the closest shade,
and sigh, your eyes pricked open,
aware.

you rest uneasy, and
sleep does not come.

The will to change your hurtling momentum.

The first thing you notice, of course, is the tightness in your joints. Your fingers hurt. Arthritis should not be the first word in your head when you get out of bed when you are this young. Tired is the next word. No no no is what follows as you walk into the bathroom. Every cell is rioting against forward motion. You long to succumb to inertia even as you are fighting against it. Fifteen minutes before you have to leave for work. This is no way to start a day.

So you make a willful effort to reverse your thought process as you stumble into your closet and squint against the overhead light, searching for something to wear. Today will be a good day, you think, pulling down a dress. Yes, you tell yourself. Let's do this.

You think dimly that this is no way to start a day either, forcing yourself to be excited about getting up and living your life. But maybe that's the problem, this living. Or more specifically the how. The how of your living.

Sometimes a morning pep talk is all you have, but you also always have will in your favor. The will to change your hurtling momentum even when it seems impossible. One breath can send you in another direction, just like that. A breath. You have that, too.

There's music on Clinton street all through the evening.

I bet I posted about this song before, but it bears revisiting. I was sitting at my desk at work, feeling kind of -- heavy -- and I was thinking: what is a song that makes me breathe. Clears a space out around me. And I thought of this song. It makes me wish for gray skies, rain, chilly wind, bundling into a raincoat.

Curating Flickr: Iceland

(Click the pics to follow them back to their sources)

There is a word for this.

"Necessity may be the mother of invention, but interdependence is the mother of affection. We humans need one another, so we cooperate — for purely selfish reasons at first. At some point, though, the needing fades and all that remains is the cooperation. We help other people because we can, or because it makes us feel good, not because we're counting on some future payback. There is a word for this: love." -- From "The Geography of Bliss" by Eric Weiner

Why I run.

It takes about half a mile before I feel comfortable in my pace and breathing, so at first that's what I'm reaching for: the easy rhythm, that feeling of settling into the right head space, that singular focus.

Somewhere after the second mile I usually start to feel a little winded, and the little voice in my head starts to tell me it's okay to stop at 20 minutes. Twenty minutes is a good workout, the voice says. I look at the timer on the treadmill and tell myself: 10 more minutes.

And when I power through and make it 10 more minutes, I see that I'm close to three miles, and so I tell myself: go to three miles.

And when I get to three miles, I am sweating in earnest and my heart is pounding, but I see where I am on the little lap marker and say: A quarter of a mile is nothing. And that will get me to a 5K. And so I keep going.

And when I hit that 5K mark my iPod offers up this song, and I say: This song is short. I will run through this song, and I will do it at a pace that fits this song. And so I crank it up to a 9:30 minute pace and toss my towel over the screen so I cannot see how slow or fast I am going, and I keep running, hard.

At the end of the song, my knee feels a little tweaked but it's not bad and I feel so, so good that I decide to keep going. Thanks to the towel I have no idea how long I have been on the treadmill or how far it says I have run, so I think: I will go until I can't go anymore.

And when I get to the part where I feel absolutely drained, I take the towel off and see I am close to the four mile mark, and I have been running for nearly 50 minutes. I am two minutes away from 50 minutes, so I think: I can do anything for two minutes. And I keep going.

After two minutes, I see that I am a little less than a quarter of a mile from hitting 4.25, and I think: Stop underestimating what your body can do, and do it. So I toss the towel back over the screen and run, and run, and just for fun, I crank the incline up a little bit.

I stop at 4.25, but only because I need to get back to work.

::

I never ever feel as good as I do as when I'm running, challenging myself, setting those mini goals and reaching them. A good run proves to me that I am better than I think I am, that I can do more than I think I can. Running is literally fighting inertia. I want that lesson to seep into my brain so that it becomes a part of me, and so it will apply to everything I do in my life.

Tears like diamonds.

Well it looks like I have a new favorite song, judging by the fact that I listened to it 8,000 times in a row yesterday.

Because you have to.

There is this heavy weight pressing on your shoulders at all times. Usually you are only dimly aware of it, but sometimes, with a flick of your thoughts and your eyes cast upward, the weight inverts, and feels lighter than air, and you are close to flying. And sometimes, it's so heavy your feet have to resist the ground to keep from driving down into it. Sometimes your knees hurt with the effort of staying upright.

She says words, good words, words that should make you feel better, or okay, but when you walk out into the parking lot, the tears spill out. And your knees ache with the effort from stiffening against a buckle that will send you straight to the pavement. Words like: it is who she is, this is probably what she'll be dealing with five years from now, 10 years from now. Here is how we help her. It is good. We are moving forward, finding solutions. There is all this hope to be had.

It's just that you look into her eyes and see her better than you see anything else, that unfathomable, bottomless well of deep brown, and you see nameless things there that you have within yourself and you've never quite put a name to them, but it has to be, it is, the awareness of that weight that presses, always, and the effort it takes to make it light, how hard it is to fly. She feels it already, just like you did, and you hurt for her because you remember how much you hurt growing up, feeling the weight that nobody else seemed to feel.

It's a fallacy to think she's like you, he reminds you, and he's right. Of course. It's a different nature and a different nurture, he says. Yes. You see this. But you also see all of it, generations of mothers and daughters stretched out on a vast timeline of decades, and there are threads stretching through, invisible tethers that bind you all together. Good and bad. It all looks the same from up here, the weight reminds you. And so you cry, and you buckle.

And then slowly your knees stiffen and you stand up. You flick your shoulders back, and the weight doesn't loosen for now, but you bear it anyway. Because you have to.

And you begin the arduous process of teaching her how to fly.