Living in Dirt

Dirt. Grime. Earth. Loam. Mud. Muck. Soil. This is all I think about. Really. It overwhelms me. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that this topic takes up my entire life. Little boys covered in slime, dirt in their fingernails and ground into heels. Worm farms planted in the sand table, oozing onto the patio like lava bubbling from a mountain. A girl with grimy socks from her antics at gymnastics, and sometimes slimy teeth from only pretending to brush.

Dirt covers the floor of my kitchen. And my family room. And the garage. I sweep it and it reappears; the elfin magic only works one way. I have yet to teach the leprechauns how to clean. Filth tumbles from my cupboards and hides under my couch. And don’t even get me started on the closets. The pile of dirty clothes could build me a stairway to the attic, but why would I go up there? It too is filled with grime.

The bathroom is its own abomination. I’ll never understand the irony of the shower and how someplace that is supposed to get me so clean can end up so disgustingly filthy. And little boys don’t have much aim when dealing with toilets, either. The toothpaste is smeared on the wall and the sink.; no wonder their teeth aren’t clean. And for show, the toilet paper is unfurled like an (extra-long) symbol of freedom that is a royal carpet of sorts.

And that is just my house. The yard is a mess in its own right. A giant serpentine mound of Aztec delight lies over my new million-dollar sewer pipe. There is nothing children don’t love about a giant mound of dirt. (Hence the dirt in my house I suppose). My driveway’s a mess from the endless nights of raccoon-spilled garbage cans and dribbling popsicles and snacks. The garden, although ALLOWED to be filled with dirt, is a hodge-podge of trails and random hills where the worm farmers have been working. The swingset is covered in spider webs and the sandbox is blanketed in muck.

And although I do not lay claim to a dirty mind, or at least no dirtier than the law allows, my noggin is filled to the brim with clutter. There are lists unwritten and letters not sent. There are plans for dinners and birthday parties and time frames for cleaning the actual dirt. There are soccer schedules and reading books and Magic School Bus and building rockets out of cups. Sometimes there is quiet. But even the quiet is pretty messy up there and it jumps from reading to grading to writing and then naturally ends with me in a huge mound of crumpled humanity on the floor. Now who is going to clean ME up?

Emotional Outlets: Must Sing and Dance

I never thought of myself as necessarily that unenthusiastic, but lately I have begun to wonder. It started at Beauty and the Beast a few weeks ago. I took my daughter to see a local production, and it seems I have somehow unleashed the musical theater muse into my house. I just love a life where you are filled with so much emotion that the only option you are left with is breaking into song. When you’re sad you must sing. When you are happy you must sing. And kudos to you when you can get the townspeople to join in with you. My daughter has caught the bug. She sings in the car when her brothers hit her, at the top of her lungs of course. She sings to request her Lucky Charms and milk. Hunger is a catalyst for singing I suppose. She sings in the shower. Oh there are endless concerts as she runs up my water bill. Funny that you can have emotion that bubbles over your regular spoken voice; you MUST sing!

Call me unexcitable, but I feel the same way when I watch my six-month old nephew play. When I smile at him he stares back at my with his toothy grin, and he starts working his little feet a mile a minute. He kicks so excitedly that he rocks his chair on the floor. I suppose I should take it as a compliment. His little body is just not big enough to contain his joy at a smile from me! He’s just gotta’ move! I can’t say the same for myself. I don’t recall the last time that a smile or a bit of news moved me from my seat. I just can’t see myself getting that excited and kicking and kicking. Although I’ve never been on fire in my recent memory, so I guess I can’t really say for sure.

And then there are the countless shivers and shakes of my children, when their whole body flays in revulsion, usually at something I’ve cooked. They don’t just roll eyes or turn up their noses; they have a whole technique that looks like something halfway between catching a chill and doing a breakdance. They save the best physical gymnastic maneuvers for lasagna. No offense to Italy, but they really hate it

So perhaps I need to work on my excitement level. I need some practice in whole-body non-verbal communication, I suppose. And throw in some singing lessons on the side. If you’re not careful, though, I just might turn up when you least expect it to get you involved in a chorus of sorts, filled with high kicks and body shakes of all varieties. Then we will really prove how enthusiastic we are!!

