paying attention

I take the dog out for her nightly constitutional.

The evening, cool and eerily still, no heat pump running. So silent I can hear the absence of sound. My ears strain and I detect tiny feet walking across dry leaves, something easy to crush underfoot.

The dog has no interest in her bodily functions. She is more interested in peering into the dark dark wood. Does she hear something? Or is the silence strange for her too?

One bright star blazes in a blue so dark that it is almost, but not quite, black. It suspends directly over our house, blessing all those within.

Then it comes to me, the barest whisper, almost too far away — the call of a whip-poor-will. A sound that recalls such longing. I remember hearing whip-poor-wills as a little girl. Our family did not have air conditioning, and we slept every night with the windows open, blankets and sheets thrown back, the night air gentling across skin. I would drift away feeling safe and content in the night and song.

I’m not sure I can identify the bird and make a note to look it up.

Walking the dog back toward the porch, I remember how Sid and I sat there the previous evening with little tiki torches lit as the sun went down. We sat on the double rocker he bought me when I was pregnant with our first child. Finances were tight, but I wanted it because I imagined that we would sit close together, holding our baby.

Of course, that rarely happened. He was gone for long hours every day, working and I was up most of the night, desperate to get our small human to eat and to survive.

Here we are, 19 years later, and we can sit in the cool of the evening on this rocker on our front porch, flames dancing on the wine glass tiki torches made by that baby-grown-up. We can talk about our hopes and plan for the future better than we could before. I guess we grew up too. Mostly.

It is like we are partners, after all this time, working together. The way I had always dreamed.

I go in the house, intending to schedule more evenings on the porch with torches burning, listening for the whip-poor-will.

Some may note that this is not the season for porch-sitting. I wrote this last year, late summer, early fall.

Infinite Christmas

Relaxed around the Christmas table, warm, replete,

all the time in the world to think of bigger things,

we are the privileged ones.

“There are different kinds of Infinity,” my son said.

His brother’s face reflects my own disbelief.

But isn’t Infinity infinity?

Eager, my son jumped up and drew a number line on the dining room chalkboard.

“The Infinite set of all numbers between zero and one

is larger than the Infinite set of all whole numbers,” he insisted.

How can this be?

Surely it is impossible,

a definite boundary,

the boundary beginning with zero and ending in one,

is no boundary at all.

It is both and.

I like to think that Love is Infinite.

At least some Love is, the cynical part of me whispers, but

Other people hoard something they call Love, yet . . .

Are there different kinds of Love?

That boundary I find impossible to scale,

that wall I build between me and the other,

can Love expand, fill it up and move beyond,

a limitlessness existing within imposed limits?

Easier to understand what is finite, within lines, boxed, defined.

We are primed to expect scarcity —

The beginning and ending of a life,

the last brownie in the pan,

a few dollars in the bank account,

Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches in a terrarium,

laughing together as we pull mystery gifts from stockings,

this is what we know.

We speak of Infinity and Love

as if they can be defined and explained.

We do the same with Truth

and Paradox.

My tongue cannot speak of these things,

my lips unable to form their shape,

They are beyond the veil

but I divine their presence,

an umbilical cord connecting me to

Whom I came from,

who confined Himself to flesh and blood,

to the margins of zero and one,

yet human life could not restrain

Her

He showed Herself to be

Infinity, Love, Truth, Paradox

with a beating heart, dusty feet, gentle hands,

a tired sigh,

so ordinary to the naked eye

with the vibrations of extraordinary

for the attuned ear.

This is also what I know —

If my Love feels small and limited,

let’s say that on a scale of 0 to 10,

I feel caught between zero and one.

And yet,

perhaps,

maybe

my stingy, narrow Love

is also boundless and all-encompassing,

as beyond comprehension

as Infinity between zero and one.

A Beautiful Life

my husband hanging a self-built bat house on the side of our deck, for temporary testing and observation

a daughter making raw carrot cupcakes, carrots never tasted so good

another daughter dropping a kiss on my cheek for no reason

teen brothers working in the kitchen, washing and cutting potatoes, dropping them into a large pot for boiling

all 6 of us around the table holding hands, praying Grandpa’s prayer “Thank you God. Amen.”

while at the table, *reading aloud about Enneagram number 1 (The Perfectionist), kids laughing, giving me knowing looks as I describe a One coming unglued over an inappropriately loaded dishwasher. I am not a Perfectionist, but haphazard dishwasher loading will make me sigh, or quietly curse, or grump.

