First of all, that needs to be a band name: Wow! signal.
Second, I was reading about the Wow! signal today and the wikipedia entry linked several interesting and lovely words and phrases. And also, now I'm an astronomy expert. It's true.
hydrogen line: electromagnetic radiation spectral line created by a change in the energy state of neutral hydrogen atoms.
interstellar scintillation: generic term for rapid variations in apparent brightness or color of a distant luminous object viewed through a medium, most commonly the atmosphere.
atmospheric twinkling: (same as scintillation)
Very Large Array: super-imaginative name for a radio astronomy observatory in New Mexico.
Posted on: Friday, June 29, 2012
Posted on: Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Stars stuck to my fingers.
I wonder if I believe in the idea of an all-encompassing universe anymore. Last night my husband said, "Am I not talking here?" in a sharp way and I hung up the phone. I hung up the phone and put it on the counter in front of me. I stared at it and picked up a dish and ran it under the hot water. I placed it in the dishwasher. I stared at the phone and thought about crying and thought about picking up the phone and apologizing. I felt that apology choke in my throat, and I thought about crying some more.
Instead of crying I walked outside and stood in the driveway. Now what. I looked up at the blue-black sky and counted the points of light far above me. I wondered which ones were stars and which ones were airplanes. Something is wrong here, I thought, when I can't tell if there are even stars in the sky. I picked the one that seemed most likely to be a star -- it was further away, not twinkling, fixed in place. I thought, now what. I thought I should make a wish or a prayer or send some good thought up into that blue-black sky, but there was a feeling in my chest, like something contracting. So I broke my gaze away from the stars or not-stars and walked to the edge of the driveway and stared down to the end of the cul-de-sac.
I could run, I thought, even though I can't. I toyed with the idea -- just picking up my bare feet and bolting down the street, down the pavement, off into the blue-black night, to a place where I could see, really see, the stars in the sky. But the tether of my sleeping children cinched around my waist and pulled me slowly back up the driveway.
I walked circles in the driveway, feet stepping heavy over water from the sprinklers snaking across the cement. My head down, I pulled my arms across my chest, pulled my whole self inward and I thought, now what. Now what. I wondered if I believed in the idea of an encompassing universe and reached inside a minute, feeling the ever-yawning hole somewhere near my heart where I imagine stars are peeping through. Peeping through in the blue-black. This is where my belief in the infinite has gone, and it's going to swallow me whole. It's an odd wound to disturb, to probe the gaping hole and come through with stars stuck to my fingers. To bleed infinity from the inside out.
You have to do something, I thought, and the most I could think to do was keep walking. Think of happy things, I thought. So I thought: happy. And then I thought, you can do better. So I kept walking in those wide circles, feet stepping heavy over the tiny river of water, and I thought: Happy, energetic, inspired. Happy, energetic, inspired. A great exhaustion pressed heavy into my shoulders and those words had never seemed more meaningless, but I kept thinking them: happy, energetic, inspired.
Against my back I felt the phantom thud of my daughter kicking the bathroom door that I was pressed against to prevent her from bursting out and hurting me. "Fine," my daughter shouted. "I hate you. I really do hate you." And so many more ugly things. My ears were filled with the ugly things she said, full to spilling; her ugly words and her vicious kicks were just pouring out of me. My fingertips tingled with the touch of the keyboard, from the effort of foisting off words of thanks to well-meaning friends and family offering their advice. There in the driveway walking my wide circles I wilted under the weight of concerned stares and words that I always carry with me to unpack later. Last night my husband said, "What's the solution, do you want to quit your job? Should we both quit our jobs?" And he didn't know, of course he didn't, how my heart would break with the weight of those words. How I floundered for a response that wasn't a shrieking, red-faced wail. How I searched for some way to defend myself -- against what, even?
I stepped heavy over the sprinkler-river in the driveway. I thought: happy, energetic, inspired. I thought again about apologizing.
I turned to face the dark house with its yellow light shining dimly from the kitchen, where the light touched down on dirty dishes and counters and floors and the phone waiting patiently on the counter. An apology is a gift you give to someone you love because you don't want them to feel hurt, especially if it's something you did. I told Madeleine this once. I pulled that stuck apology from my throat and walked back into the house. And that is what alone feels like: a wound near the heart, a starless sky, a stone-faced universe, and willfully walking back into a situation that is slowly crushing you to death.
I thought: happy, energetic, inspired, right before bed. I tacked on kindness and fell abruptly, like a heavy rock plummeting into dark water, into a dreamless, blue-black sleep.
