I almost missed seeing Waldo.
My morning had followed its typical pattern. After dropping off Jared at the middle school, I had driven back across town to Jack's elementary school and parked the car in our usual spot. Together we walked hand-in-hand along the path to his school. Birds were singing as they flitted from tree to tree and the happy sounds of children playing filled the air. We added our voices to the early morning symphony with excited talk of how many - how few - days of school were left. As we shared our mutual relief that the glorious days of summer were just ahead, I scanned the greenbelt for signs of Waldo.
I had thought it would be easier to spy him after the yearly passing of goats had shorn the tall grasses down to nothing more than a dry, rough carpet. I was evidently mistaken as days had passed without a sighting. Then, as we turned left down the path that would lead to the playground, something to the right caught my eye. To the casual observer it would appear to be nothing but one of the many rocks scattered throughout the space. The casual observer, however, would be failing to notice that this one particular rock had ears.
Waldo sat completely motionless. I imagined he was playing a game of hide-and-seek, only with his mottled brown fur he didn't have to try too hard to hide. Indeed, I wondered how many people would walk past and never even notice him.
But that's the way life is sometimes, isn't it?
Wrapped up in our own thoughts, in our own crazy worlds that exist inside our heads, how often do we fail to notice what is right in front of us?
How often do we forget to look?
We want love. We want happiness. We want peace, contentment, success. . .the list goes on and on. We go off in all different directions searching endlessly for the one thing we think we need, the One Thing that will make our life complete. Or perhaps, we sit dejectedly in the corner, convinced that that One Thing will never be ours.
I can't help but think sometimes that we humans make life much harder than it has to be. Maybe, just maybe, we simply need to open our eyes and look, really look, at what is spread out in front of us and recognize that sometimes a rock isn't a rock at all, that what we've been looking for has been right in front of us all along.
How much more peaceful would life be then?
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Finding Waldo
I don't remember the first time I noticed him. Was it last year? The year before? It was one of those things where the first sighting was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing memorable. It was only after seeing him on multiple occasions that he became part of my conscious life. After a while, it progressed from merely noticing him to actively seeking him out.
It was probably around that time that I began calling him Waldo. Everyone needs a name, right? And Waldo seemed perfect. Not because he sported a red and white-striped shirt but because he seemed so elusive and it had become a game to try to find him. Each morning as I walked along the path with Jack on his way to school, I would fervently search for him. Mornings were so much better when I caught a glimpse of him, even at a distance.
He was in some ways much harder to find than his namesake. His camouflage was much better, as he wore the colors of the rocks and the grasses in which he sat. Most often it was his ears that gave him away. The noise of the nearby playground and of the children and parents walking along the path bordering his home caused him to sit still, but his long ears would peak up above the grass as he listened attentively, seeking out any signs of danger.
Did I mention that Waldo was a jack rabbit?
When my husband and I first moved here, there were jack rabbits everywhere. As the area became more developed, we unfortunately most often saw them in the roadway, victims of progress and speeding cars. But, there was Waldo, defying the odds, continuing to make his home in the narrow strip of land that had been left untouched, sandwiched in between the elementary school and a tract of houses.
Seeing him each morning as I walked peacefully hand-in-hand with my young son made me happy. I'm not sure I can explain why. I'm not even sure I entirely understand it. But every morning, I would eagerly search for him crouched low in the tall grass. Some days I would see him. Some days I would not. It was if he were my own special secret, waiting for just the right moment to reveal himself. Or, I thought, waiting for me to find him.
I never worried the days I didn't see him. I didn't need to see to believe. I trusted he was there, somewhere, just out of reach of my human eyes, watching me perhaps. I had begun to feel that I wasn't playing this game of hide-and-seek alone.
Then he was gone.
I didn't notice right away, of course. Often days would go by without a sighting. When the days stretched into weeks, however, I grew concerned. One day, as I drove down the road that cuts through the swath of natural space that was Waldo's home, I saw the remains of an animal near the center divide. I fought the urge to stop the car and get out to examine it more closely. I couldn't tell from my moving vehicle what kind of animal it was, but I prayed it wasn't a rabbit. That it wasn't Waldo.
