Sometimes in the Archives, I’ll let pictures speak their thousand. Pause on words and share an image.
And then, once in a while, a song finds its way to my ears and takes me down in a humble bow to the power of sound. In this place, beyond the mind, there is only feeling. Where every cell is plucked to quiver in remembrance. Where connection is not a concept, but an experience.
Yesterday, a monotonous project on the computer was transformed by the music of Ben Howard. I stumbled across a KCRW studio session of him performing “Depth Over Distance” and suddenly, there was more at hand than Quickbooks accounting. Life breathed new through song.
Music is medicine. Here’s a swig of the sonic elixir.
I guided eight and a half-year old Jeb through a solo sojourn. His first real walk alone. A milestone, not unlike that pinnacle moment years ago, when he released my finger and began a precarious and tubby toddle away from me.
“Yeah, just walk with me to that mango tree and then you can turn around,” he suggests.
He’s got his back pack on and our rubber slippers are flip-flopping, ankle-deep in grass, along our country road. Jeb’s going to his dad’s house which is about a third of a mile away from where we live. It’s his first unaccompanied trek.
“Ok, this is good,” he says as we approach the big tree. It’s a hug and a kiss and a modern, motherly reminder from me to “text me when you get there, ok?”
As the words come from my mouth, I recognize that parental predecessors have never had this technological assurance. But this back up doesn’t make the space between farewell and my cell phone display screen any less tenuous.
“Ok, love you…” he says as he waves and walks on, beaming in this moment of flight and freedom.
We move in opposite directions, then catch each other both looking back over our shoulders at one another. More waves are exchanged, then we move further on. Another backward glance and we’re both smiling to see each other peeking back again.
This goes on, repeatedly, as we make our way in opposite directions.
A few steps further away, look back, smile, wave. A few more steps away.
Finally, there is a curve in the road that we both know will permanently put us out of sight of one another. He is distant but I can hear him.
“Ok, mom, bye!”
And just like that, a shared, final gesture of parting and he rounds out and away from my view.
I know Jeb’s Dad is waiting to receive him on the other side. He, too, has been given the request to text me as soon as Jeb makes it there (no cell reception at his house, only text messages can come through). It’s not that I’m worried, just wanting confirmation.
So two hours later and three of my sent messages (something along the lines of “please help a mother rest assured that our boy made it alright”) I’ve settled into the deepest let go. The one countless mothers have done long before cell phones. Trusting that no news is good news. Rationalizing that if Jeb wouldn’t have made it, his father would have contacted me by now, wondering where he was. That they must be having so much fun, they just forgot.
Not extremely anxious, just not completely settled, I get to sit in the company of the Mothers of the World. Surrender to the space of no guarantees. Dwell within the uncertainty that links us across the ages.
No matter how many technological tools offer instant answers, there will never be a definitive promise. A mother will always be required to release her child back into the world.
And in the case of this mother (as in, me), she didn’t get that little reassurance until sunset, when her cell phone sounded and the words, “I’m ok” came across her screen.
Mother’s intuition knew this all along. She just got to let go and rely on it.
Not touching the iTouch, Jeb dives into Legos. While I work, he sits beside me creating countless structures in the third dimension. Interactions and melodramas can be heard as he mumbles dialogue between Lego guys.
Not immune to the ways of war, these little dudes usually come with some sort of miniature weaponry.
Knowing my pacifist tendencies, Jeb points out, “Hey, Mom, look at this.”
A Lego version of a trash can has been filled with a slew of black rifle replicas, each one smaller than a toothpick.
“Mmmm…that’s a good place for them,” I respond.
For now, I won’t begin an essay asking why standard toys include gun-toting characters for our children’s play. For now, I am focusing on the positive. And that is the fact that there was no mention of the iTunes store or any kind of upgrade requests for an entire day.
For 24 hours my son was plugged into his own imagination, no purchase necessary.
No yaps about an App from my eight year old (and gasp!) no yips from the dog next door all night!
For the first time in many nights, the neighborhood was softly quiet.
A dear friend used to say to me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.
If the record player is my metaphor, then I’ll say I simply pulled the plug on both my son’s handheld gadget and the neighboring dog scenario. Things feel a little more sane, and certainly more quiet.
Even dreamtime shifted. I swam in milky mineral pools of hot spring water in the caves and crevices of some remote beach. Collected multitudes of ornate blue and white pottery shards, which lead like bread crumbs, to entire plates and vases, fully enact and washed up on the shore.
I’ll collect these lessons like treasure. Soak in the silence. Smile and drift a bit on this new current.
For the Archives 