The Python's Squeeze

I don’t believe what they say. Dark is just dark. I don’t subscribe to the notion that it is darker before the dawn, or that every thorn has a rose. There are no silver linings in these clouds that pelt my head with rain. The inky black of night settles in, oppressive fingers wrap me in their grasp. Pythons do not release their grip; they simply squeeze tighter when the victim squirms. And squirm I do, to no avail. When they find my lifeless body I will have clawed that snake to bits.

This too shall pass is a misnomer, I think. Oh it might pass, but then like a merry-go-round it will pass this way again and again. All good things must come to an end, and all bad things will begin anew. My glass is half empty and filled with poison. These are things I know for sure. Don’t ask Oprah; she and her zillions of dollars can look on the sunny side of the street. But I know the truth. When it rains it pours. And the water pounding my parka is cold and acidic. There will be no rainbow today. I can think positive and reach for the stars, but the deluge clogging my gutters does not lie. And, oh, my sump pump just broke.

My Intensivist

There really is not a good way to describe him and what he means in my life. I have tried to name this in my head and my heart, and always come away speechless. And that is no easy task really, to render me without voice. He is a force. A reminder. A firebrand. A cattle prod. A friend. He has a softer side, but he doesn’t use it much. Sometimes we both forget it’s there. He came out of nowhere to shatter my peace. And gave to me the strength that I somehow already thought I had. The word I have settled on: intensivist.

He is like my doctor in the ICU, the one who makes sure that all systems are going and accounted for. The one who guarantees that the sickest of patients get the care they need and are well rested for the journey of recovery. And yes, he is intense. Follows his own dreams and lives for himself. Demands that I do the same. Kindles the fire and then sticks around to stoke the flames. I like that in a person. I need it too.

It’s complicated. Life always is. And things that are worthwhile are not easy or processed like Kraft American singles. German cheeses are strong of course, like a cambozola or the infamous adopted limburger. There is nothing delicate about this man, either.

Except when there is. There are moments when he forgets himself and lets me in. A moment of serenity, perhaps, to stare at a river, or the telling of a long lost story or sharing of an inside joke. Sometimes I wish I could have more of this. I would buy him emotions like you purchase crayons: eleven different shades of blue maybe, or a box of 64 with sharpener included. He has trouble with that part, the showing of his true colors.

But mostly I just appreciate him. Worry about him. Care about him. It is a decision to take a chance and be a friend and link a soul to mine. There is no dictionary definition for what we have. And I am glad. I enjoy the adventure and the intensity of it, and the silence. Some people might call him stoic, but I know a little about the man behind the mask. And I am grateful to have an intensivist like him on my side.

Sounding My Barbaric Yawp

“Most men live lives of quiet desperation.” Thoreau said that in a bout of living in the woods, I think. And tonight I beg to differ. Most men don’t even know what they are missing. They (and most women) seem to accept the day-to-day grind and the mundane of life. They are content with their beer and their football; they cash their paychecks and go out for a steak dinner every two weeks. They watch the world spin as they wake, shower, work, eat dinner, and fall asleep in front of the television. Each tomorrow is a carbon copy of today for them. They get drunk on Friday nights.

It is I who am desperate. And I don’t feel all that quiet about it either. My poet’s heart is filled with longing, dissatisfied with the status quo of my daily life. I wake, shower, work, eat dinner, and fall asleep in front of my computer while trying to spill my thoughts on the page, writing my heart. The daily grind is there, but I try to rise above it. I watch the sun set. I kiss worms. I marvel at the crispness of the air as I go about my daily list of must-do’s. But all the while, I know this is not enough for me.

And my desperation is getting louder. It is the living deliberately that I am stuck on. The path of least resistance versus the path of full living. And I’m not really sure where I fit. I find it sticky and difficult to choose the ways to spend my time. I have children to mother. I have friends to tend. I have housework to accomplish. And the list goes on. I beat myself up. Yes, I could probably do all of these things mindfully if I were out in the woods by myself. But here in this world of spelling words and birthday parties, washing sheets and clipping nails, I can’t really find my balance. I can barely find my voice.

What’s a woman to do? I’m sucking marrow through broken straws and trying to write straight with crooked lines. I know there is more for me but I can’t quite reach it from here; grasping at those broken straws gets old after a while, I think. As for me, I remain loudly desperate. Perhaps a barbaric yawp would do the trick.

