Rhythm

There is much and little to report.  It's been a month of all things: mornings when by 8AM everyone has either screamed or cried, still no one's wearing shoes, and hair remains knotted and unruly even onto the school bus; mornings when lunch has been neatly sliced and packed, backpacks filled, hair braided in tiny brown braids, and we've held hands walking to the bus stop.  There have been days I've lain in bed at night replaying the shadows of the day, and moments so much wind has filled my sails I thought I'd burst.  Our slippery slate walk has iced and melted, been buried and shoveled and buried again by snow.  The kids have had snow days.  I had my own snow days, stuck solo in California for two extra days because of east coast weather!  And now the bulbs are poking green stalks from the dirt to remind us no matter how frozen the ground is, spring comes.

All year I've kept looking for rhythm for our days, the scaffolding of the week to hang my expectations on, the solid structure beneath all we're doing.  What I'm realizing is that the rhythm is more syncopated than I thought.  It's more like jazz and less like a march.  There is scatting and remixes; I'm starting to come with looser feet.