Trying to be a Farm Girl

My nine-year-old and a couple of his buddies were loading into our car after baseball practice. Before I had started the engine, he surprised me with what he had to tell his friends:

“My mom’s going to play stupid ‘Follaton Wood’.” He neglected to tell his teammates that he has been asking for that song each time we had been in the car together lately.

I wonder…when exactly do I fall from being a light to the darkness? When does the outside circle open, only to become a force with much to contribute to what that child will become?

I am abruptly reminded that no longer am I alone at my child’s center, at least not around his people; at least not in this situation.

Does he really think our song is stupid? Did he really mean that?

Do the words and influences of others change who we are?

Maybe it’s just a flippant remark, but what if our words impact another in a way that we could never even know, in a way that could alter a part of who they are?

I was called to pick third same boy up early from camp following a behavior episode. In trying to understand what had happened from an outsider’s perspective, my emotions clouded my reason. In his fit of anger and physical angst, my little boy related to me that he was told by staff that they could “control” him. To me, this was dumbfounding, as in our life of chaos and uncertainty, I have worked hard to make certain that my children know that though they cannot control the behavior of others, they are the only ones that can control their own. These words triggered my son into a further state of confusion and rage at the camp. Through my reflections I can understand that the camp staff wanted my son to know that there were rules to be followed and that the counselors were in charge, but the delivery of those words sent my son into a place of helplessness. The incident haunts me, and causes me to wonder if the words that I have so often used to instill courage and confidence have caused him fear in the arms of the outside world, where I was not there to guide and defend.

When my sister’s friend pointed out my awkwardness as I showed her the routine I had so arduously perfected to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, my dreams of performing with the American Ballet Theater smashed with the same unfortunate end as the chicken egg that I dropped on the floor of the coop this morning.

I wonder if my words have ever kept someone from dancing for the rest of their lifetime, or even for one song. For my child, I hope that he will lift others with what he chooses to say and do; that he that he will be able to include rather than exclude; that he will be a person that makes a difference; that he will grow up to be kind; that he will choose to include rather than exclude.

When I was a lonely young mom, I raised my hand to greet a neighbor that was waving enthusiastically in my direction, only for her to tell me that she was not waving at me, but at someone else in the distance.

We never know how our words or actions will affect someone else.

I was almost fifty when I finally began to understand crop rotation.

Blissfully planting my tomatoes in the same two square feet every summer, I had never really given deep thought to why my first effort, many moons ago, had been my greatest yield.

My gardening has always been a seat-of-the pants endeavor. I liked it, so I planted it. If things got crowded or if a plant did not do well, I moved it to a different spot. There wasn’t a book that taught me what I longed to know. Rather, my teacher was experience, sometimes with multiple trials over time.

I guess parenting has been a bit like that. We try. We give it what is our best effort at the time. Sometimes, often, we fail. We do what we know. Then we try to learn more, and we do it all over again.

Maybe I shouldn’t have planted that vine right there. Perhaps I should have fed that apple tree at an earlier time in the season. Perhaps I should not have let my daughter go to that party. Maybe I should have collected my son from camp that day without questioning a thing. Maybe I should have just let them eat ice cream for the second time today. After all, I eat it whenever I like.

We’re on our fourth year of keeping chickens. It’s going pretty well. I hadn’t thought that I could fall for a chicken, much less 34. I may not yet be a farm girl, but I am pretty sure I am officially a chicken keeper.

And…I am pretty good at drinking well water from a garden hose…does that count for anything?

While my chickens learn instinctively to retreat to the coop at dusk and to lay eggs in their nest boxes, I am not quite so lucky. There are many things that do not come naturally to me. Give me a little time, though, and I will do my best to learn. I will try. But I still won’t be able to dance. And those words, that admission, is actually a little bit liberating.

I won’t stop trying to be a farm girl. I hope I’ll get there some day.

As we neared our destination, one of the friends piped up from the back seat of the car: “I kind of like this song. It’s pretty good.” I may or may not have turned the volume just a bit higher, and in that moment, I didn’t have to say a word.