Over the next few weeks, my search for him intensified. Still, there was no sign of Waldo. Desperately, I hoped that he was there, that it was my failing not his that kept him from view.
One morning, a few weeks ago, I walked Jack to school. Again, I searched for Waldo. Again, I didn't see him. With a heavy heart I acknowledged to myself that it was time to accept the truth. Waldo was gone.
I am, however, not very good at accepting truths. "Maybe" is my favorite word, and even as I reluctantly gave up hope and forced myself to believe that the expanse of grass now lay empty, that Waldo was indeed never to be seen again, somewhere deep inside there still bubbled one little insistent "maybe. . . ."
Many would believe that holding onto maybe in spite of such damning evidence is foolish. They may be right. They may think that mourning the loss of a jack rabbit is downright idiotic. They may be right again.
What "they" think doesn't really matter though, does it? Certainly, I was not worried about what "they" think when I got out of my car a couple of weeks ago and, as I waited for Jack to clamber out of the back seat, I glanced toward the open space. Old habits die hard. Naturally, I didn't expect to see anything.
Then a movement caught my eye.
I gasped as I spied not one but two jack rabbits bounding through the tall grasses that the winter rains had coaxed from the earth. Tears filled my eyes. Waldo was back!
I have only spotted him once since that day. But that's okay. I know he is there, somewhere, waiting for me to find him.
It was probably around that time that I began calling him Waldo. Everyone needs a name, right? And Waldo seemed perfect. Not because he sported a red and white-striped shirt but because he seemed so elusive and it had become a game to try to find him. Each morning as I walked along the path with Jack on his way to school, I would fervently search for him. Mornings were so much better when I caught a glimpse of him, even at a distance.
He was in some ways much harder to find than his namesake. His camouflage was much better, as he wore the colors of the rocks and the grasses in which he sat. Most often it was his ears that gave him away. The noise of the nearby playground and of the children and parents walking along the path bordering his home caused him to sit still, but his long ears would peak up above the grass as he listened attentively, seeking out any signs of danger.
Did I mention that Waldo was a jack rabbit?
When my husband and I first moved here, there were jack rabbits everywhere. As the area became more developed, we unfortunately most often saw them in the roadway, victims of progress and speeding cars. But, there was Waldo, defying the odds, continuing to make his home in the narrow strip of land that had been left untouched, sandwiched in between the elementary school and a tract of houses.
Seeing him each morning as I walked peacefully hand-in-hand with my young son made me happy. I'm not sure I can explain why. I'm not even sure I entirely understand it. But every morning, I would eagerly search for him crouched low in the tall grass. Some days I would see him. Some days I would not. It was if he were my own special secret, waiting for just the right moment to reveal himself. Or, I thought, waiting for me to find him.
I never worried the days I didn't see him. I didn't need to see to believe. I trusted he was there, somewhere, just out of reach of my human eyes, watching me perhaps. I had begun to feel that I wasn't playing this game of hide-and-seek alone.
Then he was gone.
I didn't notice right away, of course. Often days would go by without a sighting. When the days stretched into weeks, however, I grew concerned. One day, as I drove down the road that cuts through the swath of natural space that was Waldo's home, I saw the remains of an animal near the center divide. I fought the urge to stop the car and get out to examine it more closely. I couldn't tell from my moving vehicle what kind of animal it was, but I prayed it wasn't a rabbit. That it wasn't Waldo.
Over the next few weeks, my search for him intensified. Still, there was no sign of Waldo. Desperately, I hoped that he was there, that it was my failing not his that kept him from view.
One morning, a few weeks ago, I walked Jack to school. Again, I searched for Waldo. Again, I didn't see him. With a heavy heart I acknowledged to myself that it was time to accept the truth. Waldo was gone.
I am, however, not very good at accepting truths. "Maybe" is my favorite word, and even as I reluctantly gave up hope and forced myself to believe that the expanse of grass now lay empty, that Waldo was indeed never to be seen again, somewhere deep inside there still bubbled one little insistent "maybe. . . ."
