Okay, Bodhi and I began a new school year and Bodhi is in a new classroom, mine, and we both have very turbulent feelings about it. He is having a hard time adapting to the rhythm, transitions and newly defined role of student/teacher/son/mom. I too am feeling ambivalent, uncertain if this is the best choice for my son/student. The classroom is looking beautiful and the students began arriving this week. There is a lot of NEW in our lives right now.
Okay, Owen began a new school year at a new school this year and he LOVE'S it. So far they have gone looking for crawdads, played loads of games and are planning a three day camp trip (not optional) in two weeks. They are given a lot of responsibility and freedom, which translates into respect for and from a nine year old boy.
Bodhi and I made a lovely lavendar batch of play-dough. I then showed him how to roll it out with a rolling pin. I left him rolling, or kind of rolling, attired in his favorite summer wear- nothing. A few minutes later he handed me this perfectly flat piece and said, "LOOK MOMMY!!". "Wow, Bodhi, did you roll that out". "No mama, I'll show you." Then he placed the play-dough on a table, stepped on it once to slightly flatten, then sat his bare butt on top of it and bounced up and down smiling before standing up, pointing at the flattened bit of dough and beaming up at me, "SEE MAMA!". Well there's more than one way to roll out your play-dough. If you'd like to try this out on your favorite little person, here's the recipe, however beware of working in the nude: Play Dough (stove-top recipe) -best texture and lasts for months when refrigerated in an air tight container. 2 cups flour 4T oil, scant 1 cup salt 2 cups c
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
So I came home from a weekend laughter workshop (amazing and I will tell you about it later) and the boys (aka. Papa, Owen, Bodhi and Owen's friend) had been to the thrift store buying up used sheets. These were promptly handed to me with the enthusiastic directive, "We want an Ali Baba tent!" to which Bodhi added a cadence of "fort-fort-fort-fort-fort". After a short sewing session we had the first room....apparently there will be others in the near future. Ooh the work of a mama is never done.
Oh what a difference a day makes. Yesterday we were hamming it up at the aquarium And today... ...the boys are sick in bed...well Owen is sick in bed and Bodhi has contracted a case of sickness envy so we moved his doll bed into Owen's room, where they are now lying, reading, nibbling grapes and being watched over by their canine angel Maya.
What do we do when the person we imagined ourselves to be doesn't really match the person we are. Well first things first...pine, pine, pine. I often see myself as this very creative mama and imagine that somehow the artist will take over the course of my life, illumining the shadows with her palette of colors and directing the drama with an eccentric flair toward wide horizons. I find myself all too often agonizing over the unfulfilled details, the unfinished canvas. And then...the ludicrousness of the situation dawns and I look around and see that there is a beautiful life right in front of me, not nearly as glamorous or outwardly affirming, but beautiful still. The distinct awareness dawns, "THIS is my life" and I can choose to continue a subtle war of resistance or can open to it, become curious and inhabit the unique experience that is mine. It is hilarious really. We continue to resist our own beauty on the pretense that it isn't enough, and thus we block the e