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“Follaton Wood”, by Ben Howard, is very much worth a listen.

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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‚̧ԳŹ

There’s a Chicken in My Car: October Baseball and Other Rarities

She wanted to know what she should bake; she was taking suggestions via Facebook. ¬†My friend Chrissy is a self-proclaimed therapeutic baker. ¬†She’s also a foster mom. ¬†She goes to court, she comes home, and she bakes. ¬†And lucky are we that live close enough to be her neighbors.

Foremost in my mind as the first hints of chill return to the air are Cranberry Bliss bars, which are a couple-times- a-season delicacy from the Starbucks drive-thru. ¬†She asked. ¬†I have never eaten a cranberry bliss bar while watching baseball. ¬†By the time those types of treats are in season, we are heralding the fall season and preparing to deck the halls. This year, though there is a rustle of leaves on the ground and my little boys have already been wearing their new Halloween costumes, I am still listening to balls and strikes being called over the radio. ¬†That’s not what usually happens, but I cannot be more grateful.
“I can bring you some of these right now.”

Right now. ¬†That’s not what usually happens. ¬†But I am so grateful.

I have an angel friend who has, on a whim, brought me an entire freezer full of meat that she “happened upon.” ¬†She once handed me a tiny screwdriver, part of an eyeglass repair kit, when my daughter’s glasses kept coming loose. ¬†Another time, she came to my house with a latte and a six-pack of Cranberry Bliss bars which, she claimed, were on special.

I had become so enamored with my hummingbirds that I hadn’t even thought that they might not be here to stay. ¬†It had been a while since I had gotten a glimpse of my magical friend flitting near the ruby red feeder which hangs outside the kitchen window. ¬†Then came my hard realization: the hummingbird is not coming back anymore, at least not this year.

That’s it. ¬†There’s a season for all of this: baseball, hummingbirds, and even Cranberry Bliss bars, unless you are Chrissy, and you can bake them whenever you like.

“When is it time for me to play real baseball? ¬†I think that’s what I am going to be. ¬†I was thinking of being a boxer, but I decided I wanted to be something happy, so I am going to do baseball.” ¬†He knows. ¬†I loved this flow of spoken thoughts from my little boy. ¬†He knows: baseball is happy. ¬† When it’s not time for baseball, though, we need other things to keep us going.

When we learn things we wish we didn’t know, we are, in a way, forever changed. ¬†We can’t go back to where we were before, because there is nothing there. ¬†What lies before us may be unfamiliar, but it is where we are.

No matter who wins the World Series, I plan to enjoy the ride along the way.

Chrissy brought me three boxes of glorious cranberry bliss bars and pumpkin scones that day, and I sent her home with a dozen chicken eggs.  I know I got the better end of that arrangement.  Perhaps she was baking as therapy, to make herself feel better, but she certainly brought some light to my day.

She had left less than two minutes before, and my mouth was already stuffed with cream cheese, white chocolate, and cranberries when her text came in.

“There is a chicken in my car.”

I doubt there’s a season for having chickens in your car.

My friend Juli stopped by this morning. ¬†She was coming to collect her baby carrier that I had borrowed. ¬†“Would you like some applesauce and pie filling?” ¬†Would I like some applesauce and pie filling? ¬†How is that even a question?

Though her chore list was probably longer than the distance between our homes, she took the time to deliver a box containing home canned pints of applesauce and quarts of pie filling.  When apples are out of season, we will be happy, and we will be reminded of our sweet friend.

As I watched Juli drive away, I wondered if there might be a chicken in her car.  I half-hoped there was, because that would mean that she would come back.

I just might put my feet up, sneak the best baked goods into the living room, eat applesauce from the jar, and watch the Cubs continue to work their way to the World Series.  All the while, I am going to remind myself that even when things are beyond understanding, blessings abound.

Fore!

I thought that maybe if he could hear the urgency in my voice, it would somehow snap him into submission. ¬†I hoped that he might carry out at least a tiny detail of his morning routine. ¬†I should know better by now. ¬†But there is always hope; there must be. The eventuality of the last … Continue reading