Many would believe that holding onto maybe in spite of such damning evidence is foolish. They may be right. They may think that mourning the loss of a jack rabbit is downright idiotic. They may be right again.
What "they" think doesn't really matter though, does it? Certainly, I was not worried about what "they" think when I got out of my car a couple of weeks ago and, as I waited for Jack to clamber out of the back seat, I glanced toward the open space. Old habits die hard. Naturally, I didn't expect to see anything.
Then a movement caught my eye.
I gasped as I spied not one but two jack rabbits bounding through the tall grasses that the winter rains had coaxed from the earth. Tears filled my eyes. Waldo was back!
I have only spotted him once since that day. But that's okay. I know he is there, somewhere, waiting for me to find him.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
The Morning Walk
As we walk along the path to school, I hold his hand a little tighter, my vain attempt to hold onto the moment. I know all too well that this moment, like all the ones that have come before, is destined to blur and fade into a dim recollection of chilly mornings walking in silent contentment. I know, too, that I have limited time before the blurring begins. Next year my younger son will be in fourth grade, the time for boys to begin letting go of their mothers' hands.
At the end of our walk, in bright sunshine on the edge of the playground, in the midst of children running and kicking and hitting and laughing and talking, I swing him around to land in my arms for a hug. I wish him a good day and tell him I love him, getting ready to let him go. I am thinking that I would rather stay wrapped around his warmth instead. But I let go and watch him walk away, disappearing around the corner of the building.
I turn and make my way back across the playground, keeping a watchful eye on the kickball game that is inconveniently located just across from the gate to the outside world. Once again I manage to escape unharmed, and I make my way back down the path to my car, this time with only the memory of the warmth of my child's hand in mine.
I treasure these few quiet morning moments. They restore my sanity. They slow time down, casting the hustle and bustle of getting to school and work on time to the periphery of my consciousness. I breathe more deeply and see the world more clearly. In my head, I compose lines that I will later fervently try to remember to write down. Or not.
I will miss this morning ritual once it comes to its destined conclusion. It is only a few minutes, but what precious minutes they are. Life is often reduced to one giant, non-stop to-do list. But here, that list loses its importance. Here, the mind once again recognizes the things that truly matter.
My footsteps slow as I get closer to my car, reluctant to leave this peaceful moment. With one last look back, I get in. The day awaits me and there is no turning back.
At the end of our walk, in bright sunshine on the edge of the playground, in the midst of children running and kicking and hitting and laughing and talking, I swing him around to land in my arms for a hug. I wish him a good day and tell him I love him, getting ready to let him go. I am thinking that I would rather stay wrapped around his warmth instead. But I let go and watch him walk away, disappearing around the corner of the building.
I turn and make my way back across the playground, keeping a watchful eye on the kickball game that is inconveniently located just across from the gate to the outside world. Once again I manage to escape unharmed, and I make my way back down the path to my car, this time with only the memory of the warmth of my child's hand in mine.
I treasure these few quiet morning moments. They restore my sanity. They slow time down, casting the hustle and bustle of getting to school and work on time to the periphery of my consciousness. I breathe more deeply and see the world more clearly. In my head, I compose lines that I will later fervently try to remember to write down. Or not.
I will miss this morning ritual once it comes to its destined conclusion. It is only a few minutes, but what precious minutes they are. Life is often reduced to one giant, non-stop to-do list. But here, that list loses its importance. Here, the mind once again recognizes the things that truly matter.
My footsteps slow as I get closer to my car, reluctant to leave this peaceful moment. With one last look back, I get in. The day awaits me and there is no turning back.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Here
The world is still immersed in darkness,
and the house stands quietly,
waiting for the day to begin.
Sitting on the couch,
sipping coffee,
I soak in the peacefulness of the moment.
The sky begins to lighten
and I am reminded
that the impending hustle of the day
lies just up ahead.
There are errands to run,
laundry to wash,
children to feed.
But right now, the moment is all mine.
My mind skips across thoughts,
never landing in any one place for too long.
It doesn't need to.
Here in the quiet anything is possible.
The day still stretches out before me,
beckoning me to make of it
what I will.
There is no multitude of demands
pulling me in different directions all at once.
