Out in the Yard

The metal rake scrapes away wilted leaves, revealing damp dark dirt, ivy, tiny wildflowers, tufts of grass, and green weeds. It feels like a deep human need, this cleaning. Scott says humans evolved over time to recognize the smell of rain from miles away. I wonder if this is why the unveiling of sodden soil feels like survival to me now. Though, the joy I take from gathering ground in hand and tool is bigger than it ought to be, for I am not growing food or finding water.  I am simply grooming, tidying one area, and making monstrous lumps of leaf, wood, and seed in another. They call it "yard work." It is work for me. Work that is only necessary for my personal sanity. Out in the yard, my skin sweats, and my muscles moan, while sticks and stones and dirt rattle and poke inside my boots. It is meditation. While I rake the ragged earth, I am not looking at the news. I am not thinking about Italy or New York City. I am not thinking about Wuhan or Boston. I am not thinking about doctors or ventilators. I am not thinking about the elderly. I am not thinking about the mailman, the grocer, or the hospital. I am, for a little while, not thinking about much of anything except: is the baby still asleep on me? And: up, drop the metal teeth, drag, up, drop the metal teeth, drag, and carry, carry, carry, dump.

Our Hidden Kingdom of Isolated Boredom

In our hidden kingdom of isolated boredom, I hope to learn how to move with less hurry, how to save urgency for true emergency. I hope to take smaller bites, not shovelfuls. I hope to sip smaller sips, not gulp and guzzle. I hope to walk at a slower pace, not race and race and race. I hope to really see, not scan, and I hope to shut my mouth and shut off my brain and really listen.

Here in our hidden kingdom of isolated boredom, I hope to practice the art of simply being, and doing, but doing intentionally. To choose when to look at my phone, when to write, and when to eat. I hope (more often) to sit, see, and breathe while holding this baby. Currently, I write while he sleeps on top of me. [Sometimes, I multitask to distract myself.] I doubt there is real boredom when one is fully conscious. I'm still very much unconscious. Not physically so, of course, but spiritually. Hence this tendency to do life hastily. But I'm trying.

In our hidden kingdom of isolated boredom, or rather...

In our hidden kingdom of isolated sweetness, I am surrendering to the slowness, to the spaciousness of the present moment.

Delicate Beings

You delicate being inside a body, I am the delicate being whose body built (with assistance) your body. A body I wash. A body I hold. A body I nourish. I will do my best to protect your body until you can help, until you can care for it yourself. I will tend to your wide belly, your skinny limbs, your soft mouth, your nose, ears, and dark blue eyes. I will tend to you and then I will follow you as you form your own wild river life. 

Questions

I follow your eyes as they wander toward light and shadow and color. I listen as you let out deep baby belches, dinosaur growls, tenor sighs, and sometimes (when I'm not getting the hint) sudden hunger cries. I'm not supposed to touch my own face at this time of mass panic around the coronavirus pandemic, but I kiss and kiss yours, and then I swallow the smell of your skin. 

While you are still so new, I have several questions for you, - questions you won't be able to answer, but I'm going to ask you anyway.  

Where were you before you entered my body?

What do you remember? Do you remember God?

What about the stars? What do you know about the universe?

What do you remember about love? What do you know about suffering?

Do you know joy?

How much do you remember about me and the development of my soul?


And finally, what are you here to teach me?

Beach Stories

At night, after her father reads her books, she finds me and says, I'm ready for my beach story now. These nights, before her lullaby, I make up a story about visiting a beach. Sometimes the beach is by the sea; sometimes, a lake we love in Vermont; and sometimes, it is an imaginary island. The beach stories are simple. They are about picnics, boardwalks, bicycles, rowboats, sand, and swimming. Usually, I invite family and friends into our story and so for a little while, it feels like we're all together again.

Most of the time, we are real and honest and present, and now, for a little while every night, we are on a beach somewhere, eating watermelon and peanut butter sandwiches. 

Dinosaurs & Pirate Ships

In the woods, fallen trees wrapped in moss, lichen, mushrooms and loose bark turn into dinosaur bones and sunken pirate ships. We, the explorers, look for treasure and hide it in our jacket pockets. We find gems, swords, magic wands, and jewelry. We find leg bones and neck bones and tails. We find herbivores and tyrannosauruses. We are trailblazers too, romping and climbing.

Inside, we are comfortable and content, but outside, beneath the trees, we are free. With fewer expectations, little to no toys, no sweets, no screens, no ceilings, we breathe more easily.

Often on our outings, she asks me, When will the sickness be over?

It might be a while. I tell her.

There may be many more months of this isolation. Therefore, I am joining my young daughter in her imagination.

With stone compasses, stick swords, and piles of pinecone gems, we will be paleontologists and explorers, and whatever else she decides.  

I s o l a t i o n

On the bow of our boat, we have a wide wooden deck with metal chairs and empty flower boxes. We have windows. We have trees even. We have sky and all its falls and bird flies. In our boat, we have two sinks, a toilet, and screens. Anchored by cement, beside hilly woods and a highway, we radio out often. Just as we giggle and worry and bake, brew coffee, read books, and explore this new slowness. The baby drinks from me, sleeps, and soils diapers, while the four-year-old wants a playmate, a teacher, father, and mother. I drink jar upon jar of filtered water. I drink coffee. On cloudy days, I drink a lot of coffee. Some nights, we share a can of beer. We are in hiding - in isolation from all the infections. We listen to music. We listen to the wind. We listen to the start of spring. I am trying to look less at the news. I am trying to breathe slow. We pull wet load after wet load of laundry out of the wash, push them into the dryer, and then drop them into baskets. We eat. We eat more than we probably need. We sweep. We water the plants. We dance.

As we sail on through this fog, wondering when we will dock and gather again, I list all the things we will do once the virus eventually recedes:

• brunch - We'll drink too much coffee and eat too many blueberry pancakes.
• book stores - We'll stroll through book stores, buying books to read in public places.
• grocery store - We'll fill a big cart with fresh produce. Food we won't then need to wash in the sink with warm water and dish soap.
• company - We'll have company and we'll be company. We'll stay up late and eat too much and drink too much and let the kids play too long and then we'll make plans for the morning. 
• street festivals - We'll go and play, watch, and wander. 
• park - We'll climb and run and slide and we won't be afraid and we won't ever say, "Don't touch that!"  

I am grateful to live in this house with its tall windows. I am grateful for the quiet forest that lies beside this house. I am grateful that I can care for my children. I am grateful that none of us need to live at the hospital. I am grateful that we have food in the cupboard, the fridge and our bellies. I am grateful that it is spring. I am grateful that one day, we will gather again.