Instead of crying I walked outside and stood in the driveway. Now what. I looked up at the blue-black sky and counted the points of light far above me. I wondered which ones were stars and which ones were airplanes. Something is wrong here, I thought, when I can't tell if there are even stars in the sky. I picked the one that seemed most likely to be a star -- it was further away, not twinkling, fixed in place. I thought, now what. I thought I should make a wish or a prayer or send some good thought up into that blue-black sky, but there was a feeling in my chest, like something contracting. So I broke my gaze away from the stars or not-stars and walked to the edge of the driveway and stared down to the end of the cul-de-sac.
I could run, I thought, even though I can't. I toyed with the idea -- just picking up my bare feet and bolting down the street, down the pavement, off into the blue-black night, to a place where I could see, really see, the stars in the sky. But the tether of my sleeping children cinched around my waist and pulled me slowly back up the driveway.
I walked circles in the driveway, feet stepping heavy over water from the sprinklers snaking across the cement. My head down, I pulled my arms across my chest, pulled my whole self inward and I thought, now what. Now what. I wondered if I believed in the idea of an encompassing universe and reached inside a minute, feeling the ever-yawning hole somewhere near my heart where I imagine stars are peeping through. Peeping through in the blue-black. This is where my belief in the infinite has gone, and it's going to swallow me whole. It's an odd wound to disturb, to probe the gaping hole and come through with stars stuck to my fingers. To bleed infinity from the inside out.
You have to do something, I thought, and the most I could think to do was keep walking. Think of happy things, I thought. So I thought: happy. And then I thought, you can do better. So I kept walking in those wide circles, feet stepping heavy over the tiny river of water, and I thought: Happy, energetic, inspired. Happy, energetic, inspired. A great exhaustion pressed heavy into my shoulders and those words had never seemed more meaningless, but I kept thinking them: happy, energetic, inspired.
Against my back I felt the phantom thud of my daughter kicking the bathroom door that I was pressed against to prevent her from bursting out and hurting me. "Fine," my daughter shouted. "I hate you. I really do hate you." And so many more ugly things. My ears were filled with the ugly things she said, full to spilling; her ugly words and her vicious kicks were just pouring out of me. My fingertips tingled with the touch of the keyboard, from the effort of foisting off words of thanks to well-meaning friends and family offering their advice. There in the driveway walking my wide circles I wilted under the weight of concerned stares and words that I always carry with me to unpack later. Last night my husband said, "What's the solution, do you want to quit your job? Should we both quit our jobs?" And he didn't know, of course he didn't, how my heart would break with the weight of those words. How I floundered for a response that wasn't a shrieking, red-faced wail. How I searched for some way to defend myself -- against what, even?
I stepped heavy over the sprinkler-river in the driveway. I thought: happy, energetic, inspired. I thought again about apologizing.
I turned to face the dark house with its yellow light shining dimly from the kitchen, where the light touched down on dirty dishes and counters and floors and the phone waiting patiently on the counter. An apology is a gift you give to someone you love because you don't want them to feel hurt, especially if it's something you did. I told Madeleine this once. I pulled that stuck apology from my throat and walked back into the house. And that is what alone feels like: a wound near the heart, a starless sky, a stone-faced universe, and willfully walking back into a situation that is slowly crushing you to death.
I thought: happy, energetic, inspired, right before bed. I tacked on kindness and fell abruptly, like a heavy rock plummeting into dark water, into a dreamless, blue-black sleep.
Posted on: Thursday, June 21, 2012
Everything's a possibility.
I had to wait to write this until just now, because if I had tried to write it any sooner, I would have been a sobbing, hysterical mess. I would have just dissolved all over my keyboard and grand, ugly fashion. I mean, I was already on the verge of that, so it was best to avoid the topic all together.
Here's the thing. Last night Madeleine had a bad episode, the worst I've seen in a long time. Things were terrible. I don't want to get into the details, but I want to write this here, as a reminder to myself: be stronger next time.
I am writing that without self-judgment. I am human, I cry, and when my daughter, the little girl who made me a mother, spends a good half hour physically attacking me and snarling incoherently and tearing around the house like a crazy person, it's going to upset me. But I don't have to fall apart in front of her like I did.
You did what you could, my mother said. It's only natural, my husband said. They are right. But here is what I truly believe: as her mother, it's my job to be strong in front of her, no matter what. Whatever happens in her brain when she gets like that -- it makes her weak and scared, even if it doesn't look that way. And mama falling apart doesn't help. It's my job to be stronger than she is, to take her in when she is on a rampage and say, Here. Here is a safe place to land. To be steady, to remind her that she does have a foundation, to remind her that the world isn't actually rocking underneath her feet, even if it feels that way to her.
