Shared Dreams

The idea of change is exciting, even invigorating. And it usually becomes that way, when you embrace it and allow yourself to let go and float in the current of it. But in practice, change is not a welcome guest. And yet resisting change never helps anyone, you can’t stop the inevitable but must learn to accept it.

So here I am. Change is upon us. I’ve resisted it for so many years, swam upstream when I knew I would eventually be pulled along by the undertow. But I knew I must come to terms with this change on my own, wrestle with it and all its forms. No one would be able to convince me. Some may call it being stubborn, I call it just being ready to welcome it and its aftermath, being able to invite myself into its presence and submit willingly. Because that willingness is what makes all the difference. I was waiting for the ground to shift under me and to feel the movement rise within me. 

And slowly but surely, the ground has begun to tremble, and I feel a stirring as I watch my children grow and the rest of us age. Time is passing. I am still me, but I am no longer who I was. None of us are. I have strived to live each experience to its fullest, to suck out every last bit of life from this chapter of living. I wholeheartedly lived my dream, I really did. We all did.

But dreams are meant to be shared, especially when you have committed to creating a life with someone. And it’s now time for his dream of how a life can be lived to come to fruition, a dream that I will also learn how to make my own – just as he made mine his for so many years. It will become our shared dream, that we build together. 

So I hold out my arms, uncurl my fists, and surrender myself to the quickening current, promising myself that all the while I will keep my head above water and look out for the glistening treasures that will surely, but unexpectedly, unveil themselves along the way. I am ready.

Dear Me,

I see you.

I see how you just cleaned up all that vomit from the blankets and the sheets, not to mention the wall, and floor and mattress, right as you were about to go to bed. I see how you carefully scrubbed that little blanket that you wove on your mother’s big loom 7 years ago, 7 months pregnant, in love with those colors, knowing it was to fit a baby, not a gender. I see how you then kissed your son’s head and comforted him before you left the room, leaving the door open because he’s just a bit scared, even though he may be ten years old.

I see how you attended all the events this week, and last week, and the week before that. I see how you got your kids to school, even if they were late, but they made it anyway. I also see how you always remember to pick them up, at their multiple pickup times and entrances and locations. I see how you ferry them to their activities, sometimes packing healthy snacks and sometimes not giving a fuck and getting them McDonald’s, just to see how overjoyed they become.

I see how you help them with their homework and reading and piano, even when they don’t want to and you don’t want to, I mean who cares how many children you’ve taught over the decades, working with your own children should earn you a medal. I see how you make them dinner, even when you’re tired and uninspired, but you always think of something, even if they complain and you make them eat it anyway because you’re definitely not making everyone their own meal or mac and cheese every night, because you do have some standards, even if it’s scrambled eggs. I see how you put them to bed and sometimes yell at them for being so slow and then hyper right when it’s time to finally go to sleep, but then you snuggle with them and read and sing to them so they always go to sleep knowing you love them.

I see all those damn play dates you schedule and the birthday parties you go to that feel like a special kind of torture and the gifts you remember to buy, even though it makes you depressed about over consumption and the death of our planet, but you know it makes your kids happy. I see how you plan their own birthday parties, trying to think of something special and creative, that includes everyone and no gifts, that is easy and not torture-inducing, but instead is memorable and maybe a little different and not over the top, but reminds you of your own best memories from childhood in hopes that they will remember it, too.

I see you as you go to work every day, from classroom to classroom, school to school, making your way around the city. I see how you teach lessons, help plan units, give thoughtful feedback, and lead professional development. I see how you sometimes doubt yourself and your expertise, and your ability to reach your teachers or make real change, but I also see your moments of pride and confidence, and when you know you got it. I see you missing the classroom and your community, but also finding the thrill of being somewhere different each day.

I see you as you hit the snooze button, wishing you were a morning person but knowing you were never meant to be and you’ve given up on hope that you ever will be. I see you going to bed each night, wondering what else you could’ve done today, knowing full well there wasn’t room for anything else but always feeling like maybe there was something you’re missing.

I see you.

And I’m so proud of you.

Love,

Me

Relief

The tiny house that was full to the brim, bursting to the seams, with the family, the cows, the horses, and chickens. Then sending all the animals back to the barn. Sweet relief.

The list of to dos, that seems to lengthen by the minute and stretches across a page. The gifted day or hour to begin to cross them off. Sweet relief.

