Skip to main content
Bodhi and I enjoyed a date day together, while Owen and Shane enjoyed a ski day in Breckenridge.  It was magical, filled with laughter, art, cooking, sharing and play.  Bodhi decided he wanted to be a pirate, bake treasure cookies and "do a project" which involved turning an old box into a "real treasure box".  We drew a beard on his smiling face, baked some oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-walnut filled cookies and decorated a box to contain them.  Once this was finished we packed a picnic lunch and drove to the park with lots of blankets and warm jackets (the temperature took a swan dive into frigid waters).  After lunch I hid the treasure box and a little pirate book beneath a bush and gave Bodhi a clue:
"Beneath a bush where you cannot see,
There rests a gift for you from me."
He hunted with lots of "ARGHS" and "AYE matey's", until he found them.  He immediately ran into the midst of the playground trying to gather stray children to sit in a circle with him to open his treasure.  Of course this didn't work.  I convinced him to open it with me on our blanket.  As soon as he had the box of treasure cookies open he asked if he could please share them with his new "friends".  I told him to check with their parents and then share away.  He walked the playground for the next half hour eating his cookie and giving a cookie to every child whose parent said "Yes".  Only when the last child was finished did he put the box down to play again.
As we left he said, "God is in me.  It is me and you and the tree and them and the car and ...." 
I smiled, borrowing his certainty and leaning back in that truth, the truth of giving handed to me by a beard-smeared four year old who adores people with eager abandon.

Comments

Karuna said…
Ahoy matey ! he is so big. i cannot believe that he is 4 already!
Wind said…
You have got to be the funnest mom ever!

Popular posts from this blog

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment.  It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float.  It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within.  It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains.  Eyes closed.  Eyes opened.  A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being.  It takes courage.

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much.  It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall.  The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep.  But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy.  I am a woman who loves the spring.  I nearly live for it.  When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis.  I gorge.  This year has been hard.  Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally.  The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...

grief

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 ...