To remember what feels like an impossibility: I am doing the best I can, and I can always do better. This is really about what happens in the space between those two phrases, what lives in the space after that comma -- it's the growth that bridges what I am doing now to what I can accomplish.
Yesterday I didn't feel ready for the battle, but today I remember how much I love that little girl. I remember that I am stronger than she is. That I am doing just fine and I can do much better.
Here's the thing. Last night Madeleine had a bad episode, the worst I've seen in a long time. Things were terrible. I don't want to get into the details, but I want to write this here, as a reminder to myself: be stronger next time.
I am writing that without self-judgment. I am human, I cry, and when my daughter, the little girl who made me a mother, spends a good half hour physically attacking me and snarling incoherently and tearing around the house like a crazy person, it's going to upset me. But I don't have to fall apart in front of her like I did.
You did what you could, my mother said. It's only natural, my husband said. They are right. But here is what I truly believe: as her mother, it's my job to be strong in front of her, no matter what. Whatever happens in her brain when she gets like that -- it makes her weak and scared, even if it doesn't look that way. And mama falling apart doesn't help. It's my job to be stronger than she is, to take her in when she is on a rampage and say, Here. Here is a safe place to land. To be steady, to remind her that she does have a foundation, to remind her that the world isn't actually rocking underneath her feet, even if it feels that way to her.
To remember what feels like an impossibility: I am doing the best I can, and I can always do better. This is really about what happens in the space between those two phrases, what lives in the space after that comma -- it's the growth that bridges what I am doing now to what I can accomplish.
Yesterday I didn't feel ready for the battle, but today I remember how much I love that little girl. I remember that I am stronger than she is. That I am doing just fine and I can do much better.
Posted on: Tuesday, June 19, 2012
They were working so hard.
The social wasp queen is responsible for building a whole world, for constructing a society. She starts by finding what seems to be a safe, sturdy place and begins by constructing a canopy made of wood fibers gathered from weathered wood and mixed with saliva. This paper-like substance will be the foundation of her new wasp civilization, and she uses it carefully, building a strong canopy from the inside out, until the canopy touches the outer edge of the cavity she has selected. In the center, beneath the canopy, she constructs the backbone and builds several cells. The first eggs will be laid here. The queen works at her task until layers of cells are constructed. Eventually enough female workers will be born and mature enough to take over the construction of the nest, leaving the queen to focus on reproduction.
Outside of this world is Madeleine, standing several feet away from where four or five wasps are tending to their new dusky brown world built sturdily into the outside corner of our garage. If we get too close, a wasp will buzz out, just a little. "If you leave them alone, they won't sting you," we tell the girls over and over again, but it doesn't stop that little frisson of fear we feel when a wasp decides to offer a warning of sorts. We step back, just a foot or so, and I wonder how we define "leave them alone," how we will know at which point we are in fact bothering these industrious workers. An anole darts up the side of the garage and Madeleine wants to catch it, but fear freezes her feet where she stands. "Just be very brave," she urges me. "Just be very brave and go and catch it."
This is the foolishness of motherhood; I grab Net, the name she has given the pink net she uses to snag all sorts of wild creatures and inch toward the garage where the wasps buzz about their nest and the anole eyes me warily. The wasps stay put and I halfheartedly reach out with Net, trying not to hurt the lizard. It darts down the side of the house and into the ivy, long gone.
"I'm sorry," I tell Madeleine as another wasp buzzes outward and we move on to another side of the yard. "I almost had it."
::
When we talk about bees and wasps, it seems they're often interchangeable; our brains make the tenuous connections: flying thing with stinger, nest, hives, pollen, etc. In terms of stings, the two are quite different. The acidic venom of bees, apitoxin, causes pain in those they sting. Wasp venom is chemically different; it seeks to paralyze prey so it can be stored alive in the food chambers of their young. When a person is stung by a wasp, they can expect swelling, itching, and pain at the site of the sting. Home care includes washing the site of the sting thoroughly with soap and water, applying ice for 10 minutes, and giving the person stung an antihistamine to relieve symptoms. And then you wait for your body to take care of the problem the rest of the way. A lot of wasp sting management is to endure; it hurts, eventually it will hurt less. One of the most painful places to be stung is the face; the skin there is delicate and the nerve endings are just right there.
