The hubby is away surfing, the children and I are lounging the way we like to do. We marvel at the leaves, so red and yellow in their majesty. We bake weird zuchinni/banana/chocolate/chia treats. They play with the neighbors and life moves in this organic sweetness.
I didn't really know that same, neighborhood sweetness as a child. I take that back. Hil and I were organic sweetness, our long games of Fame and radical choreography sessions. But there wasn't a whole lot of action of the kid sort in our hood. There were cars. A whole lotta cars. There was skinny Raymond and years later, Heidi Zee, but really, we weren't kiddos riding bikes and running in and out of the neighbors houses.
So the neighbor kids and the long and wild games they've played in my basement this weekend, they are a boon like the hike. Like the mama hostess of the birthday party saying, leave the kids here! Go have some time to yourself.
I look both ways and burn rubber outta there. I quick get my favorite latte. I say a sweet prayer that both my headphones and my hiking shoes are in the car. I bust out on to the trail and my legs feel strong, my feet, super fast. The music fills me as does the sun on the mountains, as does the light on the hills, the turning trees in the valley. I think about tomorrow night's dance class, the theme -- what do I need -- and the wind picks up, blows my headphones outta my ears, blows my hair wild, whips with freedom, with the fresh brisk of fall. I need to honor the elements. The elemental. The simple and daily goodness that is sun, that is wind, that is a change of seasons. Organic sweetness.
I've been intensely reading Claire Bidwell Smith's memoir this weekend, The Rules of Inheritance. She writes about her mom's illness, how it escalated during her freshman year of college. It brings me back to that dark time in my own life, about the ache and vacuous desperation of the college years. We are close in age and she listens to the same music I did, wears the same shade of dark lipstick. I feel this wild duality, half of me thrust in that ugly sadness, the other marveling at the yellow aspen leaves, the sun on my face, my healthy and silly children that laugh from the field below. There is such grace everywhere. Sometimes I don't really know how it found me.
This book has me dreaming of my parents, of Los Angeles, of my old home. I woke up and looked at plane tickets today, the need in my gut to lie by my mama on her big bed and stay up too late with our deep talks dug deep, deep inside of me. See, my mama made it. She had all that sickness - the chemo and radiation, the unknown diagnosis and terrible surgeries, yet she's still here, almost 81, her mind and spirit as sharp as ever.
And I made it. Found a life that is full of love, of good work, of art and children and the natural world. I feel so full inside when I think about what I get to do each day, when I look out of my windows at the valley that I get to share with kind people. I feel strong and creative when I walk these hills, when I listen to my music and read my books of poems. It feels good to just sit here and write, to not care a whole lot about craft or the arc, just to get it all out. There are so many details to hold on to, all the time. Eliana and Sol and I sitting at the Catalyst eating lunch today after Eliana's soccer game, the way Sol drew pictures for me using Eliana's drawing book, the way Eliana looked at me at one point and said, I just love him so much.
You and me both, I replied and we marveled together at his tenacious commitment to drawing the perfect cheetah for his mama.
I get cranky too. I look at the pile of dishes and can't image that I can actually get them all done. I think about how busy tomorrow will be and dread making their lunches, unpacking the leftovers that are still rotting in their backpacks from Friday -- wasn't it just Friday -- how does it all go by so quickly? Then I think a bit harder. So I have to get them up and going. So what? So they can go and love their school day, thrive and laugh and create with their kind teachers and silly friends. And I have to get myself together so that I can inspire kiddos to write and think, so that I can be creative and plan, then grab my children who are right there with me in the same building, drive them around a bit, feed them from my stocked fridge. It's a pretty blessed life.
The gratitude meter is way high these days. The way I love the people I love with everything. The way I am able to shed what I know I don't need. My friend Amanda is a medium. Amanda is one of my oldest friends in the world. She has always been way more put together than me, smarter, better organized, more responsible. She taught me what the word "perforated" means when I was fourteen. I thought it was remarkable that such a word even existed. I still kinda do.
Anyway, Amanda had a life change, a deep sense, a knowing. She embraced her powers while still holding her responsible day job and raising her three children, single-mama style. I went to see her with Hil and my mom when I was visiting in June. Amanda had a lot to say to all of us, all of it was right on, but one thing she said keeps coming back to me again and again. She said that she had this vision of me karate chopping all the things/people/crap that I didn't need out of my life. She saw me just tearing down a path and karate chopping in both directions. She said that what I wanted would become extremely clear. It was that easy.
I've always had trouble with decisions. My mama calls it my Haagan Daaz syndrome, tasting flavor after flavor before I can pick out my scoop. But right now my Haagan Daaz syndrome feels blissfully part of my past. I know so clearly what I want. I know who I want to spend time with. I know who and what I need. I forgive myself more easily. I think I'm rad most of the time. I don't know if its age or space or gratitude that has brought me here, but it sure as heck feels good. I love my life. I love my family. I love my past and my now. I love my big, tangled mess of story, my truths and triumphs and sneaky hikes up the hill, how walking with the wind can connect me with my very best self.
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