in the midst of a loud month: a poem (thanks CP*)

The Mockingbird

All summer

the mockingbird

in his pearl-gray coat

and his white-windowed wings

files

from the hedge to the top of the pine

and begins to sing, but it’s neither

lilting nor lovely.

for he is the thief of other sounds –

whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges

plus all the songs

of other birds in his neighborhood;

mimicking and elaborating,

he sings with humor and bravado,

so I have to wait a long time

for the softer voice of his own life

to come through.  He begins

by giving up his usual flutter

and settling down on the pine’s forelock

then looking around

as though to make sure he’s alone;

then he slaps each wing against his breast,

where his heart is,

and, copying nothing, begins

easing into it

as though it was not half so easy

as rollicking,

as though his subject now

was his true self,

which of course was as dark and secret

as anyone else’s,

and it was too hard –

perhaps you understand –

to speak or sing it

to anything or anyone

but the sky.

from Mary Oliver’s new collection, A Thousand Mornings

Ben

It's Christmas tree fetching time, which makes me think of Ben in all his glory and our different approaches to tasks, like bringing a tree home -- to use rope or the human hand?  Ben.  Ben is man who gets things done, most anything, really.  It may not be tidy, it may not be thorough, but he will make it happen.  I actually can't think of a time in the last 20 years when he's said a job was impossible, except perhaps this summer when he bowed out of re-piping all of the plumbing between the basement and upstairs (thankfully).

In these early days of babyhood, I've watched a lot of yard happenings through the windows.  This is the first time we've had any sort of yard to care for, and as most things new, I've gotten to learn more about Ben's ways -- you have a baby, you meet your spouse as a parent.  You have a yard, you meet your spouse as a yardman (I'm afraid he has yet to discover this part of me, however).  I grew up in a townhouse without a blade of grass, so it's possible I just never knew the versatility of a lawnmower; I thought it was literally for cutting flat planes of grass...

One day, after watching Ben madly chainsaw down a row of azaleas that must be decades old (huge, and yes, smack in the middle of the yard), I saw him push and shove the lawnmower up a bank of thick weedy ivy, losing his footing as he pushed, his body nearly parallel to the ground.  At the top, he jammed the mower over the tree-like azalea stumps again and again, shards of wood wildly flying, until the stumps were sufficiently blunted.  (He was smoothing the hill for sledding, naturally).

And just now, I saw Ben push the mower out of the garage and mow the concrete, with, I believe, the purpose of blowing away the dirt.  He mowed it steadily in neat rows, engulfed by a whirlwind of dirt until the slab looked clean.  Then he moved on to the grass.

This year, Ben and I did not tussle about the tree.  Eden and I unceremoniously picked one up while running errands and a strange man tied it to the car -- he also happened to tie our car doors closed in the process so that I had to feed Eden into her car seat through the back window and gracefully hoist myself in through another.  And all were glad to have a tree in the house.  Ben didn't even insist on pulling out the chainsaw to recut the end or trim the trees in the yard while he was at it.  He does, I am sure, have great bonfire plans for the end of this season, but more about that to come.

Onward

It has been a month of days, many sweet, many plain, a few grueling.  I've made it to the grocery store with a mouthful of children. I've nursed and read stories, sung songs and prayed, and wrangled all three into bed for the last three nights alone. I've fed people every day, though I don't remember really cooking anything or any full meals we've eaten.  I've gotten everyone to school and home on time-ish each day (Eden is almost always 20 minutes late). I haven't run out of gas, despite the gauge being in the red repeatedly. These are the little victories I am living in. 

Today Maeve is tiring in the regular baby ways: muscles ache from the lifting, hauling, holding; another wet diaper right as she's finally drifting to sleep; poop immediately after I've changed her and snapped and resnapped her jammies until the snaps all lined up; a blow out when there are no extra clothes; fussiness right when we start to drive so that I end up driving while standing, my arm stretched as far as possible into the backseat to hold a pacifier in her mouth.  I'd forgotten how driving with an infant is worse than driving drunk. Oh babies.  No wonder they smile so deliciously when they are hungry.