I am in control of what will be.
It is an illusion perhaps,
but that is what makes these morning interludes so soothing.
Here, I can see clearly.
Here, I am at peace.
and the house stands quietly,
waiting for the day to begin.
Sitting on the couch,
sipping coffee,
I soak in the peacefulness of the moment.
The sky begins to lighten
and I am reminded
that the impending hustle of the day
lies just up ahead.
There are errands to run,
laundry to wash,
children to feed.
But right now, the moment is all mine.
My mind skips across thoughts,
never landing in any one place for too long.
It doesn't need to.
Here in the quiet anything is possible.
The day still stretches out before me,
beckoning me to make of it
what I will.
There is no multitude of demands
pulling me in different directions all at once.
I am in control of what will be.
It is an illusion perhaps,
but that is what makes these morning interludes so soothing.
Here, I can see clearly.
Here, I am at peace.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Who Is This Kid?
A few years ago, when my husband and I mentioned to a family member that we were going to Disneyland, she commented something like, "Again?" Her disbelief and disdain were apparent. We had been the year before, why on earth would we be going there again?
There are several reasons I suppose. For one thing, it is fun. For another, it is truly the Happiest Place on Earth. When I am there I feel like a kid again, and I enjoy having my greatest worry be how long the line is to ride Space Mountain and where I am going to get my next meal.
Since having kids, however, the greatest reason for going to Disneyland almost annually is seeing how it changes from year to year. Each time we go it is a different experience. I remember when Jared, now 13, saw Lightning McQueen for the first time and, reverently laying his hand on its hood, exclaimed, "See? I told you he was real." I remember the way Jack's little face lit up while watching the parade and how he waved shyly to Mickey Mouse. As the boys changed, so too did their enjoyment.
This year Jack got to experience Disneyland in a way he never had before - as an only child. With Jared off with his band friends, it was just Mom, Dad, and Jack. He was giddy with excitement. No big brother dictating which ride to go on next. No cajoling to ride a ride that was just too scary. The park was his to enjoy.
And enjoy he did. Pirates of the Caribbean was his new favorite ride. Where once he was terrified of the dark and the drops, now he relished in them. He held his arms in the air as the boat went down and gleefully exclaimed, "I love this ride!" when we reached the bottom. No sooner had the ride ended than he we was begging to go again.
With a little convincing from his mom and dad, he did agree to go on other rides. Another one of his favorites is the Finding Nemo ride. This, however, is not one of my favorites. Being packed into a small space submerged in water is not my idea of a good time. I did it, though, and I am a little ashamed to admit this, but I used it as leverage to convince Jack to go on a ride that he did not want to go on: Matterhorn Bobsleds.
Jack was convinced that the Matterhorn was scary. He dug in his heels and rejected every plea to go on it just once. He finally relented when I pointed out that the Nemo ride scared me but I went on it because I loved him. (Wrong, I know, but I was desperate!) There were still a few protestations as we waited in line, but no major meltdowns. We were good to go. I suspect that there was a tiny part of him that wanted to go on the ride, but he was not willing to admit it. As the roller coaster zoomed around, Jack screamed out, "I hate this" and "This sucks!" When the ride ended, I excitedly asked, "Wasn't that fun?" His answer? "No. I am never going on that ride again."
It was the same story with Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, which is one of my all-time favorite rides. Again, he reluctantly agreed to go on it. Again, when we disembarked he declared he was never going on that ride again. I didn't get it. How could he not enjoy these rides? They were so much fun!
On our last day in the park, Jared rejoined us. He was determined to take us all on Space Mountain because he wanted us to see the Star Wars additions that had been made to the ride. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Space Mountain, but it does scare me a bit. I think it's more the thought of the ride than the actual ride itself. The hour long wait was also a bit terrifying. I worried, too, that this ride would be the one to finally put Jack over the edge. If he was scared of Thunder Mountain and the Matterhorn, how would he react to Space Mountain? I had visions of him absolutely terrified, screaming that he wanted to get off. Therapy would be needed in order to recover from the horror of the experience.