The calendar of obligations, deadlines and designated due dates. The enchanting sound of turning over crisp pages of new months, thoroughly blank. Sweet relief.

The tossing and turning, overthinking and stomach churning, of awaiting the news. Then the phone call, the email, the visit, the text. An answer. Sweet relief.

The traffic, the lines, the transit, the layovers, the waiting, the checking in, the checking out. The arrival. Sweet Relief.

The planning and thinking, the imagining and wondering, the doubting and questioning. Then tomorrow becomes today, and begins anew. Sweet relief.

The words that are compiling in the brain, upon emotions that keep piling on the heart, that are ultimately spoken aloud in truth and tears. Sweet relief.

The ideas that keep building, the memories that keep slipping away, creating a frenzy of fog in the brain. And then pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard, and oh, sweet relief.

Reflections on the Human State

I witnessed talent today.
Someone who could harness the energy in the room and take us on a ride along with her.
Her versatility, her comfort level, her utter human state.
It was like being naked, when you like being naked.
It was being vulnerable, but also completely impenetrable.
The layers of pretending are stripped off, and all that’s left
Is you.

People amaze me.
When you really see someone meeting their ability, basking in
who they are.
Not who they strive to be, who they pretend to be, or who they once were.
But who they ARE. Right now.
It’s as though they are vibrating on a different frequency level,
the electrical current pulsating through them.
You feel it. The air feels different. It’s a perfect harmony.
And you feel so honored and fortunate to be a witness.

I think we’ve each had those moments. Within our own bodies.
I know I have.
Its not an every day moment, or a common occurrence,
But enough to remind me – that I’ve arrived.
Here I am.
This is me. This is SO right.
This is who I was always supposed to be.
Right here. Right now.
In this state of knowing, that envelops you with its radiance.
Like coming home after a long trip.

Is it truth?
Is it presence?
Is it embodying the essence of what it means to be truly alive?
What is it?

In My Own Little Corner

My infatuation with Cinderella’s story
Was no more than the deeper allegory
Of a yearning for my own little space
Where just me and the quiet may embrace
And commune in its all-consuming glory

One could never express or more clearly state
The sense of pure comfort that is clearly innate
When I close the door with a deep exhale
And all the distractions around set sail
I am back in my corner and the world can wait

With the confines of just one life to give
And time that seems to pass through a sieve
My imagination begins to run wild
I am myself as I was a child
Even Cinderella knew she had more to live

In these moments of the quiet and me
From the daily whirlwind I am set free
It’s a time to return to the self
And place everything else upon the shelf
So I can be whatever I want to be

The Perfect Bathroom

I really love my bathroom.

We decided on white subway tile, but in a herringbone pattern.
I walked in multiple times to see him sitting in the tub, with grout on the wall and cut tiles in hand,
Such precision and craftsmanship, to center that herringbone design on the wall.
He started over three times,
until it was perfect.

I said I wanted a recessed shelf in the shower. So I could see my shampoo at eye level.
I’d seen them before, in the magazines.
So he built it for me.
So refined. Bright Moroccan blue.

A curtain was always good enough for me.
But he wanted a glass door.
When the steam rises you can make faces, or even write your name. And I can admire that beautiful herringbone tile through the glass.
And I also must squeegee that glass door after each shower, letting the water drip back into the tub and not spill down to the floor.

And those honeycomb slate tiles for the floor, the color so soothing and solid. They make different patterns if you stare for too long, like Magic Eye.
He carefully laid down each one, even spacing on each side.
Then he tried to get really fancy and heat the floor underneath, I thought that was going overboard.
But my warm feet couldn’t complain – at least for that one year those coils did their job.

And of course, those double sinks.
He insisted.
We argued about that for awhile. Why couldn’t we share a sink?
Two sinks in one bathroom, let alone next to each other, seems a bit silly, and just a tad pretentious, can we not take turns or move aside for the other to spit?
But you know, he is a sloppy brusher – not sure how one can possibly create so much foam that just bubbles and drips down into that basin. I just stare at him through the mirror, from my side, watching as my sink stays clean as I brush, keeping the foam in my mouth until it’s time to spit, and thankful to not be in his way.
I might always need two sinks.

There was no window in that room.
I told him a skylight would be exceptional and dreamy.
So he put one in.
And now I can see right into the neighbors’ apartment building, and they can see right into my bathroom.

I really love my bathroom.
But
do I really love my bathroom?
Or do I just really love Jake.