I don't know these things per se when I hear Madeleine screaming in the front yard. It's the kind of cry-scream that terrifies a mother. "NOOO," Madeleine is wailing as I bolt for the front door, my heart in my throat. "A bee," she is sobbing, red-faced and hysterical. She barely chokes the words out. "It stung me!" I can't see the sting, so I ask desperately, "WHERE?" and she screams out, tears soaking her face, "My eye! My eye! Right here!" She points to the inner corner of her right eyebrow.
All I know is that I need her to calm down and it's not happening. The intensity of her reaction surprises me because she's been stung by bees and wasps on a few other occasions and it's never been like this. I sit her on the kitchen counter and tilt her teary, red face up so I can get a look. I see two tiny dots where she indicated she was stung. "Did it sting you twice?" I ask and she shakes her head frantically. "Yes," she sobs, drawing the word out to three or four syllables.
I get some ice, wrap it in a cloth, and apply it to the sting. I pull her in close and stroke her hair back from her sweaty, overheated forehead. She is still sobbing, but more quietly now, and at last I can understand what she's telling me. "I didn't mean to hit it with my face," she says sadly. I can tell she's thinking about what she learned of bee stings; that the bee dies when it stings because the stinger is ripped from its body. "I didn't want it to die! It didn't have to do that! I wish I didn't find death in those bushes!"
And this is the thing she gets stuck on for a good while after the sting: whether the bee died after it stung her. "Was it a wasp or a bee?" I ask her, and she's not sure. "All I saw was the face right by my eye," she tells me, trembling. The tears start fresh. "I hope it didn't die! I hope it can still take care of its babies!" I grasp for something reassuring to say and land on this: "There was no stinger in your skin, Mad, so whatever stung you didn't die. It was probably one of those wasps that lives at the corner of our garage."
This is a stretch for her, to think in absences this way. Without a stinger, then the bee must be attached to this stinger that doesn't in fact exist in her skin. And so it must be alive. Either way. So she keeps asking, all the way up until she falls asleep that night. "Did it die?" And I keep telling her the same thing: "Without a stinger in your skin, it's probably still alive."
:::
Now Madeleine won't go outside by herself any more and tries to employ company every single time she wants to go look for lizards and snakes. Whoever comes with her is the appointed lookout. "Just say 'wasp' or 'bee,'" she tells us, "and I will run as fast as I can."
More often than not, though, the self-proclaimed nature girl has turned indoors; she spends time constructing her own kind of nest in the industrious way a wasp would. She pulls the play kitchen out from the wall out an angle, creating her own little crevice. This is a single-celled nest constructed of cotton fibers woven into full blankets and pillows. She lines each cell with some of her favorite stuffed animals. I come home from work one day and she buzzes out, thrilled to show me her work. "I made a nest," she says proudly, pulling me into the playroom. "We can never get rid of it." I agree. "No way," I tell her. "This is your special place."
When I try to entice her to go outside later, she says no, focusing her attention on stickers and the lizard apartment she's built into a tall dollhouse.
:::
Sometimes defense looks like offense, and that's what plays out most nights these days. Madeleine is triggered by something -- it could be anything -- and she spends the night defending her nest, as it is, wielding whatever tool she can. She morphs into an animal, growling and snarling, and she fastidiously ignores my attempts to calm her down. In fact, the more I try to get her to see reason, the more erratic she becomes. Laughing and giggling she bolts down the hall, away from my attempts to get her to settle. She stomps forcefully in her sister's direction until her sister is sobbing and she seems to delight in it, a wild gleam in her eyes as she circles the house, waiting for me to give chase, again and again. She runs toward the cat and wails in protest when I pull her back, she kicks her feet as I try to get her to sit, she proclaims, "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS!" when I try to get her to talk. Again and again I am overcome by her fierceness, that pointed defiance that looks suspiciously like fear when she gets going. "We are not talking about this anymore," she says, drawing a line.
Eventually though, when the damage is done and I have lost my temper and Violet is left alone in her room and the cats are cowering under the bed somewhere, Madeleine has finally released all the venom and she curls into the time out chair, sobbing. "If you would just cuddle me," she says, and I do, of course I do. Finally she can talk, just a little. "This is just who I am," she says, a hurt swarming deep in her eyes. "This is how I react. I'm a bad kid."
I scrape the stinger and apply the ice and I tell her no, no you are not a bad kid. You are not. And we ride this one out together. We endure. It hurts; eventually it will hurt less. Or so I keep telling myself.