I keep feeling like congratulating myself for living through a winter.  But then I remember that, yes, I do have a down coat on, but it is in the 40's and there has not yet been ice on my windshield or snow on the steps.  The Farmer's almanac and general weather people everywhere all are predicting a particularly cold and snowy one.  Even the weird cat vet Ben met said the cats' coats are especially thick this year, so I don't think I've arrived...  I wouldn't say that I am dreading it, but I will be glad to land on the other side.

Looking out the window it looks like winter. The trees stand with tangled ink branches. A few still hold on to brown rattly leaves, but for the most part, the landscape is altered: outlines against a pale gray sky that yellows as the day ends.  I don't mind these short days, the fact that the sky darkens at five. We burrow in a little deeper, pull down the blinds, sit under glowing lights.  In only a month, the days will begin to stretch again, inching out until we find ourselves squarely in summer, surprised by its sudden arrival.  

The kids and I have been talking about Advent, about how to receive, what to give, about generous unexpected out-pouring, about remembering and preparing.  These dark cold days that we didn't have in California feel fitting, a long tunnel toward Christmas, and the promise of light and longer days at the end.

a poem for the week

Bless Their Hearts

by Richard Newman

At Steak 'n Shake I learned that if you add
"Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it's OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids'
toys—they're only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate's heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.

"Bless Their Hearts" by Richard Newman, from Domestic Fugues. © Steel Toe Books, 2009.

Drawing!

Congratulations to m*, Kaia Joye, and Mandy!

and thanks everyone else for entering.

xox

Winter giveaways for 500 Posts!!

Yesterday I wrote my 500th post, so today I give some of my wintery favorites away:

jars of summer jam,
 

Big Train vanilla chai,

homemade biscotti,

and classic chap stick (every winner gets some)

Please leave a comment by November 15th to enter the drawing!  Three of you win (which could be all of you!)

Thanks for reading*

More Life in the New Days

Maeve is six weeks old.  I am sitting at the table, rocking her on my knee while outside the kids stand around a galvanized tub of fall fire, "making torches."  I am not sure this is the safest game.  Ben is grinding down some azalea stumps to smooth out our small hill and ready it for possible sledding.

Today we took a date, rented DC bikes and cruised around downtown to a Ramen noodle bar and thrift shops.  We are weathering the low-grade tension that lives in the corners of these days of small people and full arms, and sometimes yells from the driver's seat or kitchen doorway...  It was good to be together, to bike behind him and watch him boyishly weave through traffic the way he always has, to follow the shape of his back and sit elbow to elbow over tangles of noodles.  Walking through Adams Morgan I could feel the gnawing want to be wrapped in a scarf, wearing fingerless gloves, sitting at a laptop with books, papers and a large coffee outside Tryst, or lingering with Ben over a long breakfast and the newspaper.  These are not days of leisure, or time alone or creative space -- all things we crave.  What I tried to remember, walking down that street past the brunchers, is that milk will not spring from my body ever three hours -- on a date or not -- forever, that one day I might be sitting outside a coffee shop alone missing a squirmy girl in a striped dress gnawing on her fist as she lies across my lap.

She just spit up down her face, into her ear, and onto my leg...  

Maeve is balding and cooing these days.  In the mornings I can steal a rare bright smile from her, and today her tiny purple Mary Jane socks stay on her feet.

Eden received face paints for a gift and has drawn two lopsided hearts on my chin and cheek, one large American Flag -- which greatly resembles a French flag -- on my other cheek, and a blue paw print on my forehead.  So that's what I look like right now.  She is amazed by how good she is at face painting and may begin offering it curbside.

Silas has no school tomorrow or election day and is reveling in the freedom, as if he's a 15 year-old missing exams.  I keep trying to think of fun plans for the hours Eden's at school , but I think he may be most happy to sit on the floor in my attention and build with legos.  So we will.

And so the days unfold into November.  I am trying to remember to stop and be thankful, especially when I find myself frowning or banging around the house -- both things I apparently do  in the mornings, before dinner, and just before piling people into the car (is that most of the day?).  I am trying to practice smiling (to counter the frowning).  I am beginning a book called Seven and hoping it will jolt my complacency.  I am especially missing  the park and California these days, which may be a sign of sinking deeper into real life here; Maeve was the final big change in the series, and she's here, the last loose end tied up.  Now it's all about learning to walk on this new footing.