Those stairs

I tip toe away

trying not to wake you, but

those damn creaky stairs

Flower Boxes

I tried to make you beautiful
Since you are what I see
When I gaze out my kitchen window
And your white siding gleams back at me

Those bright blue flower baskets
Were my effort to add some contrast
Those boxes that border your broken windows
Were my endeavors to uplift the downcast

When spring rolls around each year
She teases my solo green thumb
So I troll the garden stores in my hood
In search of seeds and the dreams of what they’ll become

I hold the wet earth in my hand
Fill basket and box in a ritual of care
Scooping marigolds, petunias, and zinnias,
Each one gifted their own individual prayer

That they may have room to grow and blossom
And radiate joy, peace, and inspiration
That they will compliment their neighbors
And hopefully not suffer from dehydration

Oh, there you are now, tall and proud,
Adorned and bursting with nature’s glory
The birds are singing and skies are blue,
One never could’ve known your other story

But alas, the spring is short
For soon summer’s sun is in full blast
Then quite quickly autumn make it’s swift return
Those petals and prayers have now long past

And here we are, again staring,
You at me, and me at you,
The dried dirt of our yesterdays still lingers,
As the call sounds for our last spring dance, “Adieu”

Ear infection

I have an ear infection.
A woe-is-me projection,
With a hint of parenting deflection.

I have an ear infection.
Creating inner dejection,
And definitely some outward abjection.
All from this damn ear infection.

I have an ear infection.
Maybe caused by all this talk of the election,
I’m sick of listening to everyone’s predilections!

I have an ear infection.
My first in my recollection,
Just like my own personal insurrection.

I have an ear infection.
”Your honor I have an objection!
My client should not be made to suffer this forced convection!”

I have an ear infection.
Amoxicillin has my greatest affection,
And my hopes it will set me in the right direction.
So I will no longer suffer from this awful ear infection!

Bedtime Routines

Why does it feel like I’m always going to bed?

The nighttime routines always feel like they take forever. The pajamas, the brushing, the book choosing, the reading, the falling asleep. Funny how the routines slowly change but really always stay the same. You want to hurry up and be done with it so you can have just a moment to yourself, but then you also cherish it and feel guilty for wishing it to be over.

I used to snuggle with each of them at night, wanting to hold on to that closeness, to breathe them in, to hold that body against my chest, knowing I couldn’t keep it forever.

They all made the slow shift out of my bed and into their own, skipping cribs all together. Matan had a special tatami mat we’d roll out in our bedroom called his “special bed”, he was quite reliable in coming in every night to join us. When Ziv moved to his toddler bed, sometimes I’d try to snuggle in there real close, falling asleep in awkward positions, then spending months lying on the floor next to him as he demanded “hand”, so I’d hold onto his chubby warm fingers until he was out. For some time, he’d make the nightly trek over over to our room, hovering in the door way until we called him in. And then, just like that, they began sleeping through the night.

Soon they got big kid beds, and we’d switch off which bed I’d lay in each night, to keep it fair. The beds turned into bunk beds and I was so averse to the idea of my baby being on the top bunk because it was a sign he was growing even farther away from me, and I knew I did not want to pull myself up there every night to read and snuggle, but he was so excited to be up so high. The act of building those beds meant beginning to let go.

One at a time they slowly go off to their own books and adventures and begin to read on their own, though I still read with the little one it’s uncommon that we all read together anymore, if anything it turns into arguments for who gets to sit where or they just want to play and I get annoyed and give up. They still love to snuggle in my bed, but their bodies are long and bony and take up more space, not to mention they now race downstairs to watch tv on weekend mornings instead of running to me. Except the little one, she is still pushing us around each night, demanding her own space in between us at 4am. But I know it won’t be for much longer.

I would sing them songs each night when the lights went out. The same ones. I made one up for each of them the first few weeks of their lives and they just stuck. Always wondering, when will I sing it for the last time and not even know it? In the past year I’ve hardly sung to them at all, only every few months when they are having a hard time sleeping. And unlike her brothers, the little one often just tells me not to sing at all. So I guess that time is here, or soon approaching.

And that’s how we start to slowly separate. The routines slowly change, but stay the same, but not the same, just a little different, same same but different. It’s a gradual release. Which is healthy, and normal, and how it should be. I know. They are growing, but they are also slowly growing away. And it’s both relieving, and devastating.

And it seems like, no matter what, through it all, I’m still always going to bed.