Circles

Yesterday, a child came out to wonder”.

The voice in my head pleaded, “Don’t cry…don’t cry…don’t cry on your way to the post office.” I had been unexpectedly emotional since the early morning phone call from the postmaster letting me know that my new chickens had arrived. Chicken keeping, like most everything else, has a rhythm, and we find ourselves in our fourth year of what has become a most beloved hobby.

It’s so quiet, here in the dark, but I just cannot turn off the noise in my head. Silence cuts all the things that were never said, never gathered into form to be witnessed and set free.

Seconds that seemed stretched into hours have now passed, and I wonder what took so long.

“And the seasons, they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down.”

The cautious nature of new love, holding the words deep within as a best effort to protect myself from the vulnerability of my own truth; this is how our child comes to us, afraid to love, afraid to trust, for fear of the eventuality of rejection and abandonment, a lifelong pattern.

It’s not a fair comparison, but the emotional commonality of simply being human offers up the possibility that the bridge to a relationship can be challenging to navigate. We are afraid that who we are will not be enough.

Parenting any child is both daunting and beautiful. We cannot know what to expect, and sometimes we can never know just what the days, what the years looked like before the child’s path met ours.

We’re captive on a carousel of time”.

The doctor is running late. My little son is on my lap, content with his threadbare blanket in the moment, and still under the spell of the travel sickness medication. If I close my eyes, I can almost pull open the capsules which hold the lives of those here with me: people that I have not seen before.

The television is loud, perhaps not loud enough for those that are actually trying to make sense of what is happening in this cartoon: a cat jumps from a the head of a boy with skunk hair as the boy yells, “no fair!” The rest of us stare at the screen for a random moment or two, processing nothing but our previous thoughts.

One young mother, waiting in the appointment line and dressed in very high heels, lets her distraught toddler son free from his stroller. Light moves across the child’s face as he rolls to the floor, clumsily pulls himself to his feet, and promptly escapes down a hallway, running in circles into the rooms as he cackles and showers the office with crumbs from his snack, likely given as an attempt to avoid this entire scenario. The mother wipes her brow, rolls her eyes, and disappears in her high heels in pursuit of the boy.

“We can’t return; we can only look behind from where we came…”

I have been this mother, minus the fancy shoes, for nearly thirty years. Most of my children are older, and often I find myself chasing not them, but who I thought they wanted to be, who they used to be, or what I thought they might need.

Today, I felt relieved that I was not the one breaking a sweat, running around the hematology wing. Today, I was grateful to hold my own uncharacteristically calm and quiet child as we waited our turn at looking for an answer.

Just a few days ago marked thirty years that Dan and I have been together. My brand new sisters-in-law did the music and vocals for this Joni Mitchell song at our wedding, and still it plays on.

“Then the child moved ten times round the seasons…skated over ten clear frozen streams”.

I watched as my nine-year-old little league player/acrobat seemed to listen at about twenty-five percent attention to what the baseball director had to say about the high school team that had come to teach these boys to bunt at this spring clinic: “They’re all here because they love the game.”

And “loving the game” is enough. I know this now, many years removed from the day that my then almost sixteen-year-old tied his cleats for his final game. To me, it hadn’t been enough; I craved more seasons on the bleachers, more Saturday tournaments, and more of the dichotomous heartbreak and joy laced up in every baseball and stitched through every glove. I wanted him to keep playing, but for me, because I so loved the game. What I hadn’t realized at the time was that because he, too, loved the game, it was time for him to look ahead.

“Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now. Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town”.

We’re afraid to stop because we don’t know what comes next.

Still, we love the game.

The wait was longer than usual at the doctor’s office. We didn’t get an answer today. I wonder if anyone did. In this moment where we have found ourselves, we are okay. We walk away from where we have been, on the way to where we are headed.

The dark of the night offers clarity, just until my eyes are opened once again. I can’t remember what it meant. I just think we need to keep going.

Soon my little-leaguer will again take the field. My days of chasing small boys around the clinic won’t last much longer. I am ready for both of these.

And they tell him, take your time…it won’t be long now till you drag your feet to slow the circles down.”

