Violaceous
Of Whistles and Folds and Saints
Two years ago, it was paper airplanes, ginger tea, and butterflies in my stomach. I was falling in love fast with the man making precise origami folds at my kitchen table, while whistling “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
Over the course of a month, I’d been quietly spending time with the Bohemian. In the rare free moments I had away from seven-year old, Jeb, I wandered in the bamboo and swam in the ocean, with this free-spirited soul who had a foreign name and the warmest hugs. Each time he exited my door, leaving his cornucopia offering of guavas, avocados, and lilikois, I braced myself to never see him again. I’d been broken before. I readied myself for the inevitable goodbye by weaving it into our hellos. Hence, I told no one of the Bohemian, especially Jeb.
Until the paper airplanes (see “In the Fold”).
I don’t know what changed. Jeb and I were fresh from Halloween costume shopping, the ritual I’d done with him, alone, for years. He had his wand and glasses, all set for Harry Potter magic. We were home and and I was at the kitchen sink, readying for dinner. Oh, how I wanted to see the kind face of the Bohemian again. And oh, how I feared that the love that was blossoming in my heart would swiftly destroy me in its eventual leaving.
Surges of raw tenderness coursed through my every heartbeat, pumping fresh feeling to the limbs that sliced cheese for Jeb’s snack, took the trash to the curb. I was under the influence, but couldn’t say it. A woman in love, who was petrified. But just brave enough (or foolishly wild from the love drug) to chance it.
Looking back, the only thing that changed was my willingness to risk. I had already surrendered to my own demise. I was prepared to suffer the consequences of my heart’s undoing. But I had been standing guard when it came to Jeb. Introducing my son to the Bohemian meant the gates were opening. And that was definitely scary.
So I kept it all quite casual, of course. Rinsing dishes there at the sink. Talking on the phone with the Bohemian.
Yes, we got a costume. No, I’m not sure what I’ll be for Halloween. Yes, it is a beautiful afternoon. No, we don’t have any more plans for today.
“Hey, would you like to come over for dinner at our house tonight?”
No matter how relaxed I tried to make it sound, we both knew it was more than a dinner invitation.
“Sure. Why not?”
Yeah. Why not?
Why not take a risk?
I had done my mama bear duty. Ascertained that this man was certainly of good will and kind heart. Jeb liked having friends over for dinner. And that was what it would be.
Only a fly on the wall could tell you if it was obvious I was riding out the loopty-loops of turbulence with every paper airplane launched from the Bohemian’s hand that night, post-dinner. Jeb was enamored with his aerodynamic precision. I was in awe of his playfulness.
So when the saints came marching in, via the sweet wind of the Bohemian’s smiling mouth, I thought for sure annihilation was my fate. How could I want something so much and survive the loss if I didn’t get it? Because it was clear. I wanted this.
I wanted the spice of ginger steaming from three hot mugs. I wanted the magic of paper creases fueling flight. I wanted Jeb’s fascinated voice to forever ring, “How did you do that?”
I wanted to grab that whistling man and my wide-eyed son, wrap my arms around them both and say, “I love this. I want this. I need this.”
I wanted to not be afraid of letting myself feel that wanting. To want it all, completely. Then be strong enough to let it go.
I’m sure the fly on the wall saw it all in me. The fear, the awe, the love. There was some kind of courage there, too. All three of us were brave in our openness. A family in formation, paper airplanes in the living room. Test pilots, creasing, lifting, crashing, landing, creasing and lifting again.
For those that read the Archives, you’ll know I married that Bohemian. Jeb is now nearly ten. We are a family, still lifting and launching (sometimes crashing) and learning everyday.
I took a risk for what I felt I wanted, deeply. And sometimes I still get scared.
That’s when I let myself be buoyed. Held by folds and whistles and saints. Love.
Lessons in Cobwebs
The things you learn when you let the cobwebs gather.
Our bedroom gives a picture-framed view of Arachnid Dining 101. Intricate lairs are built in an afternoon, their trappings either wrapped or wriggling.
I wrote about the Enlightened Spider back in August (“Not Caught“) that wrestled with a wasp for supper. Though I do not wish death on any living thing, I found myself rooting for the spider (note, if it would have been a butterfly instead of a wasp, I may have felt differently – exploration for a future post, perhaps). When the wasp broke free and fell ten feet, my instinct (as I had suddenly become that spider) was to unravel my filament and go chasing my dinner. It would not slip away!
However, Enlightened Spider knew more. He/she had spun this yarn before. And instead of pursuit, it chose acceptance. It simply braced itself, all eight legs open and connected to the gossamer weave that blew in the breeze and rocked its body, gently. That spider’s life was literally hanging by threads. It would eat another day.
But what happens when you get the catch?
Still studying at the spider school, I learn that patience isn’t only practiced when you lose your lunch. Yesterday, Enlightened Spider reeled it in. A large beetle-kind of insect, plump and prime for any hopeful web-in-waiting. I felt empathy as it struggled in the sticky lines. As its predator held watch, demise was inevitable. Searching for a bright side to the circle of life reality before me, I was at least happy that the spider had a meal.
This was no fast food, though.
Six hours later, I pass the window and check in on wild kingdom. Sadly, beetle friend is still alive and moving beneath thickly wrapped threads. Patience exudes from the delicate limbs of Enlightened Spider who holds sentry nearby. Thin legs make small and deliberate movements, no rush about it. Clearly, this is a process. No instant reward. Calm composure is required, even when the catch is snagged.
Oh, Enlightened Spider, you offer the patience lessons. Reminders that even when our dreams come true, we need to work with them as they unfold. These things we imagine, then bring to form, are not quick meals to be devoured. They are gifts to be savored in a process. All of the risks, just a thread away. All of the promise, plentiful with potential.
That spider at my window knows that dinner’s in the bag. It’s just a matter of time.
There is no hurry.
Besides, what else is there to do?
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