:::
Days later, after the kids have gone to bed and the house is tidied, I pour through the pages of a book on dealing with kids on the autism spectrum who have intensely explosive behavior. This book offers coping strategies and it is all very hopeful, but reading it is hard because it feels like a confirmation of something I previously have been able to deny. Asperger's or maybe Asperger's-lite, if such a thing were to exit. Your kid is different from other kids, is what I take away from it. Your kid is not "normal."
But yesterday we went outside and I noticed the wasp nest was gone, which I pointed out to Madeleine. "I guess your dad took care of it," I told her. And Madeleine stood there, appraising the now-empty corner that the wasps had called home. "That's too bad," she said sadly, Net braced over her shoulder. "I was really proud of those guys. They were working so hard."
She ran off to find lizards and I notched it in my head as something valuable to remember. To find beauty and grace in something that seems so invasive and destructive, to take pride in the hard work that goes into building a Whole Thing. In the wasps' case, a nest; in our case, a little girl learning how to be okay in the world.
Outside of this world is Madeleine, standing several feet away from where four or five wasps are tending to their new dusky brown world built sturdily into the outside corner of our garage. If we get too close, a wasp will buzz out, just a little. "If you leave them alone, they won't sting you," we tell the girls over and over again, but it doesn't stop that little frisson of fear we feel when a wasp decides to offer a warning of sorts. We step back, just a foot or so, and I wonder how we define "leave them alone," how we will know at which point we are in fact bothering these industrious workers. An anole darts up the side of the garage and Madeleine wants to catch it, but fear freezes her feet where she stands. "Just be very brave," she urges me. "Just be very brave and go and catch it."
This is the foolishness of motherhood; I grab Net, the name she has given the pink net she uses to snag all sorts of wild creatures and inch toward the garage where the wasps buzz about their nest and the anole eyes me warily. The wasps stay put and I halfheartedly reach out with Net, trying not to hurt the lizard. It darts down the side of the house and into the ivy, long gone.
"I'm sorry," I tell Madeleine as another wasp buzzes outward and we move on to another side of the yard. "I almost had it."
::
When we talk about bees and wasps, it seems they're often interchangeable; our brains make the tenuous connections: flying thing with stinger, nest, hives, pollen, etc. In terms of stings, the two are quite different. The acidic venom of bees, apitoxin, causes pain in those they sting. Wasp venom is chemically different; it seeks to paralyze prey so it can be stored alive in the food chambers of their young. When a person is stung by a wasp, they can expect swelling, itching, and pain at the site of the sting. Home care includes washing the site of the sting thoroughly with soap and water, applying ice for 10 minutes, and giving the person stung an antihistamine to relieve symptoms. And then you wait for your body to take care of the problem the rest of the way. A lot of wasp sting management is to endure; it hurts, eventually it will hurt less. One of the most painful places to be stung is the face; the skin there is delicate and the nerve endings are just right there.
I don't know these things per se when I hear Madeleine screaming in the front yard. It's the kind of cry-scream that terrifies a mother. "NOOO," Madeleine is wailing as I bolt for the front door, my heart in my throat. "A bee," she is sobbing, red-faced and hysterical. She barely chokes the words out. "It stung me!" I can't see the sting, so I ask desperately, "WHERE?" and she screams out, tears soaking her face, "My eye! My eye! Right here!" She points to the inner corner of her right eyebrow.
All I know is that I need her to calm down and it's not happening. The intensity of her reaction surprises me because she's been stung by bees and wasps on a few other occasions and it's never been like this. I sit her on the kitchen counter and tilt her teary, red face up so I can get a look. I see two tiny dots where she indicated she was stung. "Did it sting you twice?" I ask and she shakes her head frantically. "Yes," she sobs, drawing the word out to three or four syllables.
I get some ice, wrap it in a cloth, and apply it to the sting. I pull her in close and stroke her hair back from her sweaty, overheated forehead. She is still sobbing, but more quietly now, and at last I can understand what she's telling me. "I didn't mean to hit it with my face," she says sadly. I can tell she's thinking about what she learned of bee stings; that the bee dies when it stings because the stinger is ripped from its body. "I didn't want it to die! It didn't have to do that! I wish I didn't find death in those bushes!"
And this is the thing she gets stuck on for a good while after the sting: whether the bee died after it stung her. "Was it a wasp or a bee?" I ask her, and she's not sure. "All I saw was the face right by my eye," she tells me, trembling. The tears start fresh. "I hope it didn't die! I hope it can still take care of its babies!" I grasp for something reassuring to say and land on this: "There was no stinger in your skin, Mad, so whatever stung you didn't die. It was probably one of those wasps that lives at the corner of our garage."