The hard parts will continue, though they will promise new kinds of healing and hope.

I didn’t cry until after I picked up my package from the post office. Even then, with a box full of eleven peeping baby chicks in the car beside me, I no longer had much to cry about.

We can’t return…we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game”.

Song lyrics from “The Circle Game” by Joni Mitchell❤️

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Raccoon Vs. Chicken Vs. Me

As far as I could see, the gravel road stretched into the expanse of the dreary midday. The road seemed to lead to nowhere, but I felt as though I knew where I was going.

I must have waited at the edge of the road for at least twenty minutes. The wild grasses were so tall by this time of year, whatever time of year it actually was.

It wasn’t going to change; no matter how long I waited, watching for nothing in particular, I was not going to be able to see. I just took the risk, running along the edge of the road, where the gravel met up with the wild grass, faster than I had been able to move in recent memory.

I made it to the other side.

For a very long time, just over 30 years, I had been pining for a particular tattoo. The image is a simple moon and stars design, artwork from a formative album from my college days. A lifelong fear of needles and the audible thoughts of others over the years kept my little wish tucked away as just that, until last year when my son, already very much decorated, took me to a tattoo shop on our spring break trip to Florida.

In much the same way as I had to trust to get to the other side of the road, I got up in the chair and waited for my assigned artist, who just a few days earlier had to have his man parts repaired after what sounded like a most unsettling situation that was the topic of one-sided discussion for most of the nearly three-hour process of the manifestation of my dream.

Nancy, my Lavender Orpington hen, has been through some things. As a tiny chick, she spent time in isolation after a neck injury. I fed her with a dropper and before long, she was back with her young flock. Another time, she came up with an alarming cough for which we gave her a special chicken respiratory remedy for several days. Once again, she bounced back. Last fall, she again fell ill and, after several days of taking up residency in a brooder in the bathroom, she had a ride in the car for nearly an hour to a vet that had experience with chickens. She was okay.

One day last week, Nancy was not in her usual spot on the roost at dusk. It was a frigid night, with temperatures going well below zero by the morning. My post on social media inspired a trail of good wishes, and the next morning Nancy was discovered behind the feed bins, safe and warm.

On the day that I crossed the gravel road, I was wearing a light cottony dress which had caught upon some relenting brush and ripped in a few spots. Though winter’s aftermath had left great frozen shapes of black-gray which I often mistook for bear-or-raccoon vs. car mishaps along the road, I was wearing flip flops, one of which I lost as I hopped the fence in the snow…but I had to keep going. I didn’t want to look back, but I was afraid, too, of looking ahead.

Somehow, I had found my way into a school. There were gangs of people going place-to-place with stern determination. I had no purpose here. The heavy din of hurriedness broke momentarily. People gawked and stared as I asked for help.

“Can you show me the way out? I’m just trying to get outside.” I no longer felt assured that I had a destination, or even a purpose.

The small design on my arm was looking pretty good. It hurt, but it felt different from how I had expected it to feel. Then came the green.

“I’m having trouble with this color.” This time I felt a different kind of pain, less tolerable than before, and I wanted it to end. My artist again went over the area and seemed to cut deeper into my skin with each trial. Still, I envisioned the perfection of my finished design.

“Done!” The artist proclaimed his completion of my tattoo. He sprayed my arm with something before wrapping it with plastic and masking tape. I was hopeful.

The day after Nancy had been found safe in the coop, she fell victim to a raccoon attack. It was a young raccoon who, after the battle with Nancy that left her injured and motionless behind some plywood in a corner of the chicken run, stretched out in a corner of the coop in anticipation of meeting up with the ten-or-so chickens that perched on the roost in fear.

Nancy is not doing very well. We brought her in the house and treated her wounds. A stuffed rooster is perched on the bathroom counter, keeping vigil by the brooder that has all-to-often served as a place of safe-keeping for this ill-fated chicken. I fear she may be joining those flock mates that have gone before.

My tattoo is healed. The ink has faded, and I am left with a bit of scarring. The imperfections in the color are very evident, but only to those who know the original design. To others, that’s just how it is. I guess I like it that way. I like knowing that in spite of some unexpected challenges, healing can happen.