After supper, I see . . .

a son pushing the lawnmower while another son weedeats

a daughter coming outside, asking “Are you having fun planting your trolls, Mama? Do you need any help?” I give her the shovel, she digs while I drop in small celosia — deep red, fuchsia, orange, yellow

air dimming, colors and shapes muting

“Look at the sky, Mama,” a peach brushstroke against fading baby blue

fireflies drift, bats dart, we stand under the bat house, looking up, hoping

“I’ve heard that when bats come home to roost . . .” Sid says, sounding like a wise man uttering prophecy, “a whole bunch of them swoop to the bat house at once, all of them trying to fit inside that small hole.” We laugh, imagining the sight and sound of bats pummeling the little wood house, like a Looney Tunes cartoon. We stand there a little longer, looking up, hoping

Later, heading toward bed, I see . . .

my 3 teenagers and 1 almost teen, sitting around the kitchen table, chatting, laughing, the girls painting old turtle shells found in the woods, doing nothing really but enjoying being together, each loving the company of the other

This writing is my turning around, changing the way I see the world, pulling my heart from the pit of dread and despair (just call me Eeyore), and focusing on the Good.

Inspired by Erin’s post Small Step No. 17: Say What You See at Design for Mankind

* The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery, Ian Cron and Suzanne Stabile

A regular occurrence

The house, unusually quiet as I sit reading.

Then pounding feet on stairs, basement door banging open, and my eldest son of 19 runs into the kitchen, around the island and turns, poised, looking back the way he came, face bright and expectant.

I abandon my book and watch Sidney, wondering . . .

His younger sister, 14, slowly walks into the kitchen, popping her knuckles. Rachel moves around the island. Sidney moves in the opposite direction. She stretches her neck and shakes out her arms. He laughs, makes a run for the dining room table, putting more distance between them. She slowly paces him, menaces him with a glaring eye, a smile trembles her lips.

This has been a familiar scene since Sidney and I returned from Memphis 15 months ago. Rachel loves locking her arms around her older brother, his arms imprisoned at his side, while he tries to wrestle free. He twists and turns, dragging her from kitchen to dining room to living room. She hangs on for dear life. They fall to the couch, roll on the floor, twist their way back to their feet, lurch off walls and furniture.

Twenty minutes, thirty minutes — Rachel has a good, strong grip. I hope they don’t break anything, including themselves, but it is a vague thought. I am glad they play together. In those early days of our return home, Sidney needed exercise, needed to rebuild wasted muscle. During his tiredest days, escaping her grip was a fun distraction, a necessary workout.

I wonder if Sidney knows that Rachel needed those wrestling matches too. Still needs them.

His reticent and undemonstrative sister needs to wrap her arms tightly around a brother she loves and never let him go.

Mystifying friendship

From Memphis with love . . .

Several years ago, maybe 5 or so, I attended a 2-day workshop for homeschooling moms. I met a lovely lady named Michelle. It was one of those rare, instant connections, a recognition of another heart that gets your heart. I knew the moment she nonchalantly squeezed the dead cow’s eyeball in my direction, while pretending to seriously focus on note-taking. We laughed a lot together and enjoyed many talks. At the end of that workshop, I hugged her goodbye and sadly assumed that I would never see her again. She was a busy mom. I was a busy mom. We live about 3 hours apart and life happens.

To my surprise, Michelle called me not long after and drove that long 3 hours with her 3 little daughters to see me. I was thrilled to reconnect with her, meet her beautiful daughters and introduce her to my children. We spent a lovely day together and I regretted the need to let her go back home. I hoped to one day visit her, but you know . . .the 3 hour drive and life.

Several years passed and Michelle stumbled onto the news of Sidney’s tumor. She emailed me and planned another visit —this time, an approximate 11-hour drive to Memphis Tennessee. So I met Michelle a third time.

That is not a normal heart. That is a selfless and faithful heart and I am blessed, though also perplexed, she chose to count me a friend. I’ve never gotten in the car and driven to see her, never sent her a birthday card or even kept up with her. I either don’t talk much or I get nervous, swing the other way and talk too much, jumping right into tough, even awkward topics. Unlike some people in my family, I don’t connect with people quickly.

But this friend overlooked my little oddities and hung in there beyond time and distance. To top it off, she brought along one of her other friends, Kris. I only got to hang out with Michelle and Kris for a few hours. But I have a feeling Kris could be another one of those special, rare friends too. They left Sidney and I both smiling and happy. Isn’t that one of the best goals we can have? To leave other people smiling and happy?

I don’t know all of God’s plans in this cancer muckiness, but I know he is blessing us many, many times over.