This is a stretch for her, to think in absences this way. Without a stinger, then the bee must be attached to this stinger that doesn't in fact exist in her skin. And so it must be alive. Either way. So she keeps asking, all the way up until she falls asleep that night. "Did it die?" And I keep telling her the same thing: "Without a stinger in your skin, it's probably still alive."
:::
Now Madeleine won't go outside by herself any more and tries to employ company every single time she wants to go look for lizards and snakes. Whoever comes with her is the appointed lookout. "Just say 'wasp' or 'bee,'" she tells us, "and I will run as fast as I can."
More often than not, though, the self-proclaimed nature girl has turned indoors; she spends time constructing her own kind of nest in the industrious way a wasp would. She pulls the play kitchen out from the wall out an angle, creating her own little crevice. This is a single-celled nest constructed of cotton fibers woven into full blankets and pillows. She lines each cell with some of her favorite stuffed animals. I come home from work one day and she buzzes out, thrilled to show me her work. "I made a nest," she says proudly, pulling me into the playroom. "We can never get rid of it." I agree. "No way," I tell her. "This is your special place."
When I try to entice her to go outside later, she says no, focusing her attention on stickers and the lizard apartment she's built into a tall dollhouse.
:::
Sometimes defense looks like offense, and that's what plays out most nights these days. Madeleine is triggered by something -- it could be anything -- and she spends the night defending her nest, as it is, wielding whatever tool she can. She morphs into an animal, growling and snarling, and she fastidiously ignores my attempts to calm her down. In fact, the more I try to get her to see reason, the more erratic she becomes. Laughing and giggling she bolts down the hall, away from my attempts to get her to settle. She stomps forcefully in her sister's direction until her sister is sobbing and she seems to delight in it, a wild gleam in her eyes as she circles the house, waiting for me to give chase, again and again. She runs toward the cat and wails in protest when I pull her back, she kicks her feet as I try to get her to sit, she proclaims, "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS!" when I try to get her to talk. Again and again I am overcome by her fierceness, that pointed defiance that looks suspiciously like fear when she gets going. "We are not talking about this anymore," she says, drawing a line.
Eventually though, when the damage is done and I have lost my temper and Violet is left alone in her room and the cats are cowering under the bed somewhere, Madeleine has finally released all the venom and she curls into the time out chair, sobbing. "If you would just cuddle me," she says, and I do, of course I do. Finally she can talk, just a little. "This is just who I am," she says, a hurt swarming deep in her eyes. "This is how I react. I'm a bad kid."
I scrape the stinger and apply the ice and I tell her no, no you are not a bad kid. You are not. And we ride this one out together. We endure. It hurts; eventually it will hurt less. Or so I keep telling myself.
:::
Days later, after the kids have gone to bed and the house is tidied, I pour through the pages of a book on dealing with kids on the autism spectrum who have intensely explosive behavior. This book offers coping strategies and it is all very hopeful, but reading it is hard because it feels like a confirmation of something I previously have been able to deny. Asperger's or maybe Asperger's-lite, if such a thing were to exit. Your kid is different from other kids, is what I take away from it. Your kid is not "normal."
But yesterday we went outside and I noticed the wasp nest was gone, which I pointed out to Madeleine. "I guess your dad took care of it," I told her. And Madeleine stood there, appraising the now-empty corner that the wasps had called home. "That's too bad," she said sadly, Net braced over her shoulder. "I was really proud of those guys. They were working so hard."
She ran off to find lizards and I notched it in my head as something valuable to remember. To find beauty and grace in something that seems so invasive and destructive, to take pride in the hard work that goes into building a Whole Thing. In the wasps' case, a nest; in our case, a little girl learning how to be okay in the world.
Posted on: Thursday, June 14, 2012
At night the ivy.
At night the ivy cinches around the trees, encourages them to pull up roots and leave.
At night the trees go walking down the streets at the tug of ivy,
down the streets and up the streets, they leave, leaves swaying at the tug of the moon.
The nests and bugs and all the living things, the twittering things,
they sleep, they sleep in the sway of the branches, in the silver small tug of the moon.
At night while you're sleeping, breaths whispering in dark rooms,
the trees are dancing now, together, a waltz in the black night, sleep now, sleep now,
in the silver small tug of the moon.
At night the trees go walking down the streets at the tug of ivy,
down the streets and up the streets, they leave, leaves swaying at the tug of the moon.
The nests and bugs and all the living things, the twittering things,
they sleep, they sleep in the sway of the branches, in the silver small tug of the moon.