Surprisingly, Jack agreed without any fuss. He chose me to sit by because I "make him feel calm." Feeling the need to reassure him, I told him, "If you get scared, just hold on tight and scream." As we grabbed onto the bar, I linked my pinky finger over his so that he could feel me beside him as we plunged into the dark. Racing through the darkness, all I could think was how scared Jack must be. "Woo hoo," I shouted over and over again in an attempt to convince him we were having fun.
When the ride came to a stop, I looked over, expecting to see sheer terror on his face.
"What did you think?" I asked.
"That was cool!" he exclaimed.
"You didn't think it was scary?" I asked in disbelief.
"No."
What? Who was this kid? This couldn't possibly be the same kid who swore he would never ride the Matterhorn again. Space Mountain is way scarier.
At least it is to me. Once again I was reminded that my children are their own people with their own perceptions and their own opinions.
And evidently for Jack, anything related to Star Wars is too cool to be scary.
There are several reasons I suppose. For one thing, it is fun. For another, it is truly the Happiest Place on Earth. When I am there I feel like a kid again, and I enjoy having my greatest worry be how long the line is to ride Space Mountain and where I am going to get my next meal.
Since having kids, however, the greatest reason for going to Disneyland almost annually is seeing how it changes from year to year. Each time we go it is a different experience. I remember when Jared, now 13, saw Lightning McQueen for the first time and, reverently laying his hand on its hood, exclaimed, "See? I told you he was real." I remember the way Jack's little face lit up while watching the parade and how he waved shyly to Mickey Mouse. As the boys changed, so too did their enjoyment.
This year Jack got to experience Disneyland in a way he never had before - as an only child. With Jared off with his band friends, it was just Mom, Dad, and Jack. He was giddy with excitement. No big brother dictating which ride to go on next. No cajoling to ride a ride that was just too scary. The park was his to enjoy.
And enjoy he did. Pirates of the Caribbean was his new favorite ride. Where once he was terrified of the dark and the drops, now he relished in them. He held his arms in the air as the boat went down and gleefully exclaimed, "I love this ride!" when we reached the bottom. No sooner had the ride ended than he we was begging to go again.
With a little convincing from his mom and dad, he did agree to go on other rides. Another one of his favorites is the Finding Nemo ride. This, however, is not one of my favorites. Being packed into a small space submerged in water is not my idea of a good time. I did it, though, and I am a little ashamed to admit this, but I used it as leverage to convince Jack to go on a ride that he did not want to go on: Matterhorn Bobsleds.
Jack was convinced that the Matterhorn was scary. He dug in his heels and rejected every plea to go on it just once. He finally relented when I pointed out that the Nemo ride scared me but I went on it because I loved him. (Wrong, I know, but I was desperate!) There were still a few protestations as we waited in line, but no major meltdowns. We were good to go. I suspect that there was a tiny part of him that wanted to go on the ride, but he was not willing to admit it. As the roller coaster zoomed around, Jack screamed out, "I hate this" and "This sucks!" When the ride ended, I excitedly asked, "Wasn't that fun?" His answer? "No. I am never going on that ride again."
It was the same story with Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, which is one of my all-time favorite rides. Again, he reluctantly agreed to go on it. Again, when we disembarked he declared he was never going on that ride again. I didn't get it. How could he not enjoy these rides? They were so much fun!
On our last day in the park, Jared rejoined us. He was determined to take us all on Space Mountain because he wanted us to see the Star Wars additions that had been made to the ride. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Space Mountain, but it does scare me a bit. I think it's more the thought of the ride than the actual ride itself. The hour long wait was also a bit terrifying. I worried, too, that this ride would be the one to finally put Jack over the edge. If he was scared of Thunder Mountain and the Matterhorn, how would he react to Space Mountain? I had visions of him absolutely terrified, screaming that he wanted to get off. Therapy would be needed in order to recover from the horror of the experience.
Surprisingly, Jack agreed without any fuss. He chose me to sit by because I "make him feel calm." Feeling the need to reassure him, I told him, "If you get scared, just hold on tight and scream." As we grabbed onto the bar, I linked my pinky finger over his so that he could feel me beside him as we plunged into the dark. Racing through the darkness, all I could think was how scared Jack must be. "Woo hoo," I shouted over and over again in an attempt to convince him we were having fun.