Once I opened the door to the school, I had no idea where I was or even where I was going. Even when I opened my eyes, still I didn’t know.

I think I like it that way.

When I look at Nancy, resting atop her fresh nest of pine shavings, with no competition whatsoever for the sunflower seeds and mealworms before her, sometimes she seems okay. At other times, she doesn’t. I think I am a lot like that, too. I think we all are.

Circus Freaks and an Animal Parade

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

I had no idea what to do, so I did nothing.

Still, the days passed, and there was another sunrise, a ball of red-orange casting a spell of yellow softness onto the white snow, but only for a short time.

The hours pass with little fanfare, until dusk, until a strip of the brightest pink opens the clouds, swallows them up, and draws the curtain of darkness onto the night as my eyes close.

I am afraid of what I cannot see.

We were not expecting to be more of what we have already been. We didn’t know, though, that we would become less.

This winter season has seemed endless. One more day of short-stepping my way across the many-times-frozen expanse of the driveway, crunching along the top layer of compacted ice and snow to tend to my chickens, who attempt to venture only a few feet outside the run on most days.

The season of angst, too, has carried on. And that’s how it is.

We are circus freaks or an animal parade, embattled, defeated, yet still called to continue. I guess we’re not done yet.

Our eyes are open, but we can’t see.

The magnolia tree is budding out with the first hope of spring; I noticed it yesterday through the still-frosted living room window. It’s true: this season will yield to the next. The chickens will begin laying again, prolifically, and the baby chicks will arrive at the farm.

We don’t know what you have been through. We don’t know what has broken you. We don’t know how to uncover what’s real.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. I hope, with all that’s inside of me, that you can hear me.

Open My Eyes; Take Me To My People

It sure is cold outside.

She was as sweet a baby as ever I have known, and I was so happy that she was mine.

But actually, she wasn’t mine.

The first time I took her to the social services office to visit with her mom, I had dressed her in my daughter’s outfit, the one that had been my favorite from her early childhood. It was the softest pink cotton, a one-piece jumpsuit with rolled ankle cuffs. I have memories of my little girl wearing this in her first days home from Korea, when she was just the same age as my foster daughter. They both wore the leather little bird shoes, too, that I had saved all these years.

“They’re ugly.”

I looked up, perplexed.

“Those shoes. They’re ugly.”

The seasoned caseworker must have felt my heart sink . “I think they’re cute.” Her voice trailed away, but I know she knew.

I had entered the office, confident in my abilities of parenting another person’s child, but having no concept of the depth of feeling and emotion that each interaction could present. I left the office with someone else’s baby, and the first-hand experience that this journey was not going to be just about a little girl and her foster family. The picture was much bigger, much more important than that. The foster family, I would find out, would take a seat in the second row. This was about supporting families…this mom and this baby…not about a walk through my own pleasant memories as I dressed someone else’s little girl in my daughter’s jumpsuit.

Have I been blind? Have I been lost inside myself, in my own mind?”

–Natalie Merchant, “Carnival”

She had come with several bags full of clothing, some still with tags and others worn. For the next visit, and each visit thereafter, I chose an outfit from those bags.

It wasn’t really about clothes, though, for either of us. I was given the task of taking care of someone else’s child, and it was my job to do just that, and to never forget that she had someone that loved her first and best, and that I was a mere bridge of support between the two, for this moment in time.

It wasn’t long before this sweet baby was moved to the home of a relative. Family connections are so very important for children in care.

She had outgrown all of the clothing that had come along with her. The day she left, she was dressed in a brand new jogging suit that I had bought for her; the caseworker said her mama was going to love it.

She left in a driving snowstorm. My son, ten at the time, dissolved into a heap of tears on the floor of the bedroom where this little girl had slept for four months. He loved her deeply, as we all did. She was someone else’s child, and we were a stepping stone on her path. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but I didn’t think it would be so hard.

These days we have a therapist here for one of the boys six days a week. We are grateful for the support, which has been long in coming. The outbursts, the holes in the walls, and the fear still abound, but now we have someone to share the burden, to stand by our sides, at least for the two-and-a-half hours while he is here. Most importantly, we have someone who sees the magnitude of the behaviors and its effect on the whole family; someone who acknowledges that we are, through it all, trying our best.