At night while you're sleeping, breaths whispering in dark rooms,
the trees are dancing now, together, a waltz in the black night, sleep now, sleep now,
in the silver small tug of the moon.
Posted on: Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The vital organ.
There is a heat that wriggles into your heart, tugs the arteries, boils the blood, sends it in sizzling shock waves through your entire body. It blackens the vital organ and turns it to ash until that steady whomp of blood fizzles and pools down into your feet. This inaction will kill you, is what I'm saying. Life is circling wraith-like around and around and around your chest and you are dying. You're dying! Every single day! You with your jaw set and your eyes firm, you march on toward that steady death. And even when you get there, when the hole opens up and swallows you completely, nothing will stop that wide O of surprise in your eyes, shaping your mouth. Nothing will stop that sharp, sudden regret when you go.
Posted on: Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Shining a light.
“What really matters when you go to your death bed? It’s not about the fuck-you songs to the government. I don’t think
that’s what it should be about. It’s about
shining a light and being a light and not cursing the darkness. We are
all born into a world that is at war. Brothers and sisters don’t
recognize each other and we all are living in this illusion of duality.” -- Jade Castrinos, of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
This video/song actually somehow brought tears to my eyes. Something about what drives us to move like this, to dance and to dance together. It makes me happy. He sings "come dance with me," but he might as well be singing, "come stand with me," "come sing with me," "come pray with me." It's lovely.
This video/song actually somehow brought tears to my eyes. Something about what drives us to move like this, to dance and to dance together. It makes me happy. He sings "come dance with me," but he might as well be singing, "come stand with me," "come sing with me," "come pray with me." It's lovely.
The story about the hydrangeas.
Once the first blossom died, I was only a little worried about the plant. The leaves looked healthy and the other blossoms were full, bright, and fragrant. But this one blossom -- its delicate purple folds drooped toward the ground and slowly browned. I made a note to cut the blossom so the plant would stop spending its energy on nourishing a lost cause. But time kept sliding away and I kept bumping it down the To Do list. A simple fix; grab the scissors, walk into the front yard, snip the dead blossom. But I never got around to it.
Another day I noticed a second and third clutch of pink and purple blossoms were starting to look tired. Still I didn't act. I would walk out to the flower bed and water the plant but I never brought the scissors with me. I watched those two blossoms go the way of the first, which was now dark brown and hanging limply from a drooping green stem. Still the blossom at the front of the plant was a vivid pink, full and round, and the leaves still looked healthy. So I kept it up. Watering the plant, leaving the scissors in the house. Here in our front yard was a plant with mostly dead flowers still held aloft by green stems and strong leaves, and I just kept bringing it water. I could do that.
On the last day I noticed that the last blossom was starting to have that faded look that plagued the others before everything went south. I crouched down in the dirt and saw that at the base of the plant the stems were brown, like sticks, instead of the supple green they once were. Here in our front yard was a plant with mostly dead flowers, supple green stems near the top, dying stems near the bottom. The leaves still looked strong, at least.
So on that day I decided to take the few steps back into the house, find the scissors, bring them back outside, and cut the blossoms, even the one that hadn't died yet. I could clutch the damp, faded pink and completely brown blossoms in one hand now, and it took all of 30 seconds to take care of it. Once I trimmed the old blossoms out I noticed that a satellite stem had grown near the back of the plant, and a small bud was sprouting from it. Still the leaves looked strong.
Such a simple step in this process of tending a plant with lovely bursts of blooms -- a step I had identified weeks ago -- and it took the death of nearly every single blossom before I found it in me to take action. I think about all those wasted days that the plant spent sending energy down green stems to feed blossoms that were never going to make it, that were long past helping anyway.
Now in my front yard is a plant that stands for more than just the Mother's Day gift it was. It's a reminder to cut what's not blooming, to stop tending to lost causes, to remember to send your energy where it's best spent, to check for blooms in unexpected places. And there's hope there, yet. This morning the leaves still stand strong. I can still see glimpses of bright green reaching out toward the sun.
Another day I noticed a second and third clutch of pink and purple blossoms were starting to look tired. Still I didn't act. I would walk out to the flower bed and water the plant but I never brought the scissors with me. I watched those two blossoms go the way of the first, which was now dark brown and hanging limply from a drooping green stem. Still the blossom at the front of the plant was a vivid pink, full and round, and the leaves still looked healthy. So I kept it up. Watering the plant, leaving the scissors in the house. Here in our front yard was a plant with mostly dead flowers still held aloft by green stems and strong leaves, and I just kept bringing it water. I could do that.