When the ride came to a stop, I looked over, expecting to see sheer terror on his face.
"What did you think?" I asked.
"That was cool!" he exclaimed.
"You didn't think it was scary?" I asked in disbelief.
"No."
What? Who was this kid? This couldn't possibly be the same kid who swore he would never ride the Matterhorn again. Space Mountain is way scarier.
At least it is to me. Once again I was reminded that my children are their own people with their own perceptions and their own opinions.
And evidently for Jack, anything related to Star Wars is too cool to be scary.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Highway Song
I wrote this on the long drive between Sacramento and Los Angeles. My older son, Jared, was with his school band, traveling by bus while my husband, younger son, Jack, and I drove down in our car. We planned to meet up with Jared after the band competition two days later and spend some time as a family at Disneyland. It felt strange to make this trip that we had made so many times before without my first-born, and I couldn't help but think about how our lives had changed, and would continue to change, as my son ventured forth into adulthood.
Somewhere on this road, on a bus full of exuberant middle-schoolers, is my son. His absence in the seat behind me tugs at my heart, for I understand that this is only the beginning of his gradual pull away from me. The journey toward adulthood has begun.
I picture him, somewhere on this road, on a bus, laughing and talking with his friends. It is as it should be. When we dropped him off this morning, I asked him, "Are you happy to have a few days without us?"
"Yes," he replied, laughing.
This, too, is as it should be.
At the rest stop, my husband parks the car facing the freeway. My eyes scan the river of vehicles stretching as far as I can see. I search for my child, desperate for a sign that, though separate from me, he is there, still within my reach, even if it is only my eyes that can reach him.
No buses appear, and our incomplete party continues on its way, he and I moving in the same direction, yet distinct and separate.
A heartbeat ago, I brought my precious boy into this world and without a thought, I set him on his path. Even though I have guided him along the way - walking beside him, holding his hand, helping him up when he tumbled - the journey has been all his own. It was only the newness of motherhood that deluded me into thinking that I played more than a supporting role.
As the road wanders on, I watch out the window the scenery sliding by. Will he see the same things I see? Will the endless rolling green hills quiet his restless spirit? Will the bird floating on majestic wings bring a smile to his lips? Will he eagerly drink it all in and marvel at the sheer beauty and magic of it all?
Or will he not even notice the world flashing past his window?
It is his journey, so it is for him to decide what he sees along the way. I can only hope his years with me taught him to look out the window out into the world beyond, to see the life all around him and the infinite possibilities it has to offer him.
Later on we will meet up, and my heart will leap with excitement just to have him near me again. I will listen with rapt attention to his stories, stories that are all his own and in which I do not play a part. I will be thankful to simply be afforded a window to his journey through its retelling. For this is also as it should be.
Our tires hum a highway song as on and on we roll. It is neither happy nor melancholy. Rather, it is both. It is the song of life.
And somewhere on this road, on a bus, too far away for me to hear, it plays for my son.
*********************************************************************
Somewhere on this road, on a bus full of exuberant middle-schoolers, is my son. His absence in the seat behind me tugs at my heart, for I understand that this is only the beginning of his gradual pull away from me. The journey toward adulthood has begun.
I picture him, somewhere on this road, on a bus, laughing and talking with his friends. It is as it should be. When we dropped him off this morning, I asked him, "Are you happy to have a few days without us?"
"Yes," he replied, laughing.
This, too, is as it should be.
At the rest stop, my husband parks the car facing the freeway. My eyes scan the river of vehicles stretching as far as I can see. I search for my child, desperate for a sign that, though separate from me, he is there, still within my reach, even if it is only my eyes that can reach him.
No buses appear, and our incomplete party continues on its way, he and I moving in the same direction, yet distinct and separate.
A heartbeat ago, I brought my precious boy into this world and without a thought, I set him on his path. Even though I have guided him along the way - walking beside him, holding his hand, helping him up when he tumbled - the journey has been all his own. It was only the newness of motherhood that deluded me into thinking that I played more than a supporting role.