Missing

It was only six weeks ago that I was sitting on the beach, soaking in the rays at Presque Isle as the sun went down. Third best sunset in the world, and I believe it. It was that night anyway. Maybe it was the company. Old friends bring a light that not even the sunset can rival, and a comfort too. But I digress. The time was 8:39. The rays played on the water, dancing with the waves. Folks stood with cameras ready. Lovers walked hand in hand. Kids frolicked in the breakers that kissed the shore. The sun sank into the greedy lake right on schedule. Movement which seemed imperceptible at first took hold of the fireball and pushed it over the brink.

Six weeks have passed and the world has been spinning. Or is it me? That night on the beach, sand between my toes, sweatshirt guarding against the coolest August on record, seems like a dream. The calendar has pushed the fireball to an earlier bedtime. The time is 7:31. Those children not asleep already are well on their way. No pictures of September sunsets, and no lovers killing time. Now a rush to pack lunches and finish homework and ready outfits for the next day. The whole world seems busy. No time to help the sun sink gently to the water these days.

And I miss it, that evening on the sand. I miss the laughter of friendship and the quiet of security against a backdrop of nature’s award-winning show. I long for the freedom of summer nights, seemingly endless hours to drink in the sights and the jokes and the peace. I grieve the missing daylight hours and the way the sun lingered and left me breathless that night. I’ve lost more than an hour of light, I think.

Ending Summer Days

The end of the school day and the kids are itching to run. Metaphorically speaking of course. They do get a few traits from their Mother. Only run if you are being chased is our first rule. But it’s funny that each of them has a passionate physical outlet after a day of being cooped up in school. Boy child doesn’t even make it in the house, just jumps out of the (barely stopped) van yelling “Here Mom” and throws his book bag in my general direction. (And he hasn’t even been at school all day!) He grabs his helmet and jumps on his bike. Rides into the wind to the yellow hydrant down the street. He can’t turn on a dime, so I watch him dismount, turn his bike back toward me, and fly down the sidewalk in my direction. Girl child snatches her hula-hoop from its makeshift home against the aging maple. New obsession, this beat-up circle of fun. She received it for her birthday, best twenty-five cents that Grandma every spent at a garage sale. And now she cannot tear herself away. She hulas with her hips, her neck, her arms, on her knees, and any way she pleases. Love these late summer days when the possibilities are still endless, when school can be followed with a bout of outdoor fun before the gang is called in to dinner. There is a sense of urgency to this; we know that fall is coming, with cold winds and early dark. And we spend it well, the currency of these last few summer days flying through our fingers, as soon the daylight and warm weather will as well.

Taking Flight

Who does this? Who dons a G-suit on a perfect late-summer morning, does a last minute aircraft check, and then jumps into the cockpit of an F-16? What guts does it take to fly in a diamond formation just under the speed of sound, where inches determine whether you live or die? And whose body can tolerate nine G’s of thrust as the viper twists and plummets?

I marvel at these (mostly) men who defy logic and gravity on a daily basis. And on a day like this, filled with blue sky and barbeque, the sheer speed and power of their dreams brings a tear to my eye. The Thunderbirds, special flying team of the United States Air Force, entertained the crowd at the Cleveland Air Show today. And though I share in the amazement of the crowd over the roar of the jets and the pace of the planes, I am mostly in awe of the men inside the cockpit.

Is it just that I know I could never, under any circumstances, pilot one of these Fighting Falcons? My tolerance for motion is not very hardy, and my love of heights is even more reticent. On a good day, I can barely handle the cockpit of my beige Honda Odyssey. Or is it the fact that the pilots make each maneuver look so easy, leaving precise trails of smoke in their wake? I even flounder with the simple things, like getting all the kids out the door on time, or making it to soccer practice with cleats AND shin guards. This job is too big, too necessarily perfect, too dangerous for me. I imagine it bores into their souls, each twirl, flip and carefully-timed trick. They work so hard, tearing away at their might and their minds. I wonder what they have lost in order to make room for these muscle memories.

Each weekend finds the special flying team on the road, performing their feats in a different city. Is there a little boy missing his Daddy while he is flying this gig today? Or is there a wife or sweetheart poised by the phone, willing it to ring at the end of each show? I don’t know this dream, the kind that you give up everything for. Maybe I would like to, though. Perhaps part of my awe is really jealousy at the sheer selfishness and bravado of living a dream like this, living gloriously and ironically on the brink of death.