I was trying my best to be a good foster mom. My eyes are open, and I see that I am merely standing by, reminding myself of what is most important…because I know, until I don’t.

There is an online support group for chicken keepers. I am so worried about my precious flock in these arctic temperatures. “They’ll be fine” was the overwhelming response when I shared my fears with these people that I have never met. My wise friend, not a chicken keeper, but a keeper of much else, suggested some extra straw. I took her advice and added a bed of straw to the coops, right on top of the pine shavings. And I hoped.

I sometimes wonder if the therapists that work with our son believe that there is hope for him to learn other ways to express his emotions. I wonder, but I am afraid to ask. There is promise in the unknown. For me, too, there is fear. And for this boy, fear. For the young mother who watches another woman care for her daughter, there is an uncomfortable fear for what is or what is not to come.

Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don’t go.”

–Natalie Merchant, “Motherland”

I may be okay to lay here with my eyes closed, hoping tomorrow takes its sweet time in coming. I’m afraid to open the door to the chicken coop. Afraid to face another long day with no programming, I am secretly hoping that the challenging behaviors might take a snow day.

I found out some years later that my first little foster baby has thrived with her family. We had been a tiny part of this story, a part of our collective purpose.

About a month ago, I had an exchange with a fellow foster parent. She offered words that have carried me through more than just that day. She assured me that there would be healing, on this or that side of heaven. What she said has offered new hope and fuel along this often tiresome journey, where I have learned to rely on the support of others, of my people in faraway corners, of my tribe, in so many ways.

My lungs burned as I breathed in the twenty-degrees-below zero afternoon air from the quick trip to the coop to check on the chickens, but my hand was warm in my pocket from the egg laid by a hardy hen. I can do this, for another day, forever, as long as I am in good company.

XO🐥❤️

The Butterfly Child

It’s not that I’ve lost my way; I am just not yet sure where I am going. For a time, I was sure that I knew: the activities of my future were far in the distance, many rotations of the sun from the rhythm of today. There was much between my tasks of the day and the elusive vision that was to come. I liked it that way; I didn’t question that there would be more than what was right in front of me.

It’s hard to say just when the faraway fields began to close me in. I look to my love, who first knew me when I was almost still a child.

I ran across the grass with a freedom that has been all but lost with the passage of time. If I left my white leather strapped sandals on the porch, my bare feet could take me faster to race my sister to the ice cream truck. Still, she always won.

If it was a good day, the neighbor lady would call us over for a visit. She would sit on a chair in front of the picture window in the room that faced our house. For what might have been hours and with my face still stained from my Fudgesicle, I brushed the neighbor lady’s soft brown hair, separated it into at least a dozen sections, and fastened each with a brightly-colored band. The neighbor lady always smiled and told me how pretty I had made her. Sometimes, her husband would come into the room and offer me a drink of his beer. He smiled a lot, too. I didn’t want any of the beer, though he was quite persistent.

I skipped until the day I fell hard on the concrete. I danced until my sister’s friend told me I looked funny. And I dreamed until I woke up.

Deep inside, we all have a need to mean something to others. We need to matter to someone, to be worth something for who we are inside. The older I have grown, the more I miss who I used to be. Is that what we are here for, to complete the circle and to return to who we were, and who we really still are inside?

My sister sent me a little box of treasures this Christmas, specifically some flower essences, a crystal, and a bar of soap packaged in a brown box, all zipped together in a silky pouch embellished with ribbon flowers. She knows me like none other.

There was something about that little brown box. Without even opening the soap, my reveries carried me back to 1985, when I was setting up my room at the Delta Gamma house, blasting the Cocteau Twins, specifically “Pearly Dew Drops Drops”, from my new push-button turntable. The Crabtree and Evelyn drawer liner that I used on that day smelled just the same as the soap that my sister sent me thirty-three years later. For a little while, I longed to be that college girl again: confident, driven, with a clear picture of what her future would hold.

But it didn’t.

I write because it connects me to others, but also because it connects me to parts of myself that have been nearly lost, if not for the memories that are called up with experiences that catch me as they come.

