This morning, it’s pen to paper. Sometimes the words must be drawn out, not tapped.
I’m thankful to my mom for a hundred thousand things, but towards the top of the list is her encouragement to begin this accounting process. It started with that first Record book she gave me when I was eight.
Three hundred pages now hold scrawls that evolved to age twenty. And at least twenty more journals have ensued.
Thank you, mom, for gifting me the start to a life-long practice!
So the Archives today will be more visceral. I’ll get my whole hand into the telling.
I’l move away from cyberspace. Use material with substance and dimension. Bring to it ink or lead.
Let words imprint a page. Never have to hit the Save key.
I see myself trying to uphold this fallacy in every reminder that trails in the dust behind my eight year old’s trotting flip-flops.
“Be careful with those sticks…”
“Be mindful of cars…”
“Did you put sunscreen on your face?”
I am everything in these moments. The responsible parent. The nagging mother. The hapless human in illusion that she can outwit fate through continual precautionary tips.
I get the feedback.
From my son, Jeb: “You’re being too much of a mom.”
From a family friend (his children grown): “You can’t live in fear. He’s having fun.”
From another mother (her children small): “You’re being a good mom. We all need to be more aware.”
I’d like to think I’m far from phobic. In fact, I think I’m a pretty laid back mom. My son kayaks the open ocean, climbs trees, surfs waves. He jumps and dangles, burrows and karate chops. He has even been away from me for days at a time. I swear, I am no smother. But I observe my grasping.
Not grasping for my son. Just grasping for control of all things ‘bad.’ I’ve made it clear, mishaps are not welcome here.
Ever since the recent news of a friend who lost her child in an accident – a swift and sudden turn of events, forever changing that family’s course – I’m finding my alert-meter turned to high.
Fear is watchful, ever-vigilant. But where am I?
Somewhere beneath the tensing muscles in my stomach and the strain of warning words moving from my throat, is a woman who wants no mistakes. A woman who would like to skirt suffering. A woman who loves deeply.
And present, too, distant in the shadows of circumspection, there is another Watcher, observing this whole scene.
This Watcher, she smiles a compassionate smile. To that eight year old child that wants to experience and be free, unwitting in beautiful innocence to all the darkness of the world. She smiles to the mother who wants nothing more than to see her child grow strong and full, safe and sound. This mother, who in sweet foolishness believes, that she can override destiny.
I believe this Watcher is my truest self (shed of all the fear and doubt) and this Watcher knows. Or knows that she does not know. Does not know the way of life and death. Does not know the place where choice and fate divide and collide. Does not even know what is truly ‘best’. But has a hunch it has something to do with surrender.
A friend told me when I gave birth to my son, “As soon as they’re born, give them back to God. They are not yours.”
At the time, I thought I understood what that meant and it seemed sage advice. Now I get to live it.
Yes, Jeb’s still going to wear his helmet. No, he’s not quite yet ready for the pocket knife. Yes, someone has to be watching when he swims in the ocean. And no, despite his pleas, we are not changing his iTouch settings to age 12.
On my watch, I want to know I’ve done my best to stay aware. Done what I could to keep Jeb safe. But who am I to think that I really have the power to keep all ‘bad’ at bay?
I’ll wholeheartedly welcome in the good. Try to remember that things don’t always go as planned. There are greater forces at work.
I’ve been paused on lip service in an obvious hiatus from the Archives. The question has arisen on more than one occasion these past days. What’s worth saying?
Not that I’ve abandoned letters. I’ve been with my proverbial sack of sounds doing a phonetic shuffle. Sorting poetry and prose to gather a collection that represents this “For the Archives” journey so far (aka “my first book project”).
What pieces that I’ve written get included? What expressions really must be shared?
And as I sift through 18 months of musings – my little journey to find the profound in the mundane – life and death go on, eclipsing any of my human edits.
Beyond the stack of my book’s first draft pages, I learn of four deaths in seven days. A small child, a young woman and two other people in their sixties. I know each of these souls only distantly, if at all. But their passing makes an impact. Stirs somber conversations between friends. Perspectives are upheaved, seeking new places to settle.
Words between the living are exchanged. Like
“Each day is precious, enjoy it fully.”
or
“There’s only one thing to do in this life, and that’s love.”
I hear the sounds of affirmation swirl the air. My heart can feel the longing to live them. But my mind seems one step removed.
As if there is some fuzzy veil between me and truth. Pearls of wisdom may come rolling off my tongue, but unless I become that gem – shine its rare and simple beauty in my everyday existence – then isn’t it all just words?
Is it possible in my human experience to really know (then LIVE) the true preciousness of this life? Is my mantra of ‘the moment’ just a rote recitation, more habit than authentic?
I need to be rumbled. Shaken to rid the dusty corners of my mind of all its cozy comforts. Dismantle the shroud that shields any part of my heart. I long to be rattled to feel fully and live deeply. Yes! This sounds to be the most grand and virtuous path!
Yet, I want the safeguard. I am but so afraid of feeling any pain.
Is there a way to gently be enlightened? And if we touch Grace, even if only for an instant, are there words left to describe?
These days, inside, exists a whirling discombobulation. I witness. Feel all yearning spin and twist with hesitation.
I am rendered silent, left to sift letters through the air.
For the Archives 