Sometimes after I read something, it has to sink in for awhile until I understand it.
Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a number of weeks, sometimes even years can pass while those words simmer on the back burner of my mind.
Then–suddenly–my thoughts are boiling, sometimes out of the pot.
Coughing comes first. Shuffling down the hallway. “Mommy, I can’t sleep,” he cry-whines. “Sorry, pumpkin,” I soothe, lifting him up to loop back to the kitchen for honey.
It’s a heartbreakingly gorgeous morning. I’m taking a long walk with two babies—one, my 18-month old son, the other, my neighbor’s baby girl—both buckled snugly into the double stroller.
We set out to the sound of crying. First stop, the bakery for donuts. My son offers to share his with the baby, but she’s too little. Next, back on our path, we pass a little dress shop. Suddenly aware that I have neither walkers nor talkers in tow, I brave the narrow doorway.
“I have three kids, so I knew two little babies in the stroller would be nothing,†I blurt to the shop girl. I quickly snag a cute dress for next weekend’s date night, and zip back out. I head toward the lake. Baby girl settles, and finally I can think. My steps, deliberate, fall into rhythm with my thoughts.
My mind opens when I can hear the birds singing, when I can see the lake on the horizon, when I can smell the cherry blossoms barely open on their branches. I do have the mom thing down, I know. I can juggle things so that everyone gets what they want some of the time, and that is a gift. But what’s my next challenge? Just as transcendence begins to light the edges of my mind, reality sharpens back into focus. Baby girl cries again, and I wonder—call her mom or brave a quick stop at the park so my son can play on the slide?
I chance the park.
    
    
Sometimes when I really like something, I keep it a secret. Do you ever do that?
It’s always tempting to brag when you find the newest great thing – the new shop with delicious bread, the new book that I just finished, the cutest pair of new sandals. Part of me just wants to share, with everyone in my path, how excited I am, how lucky I feel. Sometimes I want to spark an interesting conversation, sometimes I just want to feel generous.
But here’s the thing. Once you share the greatest new thing, once you make your opinion known, people will take your advice. They will check out that new shop. They will download the book on their Kindles. And in a week or two, you will hear from some other acquaintance that they just LOVE this new shop around the corner. You will overhear on the train that so-and-so can’t tear herself away from your favorite book.
Will you feel glad to brighten someone’s day? Maybe. If you are a saint.
Me? I feel a little disappointed. A lot less special. My secret is out. The thing is, I really like having a secret. I like to know without a doubt that I see something in a special way. While everyone else runs into the grocery store to grab a loaf of bread before dinner, I know that the best baguette is on offer at that little shop around the corner from the Y. If I just run in with the boys after swim class, we can pick up our bread while we grab some donuts for a snack. Two birds with one stone. And there will still be time to wander by the rose garden on the way home.
Why does keeping things a secret make them more special to me? Am I weird that way? Perhaps. But I just read this article in The Wall Street Journal, about the Hong Kong rubber duck installation. In case you haven’t heard about it, a 50-foot yellow duck is calling Victoria Harbor home for a while. Hundred of thousands of visitors have flocked to see the bird. Is the artist proud? Well, yes. And no. “On one hand,†the artist, Florentijn Hofman, commented, “I felt very happy, and thought, wow, so many people are coming to see it. But on the other hand, I thought, how can you really see the duck now? Can you really get it?â€
It’s true. If your view of the duck is so obscured by the back of other people’s heads, by their iPhones up in the air, blocking your view of its beak, can you ever truly experience the duck? To experience something authentically, you need to sneak up on it, early in the morning or last thing at night. Perhaps during the day while everyone else is too busy to notice. You need to be alone, unencumbered by friends or children. You must be stealthy and silent. You approach on tiptoe, hiding behind the closest building or bench. You peer out over the water and get the clearest view of the huge yellow duck, its orange beak, its cheerful eyes. You notice how it juxtaposes itself against the staid buildings, how it bobs and floats happily in the bay, how the sun streams off of its yellow back and air-filled wings. You know it’s just a toy, a silly thing, but for one instant you see it as it really is, and you are filled with happiness.
See, she’s doing it, too:
Translation: Baby hugs are so nice.
Everyone should have a one-year old in their lives!
Her room is a wreck. She’s hopeless at organization. Her five-year-old brother is neat and tidy, but her floor is strewed with laundry — dirty and clean — toys, books, and the occasional pencil.
Her walls are yellow with a woodland scene stenciled overtop, my creation. A post-it love note I wrote her a few weeks back hangs on the ceiling above her lofted bed. Her favorite stuffed friend, Duck, lies among her twisted blankets.
Late afternoon sun pours in through the windows, brightening the already cheerful room. On her desk lies her recent draft of a poem about baby chicks.
The room reeks of wild girl. It’s an animal scent with a hint of sweetness.
She’s seven and a half now, no longer just a little girl, certainly not a big kid. She’s busy inventing herself day by day, and she is just so careful about it. You’d be impressed. She chooses the most interesting friends with whom to align herself — her best friend with orange hair, and her one with yellow hair who makes her 3-D art each day, her friend Vincent who teaches her the ways of zombies, the quiet girl who is a vegetarian.
My daughter, she teaches me how to be curious, how to be cautious, how to be patient, and how to be joyful. I am so grateful for her.
P.S. Don’t worry, I picked up her room before bed.
Leaving the church for the first time in 20 years, I see it before I hear it. Flash of red wings on electric green leaves. Chirp. That’s her, five years dead. Hi, mom.
Happy birthday, Geoff. I’m sorry that you have to share your birthday most years with Mother’s Day — it’s just too bad. Although I like that you were born in early May. It’s just right.
I did all of my usual preparations for your birthday celebration this year. I picked out cards, shopped with the kids for your gifts — you know that I can’t settle on just one — I baked a breakfast cake for you, and I will bake a birthday cake tomorrow. But this year as I prepared, I reflected on how close we came to not making it to another round of birthdays together. Man, we have been through a tough few months. If someone had told me on New Year’s Eve that we twice would have seriously entertained the D-word before May, I would not have believed them. Not in a million years. But, sadly, it’s true.
2013 has tested us, Geoff. But I say, we are strong. You, and you alone, have answered so many questions for me in my life. You’ve done it without trying, often before the question was asked or even thought. I have loved you ever since I’ve been capable of loving someone else. Simply for being you. I began from a place of having no other comparison and needing none. As we got older, I deliberately chose you and you again, always you, because I wanted that legacy, and because I wanted to be that to you.
Now I say we are a team. I think that the past few months have proven that beyond any doubt. We stick together and we protect each other. You are my barometer and you are my bodyguard. I am your sounding board and your travel guide.
Geoff, you don’t have a room in my heart. You are my heart’s wild, unmapped, mostly unexplored exterior. You could never be boarded up, and there is no escaping you.
Thanks for being you, Geoff. I love you.
Universe, it’s funny. Four times in the past two weeks, you have brought Japan into my life. You pushed me to buy a travel guide to Japan, to plan for someday. You offered me a reiki session, which I will write about in more detail, that left me rejuvenated. You brought me a friend with a hankering to see Japanese lanterns in the rain last Friday. And today, another friend took me to a zen Buddhist ceremony, including two hours of meditation. Yes, universe. I asked and you answered. Thanks.