Some years ago, we decided not to exchange Christmas gifts anymore. I am not sure my sister or I have paid perfect attention to this declaration; we have found “things” and celebrated our sisterhood in a more random manner, with similar, though subtle, fanfare.

My sister was given the vinyl Butterfly Child when she had surgery as a young girl. I was secretly jealous, not of the surgery, but of the special attention that she received and, mostly, that she had the Butterfly Child. It was sort of like an animal and a person at the same time. Its suit was an array of the best colors, and there was sparkle to its wings. It was fantastic.

Over the years, my sister kept the Butterfly Child through maybe a dozen moves. At one point, she passed it along to one or another of my children, which was probably hard for her to do, and it hasn’t turned up in years.

I miss the Butterfly Child.

My days are a pageant, rich with things I cannot interpret, and rich with nothing at the same time. In the sparseness of nothing, still I am rich. I don’t like the taste of beer, and I would not have liked it when I was four.

Christmas is past, and the boys will be leaving soon. I have swept up a dustpan full of pine needles, Lego heads, and remnants of precious days together, spun too quickly on time’s impatient wheel.

I found the Butterfly Child…just an image, but there it was, nonetheless. My painter friend has captured its spirit, and my sister is going to get that sparkle in her bright green eyes, and this time I will beat her to the ice cream truck.

When the Gates Go Down: So Much I Wish I Could Say

I’m sorry.

I understand.

I mean I don’t understand, but I think I might know why. Not exactly…maybe…

I watch you. I can see you clutching your secrets tightly near your heart as you melt, ever so slowly, as a candle burning to nonexistence, into your grave.

I tried walking beside you, leading the way, following. There mustn’t have been room on the path, or maybe you couldn’t bear the thought of having company.

Let me help you with your bags. They must be heavy. Today, I am strong. I can help you bear your burdens, if only you let me.

But you don’t.

And you won’t.

I understand.

There’s no little crack, but rather the instant shattering of glass, with tiny fragments piercing my skin and creating a danger zone for anyone that should pass by.

We try our best to clean it up, but we can never put the glass together to make it whole. It has been broken in pieces for too long.

It’s former self is unrecognizable, as am I.

I am comforted by the rhythmic creaking of the rocking chair, and though the small beings have gone to sleep, the shadows are very much awake at this hour. Here, right now, is mystery in what is nearly still.

Someone that I had known half a lifetime ago comes to mind in a flood of tears. I don’t want her to pity me, stuck within the wrath of the minds of my own children.

When Elliott was a tiny boy, we would wait for Dan’s train to come in to the station. Sometimes, while we watched through the windows in the playroom, we could spot it as it made its way to the station. Our little bungalow on Clinton Avenue would shake just a bit at the passing of a train, and still that faraway rumble holds such wonder for me.

I am a messenger, here for a purpose that I have yet to discover. Sometimes, it seems , I am walking close to the gates. The horn blares, the lights flash, and I can feel the rumble of the nearby train coming from a distance. It’s too late to cross, for there would be too much to risk.

I thought I heard the voice of my friend. There was the flash of a hundred boxcars, red, brown, gold, and blue, shaking and shifting, keeping me from the other side. My heart raced as the last cars passed to the exaggerated blare of the train horn.

The gates lifted again, but my friend was not there. It had been too long. I may never see her again. Behind the danger of the gates and glass, there is a soul crying out for what it does not know.

And I understand.

Photo credit to Jeannette O’Toole, wherever she may be❤️.

Vessels

Deep inside lies the truth.

The wall is made of so many things which, separately, split souls that cry out to the empty darkness, but bound together become impenetrable.

I know, because I have tried to push it down, to cause it to crumble. It seems nearly sacred, guarded against all that is good and evil, both at the same time.

Its very existence has threatened mine, nearly breaking my bones and stealing my hope.

Should it weaken, becoming vulnerable enough to let the light in, what will become of what we once were?

I will lie still, weary in the darkness of midnight.

A hand, not so small anymore, beckons. We will try once more, with all our collective might, to cast forth the scars and imaginary vessels so that we may understand.