And sitting under a perfect blue sky, it is hard for me to imagine the true job of these F-16’s and their pilots. Replace the wafting ribs and squealing children with blowing sand and the enemy, and you’ll see the viper’s true talents. Missiles and mayhem are the usual creation of the vipers behind enemy lines. I tear up a little at this too. These planes are beautiful and majestic, powerful and poignant on a holiday weekend under a sunny sky. But how desperate the souls who meet the Fighting Falcons from the other side, who get a true taste of their wrath.

So I will take the lesson of the F-16 today. I will live more precisely and forcefully. I will follow my passion under pressure. And I will work without ceasing to live my dreams. Who does this? I do.

For My Son

Dear Universe. He is just a little boy, filled with sweet innocence and wide-eyed wonder. Take care of him today, in that big bad place called school. May his teacher see him as I do, the boy of a thousand questions, of the quick mischievous smile and the heart of gold. May his classmates find in him an imaginative playmate, a pirate cowboy transformer of the highest order. And may he know in himself a sense of pride for all the gifts he has been given, for his creative artistic side and his compassionate empathetic side.

May he know that all doors can open for him in this world, and also understand his obligation to be a gentleman who holds them open for others. May he be appreciated by his peers and show respect to those around him as well. May he be challenged to learn and grow, but have enough success to keep him wanting more.

And most of all, at the end of the day, may he return to his safety net of home and know how he is cherished.

It's All Part of Nature

Just this.
A boy and his grandmother
Standing hand in hand.

“I go deer, Grandma. I go deer.”
The animals romp in the back yard.
The boy and his grandma edge closer.
One of nature’s perfect moments.

Anyway

There are no awards shows for this job. No Pulitzer Prize for Best Kept Family. No walks down the red carpet for simply doing what must be done. But I do it anyway. No one cares that I creatively used the corn on the cob from Sunday’s cookout in a casserole tonight. Or that I cooked the casserole while watching my brood and the neighbor kids torment Bakey the frog who we found in my Mom’s yard earlier in the day. No one would believe that I took a five-minute shower while my toddler and the carpet ate jelly from the jar. And it doesn’t matter that I took my son for a bike ride so he could use his muscles and taste the wind, or that I let my daughter walk to school with a friend, and checked up on them in the car. No one is calling the news to report that I cut my Mom’s grass while the boys played baseball and watched deer romping in the fields behind her house. This is my day, the minutiae that I choose and conquer until the sun goes down.

It might be lonely at the top with the pressures of the paparazzi and the fans, but it is lonely at the bottom too. Set the table, serve a meal, clear the table. Lather, rinse, repeat, through the day and into the night. Lay out clothes. Dress the children in the clothes. Wash the clothes. Fold the clothes. Reminds me of the old spiritual “That lucky old sun has nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day.” I have plenty to do all day, and feeding and clothing does not even touch on paying the bills, cleaning the house, nurturing the children by playing pretend or reading “Dinosaurs happy, dinosaurs sad, dinosaurs good and dinosaurs bad” until I want to gouge out my tongue. But I do it anyway.

And it isn’t the actual work that is drudgery. It is the trying to feel like it matters. Like somehow the effort I expend to read the BACKYARD MAGAZINE with my son matters more than if I let him watch television all day. Or the energy it takes to cook a healthy meal is worth it when the Taco Bell is right around the corner. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family and I am happy to nurture them. As Robert Frost says, “May no fate willfully misunderstand me/And half grant what I wish and snatch me away/Not to return../Earth’s the right place for love.” But sometimes I wouldn’t mind a thank you that I didn’t have to coerce from a pre-schooler’s lips, or a look of gratitude for something besides a popsicle.

I guess on nights like tonight I know just how Sisyphus felt as he rolled and rolled that rock up the hill. Weary, spent, and knowing that tomorrow will bring the same trudging and the same jobs that I just completed today. Maybe there should be a Nobel Prize for Completing the Inane on a Daily Basis. I might have a chance at that one . But I’m sure this is one of those jobs that has a more intrinsic reward. No one notices all I do, not even the youngsters who are fed and clothed and bathed. But their Mother does it anyway.