being there to say "I love you"

I can't keep from singing There are many ways to say I love you by Mr. Fred Rogers.

there are many ways to say
i love you
there are many ways to say 

i care about you
many ways
many ways

many ways to say
i love you

there are many ways to say
i love you
just by being there when things are sad and scary
just by being there
being there
being there to say
I love you

cleaning up a room can say 

i love you
hanging up a coat before you're asked to do it
making special pictures for the holidays
and making plays

you'll find many ways to say
i love you
you'll find many ways to understand what love is
many ways
many ways
many ways to say
i love you

I glanced at a news headline tonight. So now on and on my mind sings.

We cannot always be there to say "I love you." Not even now when things are truly sad and scary.

At this new time of social isolation, we are together in spirit and through screen, in phone call, text message, email, social media, and mailed letter. We are there not in skin, but we are together, proving our love by word, and by not being there in body.

"I love you," we say by staying away.

We can be strong. We can feel through these sad and scary feelings. We can weep at loneliness. We can feel the creeping insanity of uncertainty. We can sing. We can scream. We can grow from this. We can love harder during this time and then forever after this time. We can dance. We can remain in the solitary confinement of our separate homes, sending out love in every other way imaginable.

And that just needs to be enough for right now.

We can holler I love you from across the street, or from driveway to doorstep, or from between our parked cars. We can sit in awkwardness together as yet another video call freezes or an elder can't find their camera or the children can't keep from performing for each other and missing one another. We can call because we all feel better when we do. Even though we can't be there in body, we can be in our separate heres and still say, "I love you." Mr. Rogers was right. There are many ways to say it.

If you are reading this, I love you. Whether you are my 90-year-old grandmother, or we have never met. For that is the beauty of human empathy. I love you.

MOMENT

be in the moment until the moment morphs 

into another

don't control it 

don't direct it 

don't even nudge it

but let the universe decide 

let the baby cry for a clean diaper 

or to be held or for milk  

let the child ask for company 

or to say that she is hungry or lonely 

wait 

at this time of no time

of only sun and moon time
and of breakfast lunch and dinner time 

and of course bedtime 

allow the energy to flow through you 

until it moves you 

do not dam it up 

do not dig it up

stop building rivers

rest 

and try this 

float along without paddle or motor 

don't even put up a sail

but let the wind move the water 

and the water move you 

let the children be the breeze

see how that feels 

for it is you
adult 

the one with the aspiration 

who strands them in temper tantrums 

it is you who has things 

you think you must do

it is you who wants to feel 

productive

you are the one who wants to do and do 

while all they want is to be
so be with them

How will we survive this?

Behind the house, I open a quilt over the lumpy land of weeds and grass.  There, I read you a book while I nurse the baby. 

Later, while the baby sleeps beside me, you and I watch birds as they beat their wings and hop and chirp. We watch the clouds as they fly across the sky. And with our fingers, we follow the breeze, pointing to a wave of wind as it travels from tree to tree and sometimes down to you and me. 

"There and then there and then there!" 

Eventually, you want to play pretend. You have invented so many stories while we have been in social isolation.  

Sometimes, we are skeleton pirates. You are "Luna." I am "Sunny." Your father is "King Luther." The house is our boat. The deck is our deck. The road is our ocean. The cars are invading pirates. We steal vegetables and fruit and plants from other boats. Occasionally, we discover gold. You have eyes that adjust to the darkness of night, while my character prefers the day. 

Sometimes we are teenage valley girls. You are "Janessa." I am "Uranus." Your daddy is "Gravy." We talk really fast and make costume plans for Halloween. Janessa and Uranus want to dress as witches, but Gravy insists on going as a mummy. 

Sometimes we play magical fantasy characters. You are "Primrose." I am "Fern." We live in a place called Plant Village. You have fire power. I have a big sword. You have a pet black bear named "Elsa." I have a wolf we call "Olaf."  We go on adventures together. 

Today, you want to pretend that you are my baby. You "goo goo gah gah" at me. I don't want to play and so I say, "I spy with my little eye a cluster of large pine cones way up high." 

You look. You point. You return to your baby play. 

"I spy with my little eye the color red!" 

"The berries on the holly bush?" 

"Yes."

I urge you to go to the bookshelf in your bedroom to retrieve another book. You want to stay and play.  

"All day long, you want to play pretend and I want to read books. What are we going to do, Amelia?! HOW WILL WE SURVIVE THIS?!!!" I ask, tickling you. You laugh in surprise. You want me to tickle you again. You like how it feels to have laughter fall from you.  Soon we are both laughing and saying, "How will we survive this!? HOW WILL WE SURVIVE???"

It isn't until later I realize we were answering the question all along. 

Laugher! That is how. Laughter. 

Spring Storm

On the other side of the windowpane, rain splatters the porch. Then it patters. Then it pounds. Then it patters once again. This child hears the thunder and watches the water as it pours down the gray stone street. When the thunder growls louder, she leans her head onto my shoulder. She bites her hand, while her large blue eyes stretch out wide, looking into me. I hold the baby in my left arm and wrap her body with my right. Here I am, I think, holding my two small children during a spring storm. It has happened. I am a mom.