On the last day I noticed that the last blossom was starting to have that faded look that plagued the others before everything went south. I crouched down in the dirt and saw that at the base of the plant the stems were brown, like sticks, instead of the supple green they once were. Here in our front yard was a plant with mostly dead flowers, supple green stems near the top, dying stems near the bottom. The leaves still looked strong, at least.
So on that day I decided to take the few steps back into the house, find the scissors, bring them back outside, and cut the blossoms, even the one that hadn't died yet. I could clutch the damp, faded pink and completely brown blossoms in one hand now, and it took all of 30 seconds to take care of it. Once I trimmed the old blossoms out I noticed that a satellite stem had grown near the back of the plant, and a small bud was sprouting from it. Still the leaves looked strong.
Such a simple step in this process of tending a plant with lovely bursts of blooms -- a step I had identified weeks ago -- and it took the death of nearly every single blossom before I found it in me to take action. I think about all those wasted days that the plant spent sending energy down green stems to feed blossoms that were never going to make it, that were long past helping anyway.
Now in my front yard is a plant that stands for more than just the Mother's Day gift it was. It's a reminder to cut what's not blooming, to stop tending to lost causes, to remember to send your energy where it's best spent, to check for blooms in unexpected places. And there's hope there, yet. This morning the leaves still stand strong. I can still see glimpses of bright green reaching out toward the sun.
Posted on: Monday, June 4, 2012
A few darker days.
Something changes in her eyes first. Then comes the action. Yesterday she threw a paintbrush. The day before she tried to kick me. In my better moments I can see her for what she is then, a mass of jangled nerves, a tremor of anxiety. Her brain pulsing toward something that will give her control. Act, her brain says. Throw this paintbrush. Lash out. Do something.
In my darker moments I don't see the nerves, the anxious reaching, the desperate action. In my darker moments I see that flash in her eyes, hear her giddy laughter when she turns this discipline into a game, and think shut it down. And every single time my "shut it down" makes things worse. "You'd think I would have learned by now," I sob to my husband on the phone. It's just been so long since we've been here.
Yesterday she threw a paintbrush and my husband jumped in to help while I stared at her, mute, trying to understand what was happening, why this was happening again. "I hate you," she yelled at him. I took Violet outside, just so I could get a breath. I find out later he told her he didn't think he could feel better about it until she said "I love you" to him over and over. And she did. "I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you," she said with no hesitation. "I love you I love you I love you." And on and on.
We smoothed over the bump in the day the best we could, but the damage was done. We tiptoed gingerly, hoping that things would stay calm. I worry about her, what all this tense frustration does to her. What it's doing to us. This is what we are lately. It's what we're made of. Ropes pulled tight, crumbs in the throat, explosive coughing, shallow breaths.
At bedtime she curled into my body the way she does, head on my arm. She had one arm locked around a Stitch doll and the other clutched her blanket tightly. "Goodnight, sweetheart," I whispered. I understand, I wanted her to know. Even when I don't, even when I feel lost, I understand you. I don't know how to say this in a way she'll understand, so I kissed her forehead and simply held her. This has to be enough. For now, it is what sustains us.
In my darker moments I don't see the nerves, the anxious reaching, the desperate action. In my darker moments I see that flash in her eyes, hear her giddy laughter when she turns this discipline into a game, and think shut it down. And every single time my "shut it down" makes things worse. "You'd think I would have learned by now," I sob to my husband on the phone. It's just been so long since we've been here.
Yesterday she threw a paintbrush and my husband jumped in to help while I stared at her, mute, trying to understand what was happening, why this was happening again. "I hate you," she yelled at him. I took Violet outside, just so I could get a breath. I find out later he told her he didn't think he could feel better about it until she said "I love you" to him over and over. And she did. "I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you," she said with no hesitation. "I love you I love you I love you." And on and on.
We smoothed over the bump in the day the best we could, but the damage was done. We tiptoed gingerly, hoping that things would stay calm. I worry about her, what all this tense frustration does to her. What it's doing to us. This is what we are lately. It's what we're made of. Ropes pulled tight, crumbs in the throat, explosive coughing, shallow breaths.
At bedtime she curled into my body the way she does, head on my arm. She had one arm locked around a Stitch doll and the other clutched her blanket tightly. "Goodnight, sweetheart," I whispered. I understand, I wanted her to know. Even when I don't, even when I feel lost, I understand you. I don't know how to say this in a way she'll understand, so I kissed her forehead and simply held her. This has to be enough. For now, it is what sustains us.
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