As the road wanders on, I watch out the window the scenery sliding by. Will he see the same things I see? Will the endless rolling green hills quiet his restless spirit? Will the bird floating on majestic wings bring a smile to his lips? Will he eagerly drink it all in and marvel at the sheer beauty and magic of it all?
Or will he not even notice the world flashing past his window?
It is his journey, so it is for him to decide what he sees along the way. I can only hope his years with me taught him to look out the window out into the world beyond, to see the life all around him and the infinite possibilities it has to offer him.
Later on we will meet up, and my heart will leap with excitement just to have him near me again. I will listen with rapt attention to his stories, stories that are all his own and in which I do not play a part. I will be thankful to simply be afforded a window to his journey through its retelling. For this is also as it should be.
Our tires hum a highway song as on and on we roll. It is neither happy nor melancholy. Rather, it is both. It is the song of life.
And somewhere on this road, on a bus, too far away for me to hear, it plays for my son.
Friday, March 18, 2016
Putting Down the Lenses
I recently read several posts about the guilt the writers felt for having missed a day of blogging. Now, here I am, writing after having missed three days. How did that happen? I had figured it would be easier to write once Spring Break arrived, bringing with it slow, peaceful mornings and unrushed evenings. My experience has been the exact opposite.
With my husband still off from work recovering from knee surgery, we have been running around trying to get a few of our many half-finished projects around the house completed. Once we decided to host Easter this year, we ended up adding even more projects to the list. On top of that, there have been meetings to attend as we prepare for our older son to start high school next year, laundry and packing and forms to sign to get ready for his school band's Disneyland trip, and my younger son's school dance performance to attend. In short, we've been busier than ever, leaving little time to write.
Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
At my son's dance performance last Tuesday, I ended up with an obstructed view of the stage. This isn't unusual, being that I am what some might consider vertically challenged. My older son, Jared, had a better view, so I handed off the camera to him. For the first time, all I had to do was watch my child dance. Every time before, I had witnessed such an event through a camera lens. When the performances ended, I always felt as if I hadn't really seen them, having been so caught up in getting the perfect shot with which to record the moment.
Writing isn't so very different. Events are viewed through various lenses in order to discern some significance in them. We look back at the images we have recorded and reflect on each of them, trying to determine which image captures the moment best, the image we will hold up to the world in hopes that they will be as captivated as we were. The image that will preserve the moment for all time.
And sometimes, in our desperate search to immortalize the moment, we miss it completely.
Challenging ourselves to blog daily about slices of our lives is a challenge worth taking. It teaches us to view even the most seemingly inconsequential moments of our lives as the valuable building blocks that they are. And ironically, that sometimes means putting the lenses down and simply living in the moment.
With my husband still off from work recovering from knee surgery, we have been running around trying to get a few of our many half-finished projects around the house completed. Once we decided to host Easter this year, we ended up adding even more projects to the list. On top of that, there have been meetings to attend as we prepare for our older son to start high school next year, laundry and packing and forms to sign to get ready for his school band's Disneyland trip, and my younger son's school dance performance to attend. In short, we've been busier than ever, leaving little time to write.
Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
At my son's dance performance last Tuesday, I ended up with an obstructed view of the stage. This isn't unusual, being that I am what some might consider vertically challenged. My older son, Jared, had a better view, so I handed off the camera to him. For the first time, all I had to do was watch my child dance. Every time before, I had witnessed such an event through a camera lens. When the performances ended, I always felt as if I hadn't really seen them, having been so caught up in getting the perfect shot with which to record the moment.
Writing isn't so very different. Events are viewed through various lenses in order to discern some significance in them. We look back at the images we have recorded and reflect on each of them, trying to determine which image captures the moment best, the image we will hold up to the world in hopes that they will be as captivated as we were. The image that will preserve the moment for all time.
And sometimes, in our desperate search to immortalize the moment, we miss it completely.
Challenging ourselves to blog daily about slices of our lives is a challenge worth taking. It teaches us to view even the most seemingly inconsequential moments of our lives as the valuable building blocks that they are. And ironically, that sometimes means putting the lenses down and simply living in the moment.
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