Tag: single mom

well, there it is. I’m a single mom. Another field-leveler. Guess I kinda regarded single moms with some disdain before my own change of life. Something I didn’t really know until I realized that I was myself now a single mom, and I realized I felt kinda sleazy and ashamed. Guess I’d thought of single moms as women who just kept getting knocked up without regard to their childrens’ welfare. Now, knowing the unending job it is to be such, I’ve come to respect my station and share a feeling of comradery with all those sisters out there who gotta do it all too. Sometimes I feel like kind of a ‘poser’ single mom; I mean I don’t have a 9 to 5, so sometimes I feel I’m not quite earning my badge. But by and large, I’m now proud of being a single mom, and I’m quite good at it.

Very Merry

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A sunny Christmas Eve day here in upstate New York. If chickens can know happiness, then ours are surely feeling that way now; post-morning walk in the field, they sit unmoving on their perches while our goose basks in the afternoon sun in what seems a state of contentment.

Early this morning, Elihu awoke with a start, going from a deep sleep to sitting upright in bed, eyes wide open, as if he’d just remembered something. “It’s not Christmas morning yet” I said, and he laid back down. “I know.” he said. “I was just practicing.” In a way very uncharacteristic of his usual 9 year old self, he went back to sleep.

I didn’t wait for Elihu to wake, I was happy to putter about on my own for awhile in the early morning hour and tend to the chores. As usual, I threw my on jacket and muck boots over my pajamas and went out to tend the chickens. I enjoyed the hens crowding about my feet, following my every move. I had fun plucking off the odd bird who jumped into the feed bin and tossing her out. I stomped through the night’s ice on the water trough and finished my odds and ends outside.

Elihu and I enjoyed a breakfast of scrambled eggs and hot sauce, while he told me all about different kinds of Albatrosses. We made up two fictional spoofs of bird species; the Glue-Footed Booby and the Wondering Albatross. We cracked ourselves up with all their various characteristics. A little later we went down the road to the post office to mail off a Christmas card to David Attenborough and also Elihu’s sister, who lives in England too. We were both amazed that we could mail a letter from our sleepy little town here in the country and know that before too long it will end up far across the ocean, thousands of miles away…

All the gifts have been wrapped, the plans have been made, the dishes all washed. For the first time in months, I have nothing to do, no obligations to fulfill, nowhere to be.  Later tonight we’ll go to a party of some very old friends. Tomorrow grandma and grandpa and Uncle Andrew will come over. And of course, tonight, long after we’ve fallen asleep, Santa Claus will come. This is my first Christmas ever with Elihu here, and perhaps the last Christmas that Santa will ever visit. So I feel very lucky.

And for now, I feel very merry too. I wish the same for all of you…

37 Things

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“37 Things to Hoard by 12/21!”. This, and other doomsday-related messages pop up when I open my Yahoo account. I smile to myself. A little late, dontcha think? I gave up my personal dilemma long ago (but notice the ads still follow me.) I’m goin with the up scenario. No, not as in ‘up in flames’, and no, not up as in the Rapture, leaving my clothes in a heap on the ground behind me… I just mean that I’m going with the glass half-full – or rather the planet half-full – attitude. Yes, world, the Mayan long-count calendar is coming to an end within the week. Finally. There are a lot of folks been sweatin out this big event for a long time now, and while there might be egg on their faces come Saturday morning, at least they’ll be able to breathe easy again. That’ll be nice. I’ll feel good for em. They’ve learned some practical life skills over the past couple of years, and they’re equipped to coast for while now. Won’t that feel good. (Seriously, no box-store runs for at least a year! What a boon!)

I make light of it now, but a couple of years ago I was in turmoil. Many different flavors of it. Divorce issues, severe lack of money, depression, and now this end-of-the-world shit. Really? I decided to get to the bottom of it, separate the wheat from the chaff. I went through two years of study – from doomsday blogs and ultra right-wing ‘build your bunker now’ types to folks who were awaiting the time humanity would return to inner earth for renewal. Yup – it’s a big world, and there are lots of posited time lines and possible outcomes. And with what I learned about cutting-edge study of matter and time itself, I’m quite willing to accept that any – and every – possibility might literally occur – and all at the same ‘time’. Just gotta step outside the box of our currently agreed upon reality of how space and time work. ‘Just’, ya know? Hmm.

While I try to stay rather MOR (a possibly archaic radio term meaning ‘middle of the road’) about expressing my opinions on this topic (guess I’ve just blown that), I hold a much more radical take on the significance of this particular time in our planet’s history than many of my friends and peers might, or at least would admit to. Here is where my plight gets dicey: remain silent on issues I’ve spend hours studying or share information I’ve learned – as well as my corresponding opinions? I’ve heard it said that the worst sort of prison one can live in is the prison of caring what other people think. Lord knows I get that. Since I was a little girl I’ve been in rather too-desperate need of validation from all sorts of people. Course it starts with mom and dad, and if they’re not forthcoming (really, being of their generation, how can they be expected to be?) then it’s peers, boyfriends, husband, neighbors, even fellow musicians. Thankfully, I’ve grown a bit beyond my adolescent neediness, but I can readily admit that I’m not quick to rock the boat if I feel everyone likes and respects me. Not really willing to go too far out on a limb if it means I’ll end up crazy Lizzy… Preamble, be gone…

This is how I’m thinking: I know that the planet is reaching the end of one ‘age’ and the beginning of another. We, here on Earth, are reaching a new pivotal location in our galaxy (yes, we will arrive there precisely on Friday – doesn’t that sound plain silly when ya put it that way? Somehow saying 12/21/12 seems to give it more oomph!) that many believe will have an effect on us. Those are just measurements. So what? Well, shit’s gonna change. But what exactly that change will be, no one is sure. Take that back – lots of folks are sure, but there’s no consensus. As with the study of anything off the measurable path and into the netherland of spirit and intuition, one can only subscribe to that information that resonates with oneself. If it feels jive, then cast it aside. If it stirs something within you that says ‘yeah, that feels right’, then you’re getting close. Seems I’m implying that there can be many different truths about life, right? Right. Just like the blind men who identified the elephant each by a different part, each confident that his reality was the only reality – when in truth, they were all correct – in the same way, I believe we are all after the same truth – of which there are going to be many, many aspects and interpretations.

I’m going to keep things simple so that I might bring a coupla folks to my line of thinking: I’m going to live right here, right now, in this moment with as much integrity as I’m able. If I screw up, ok, I start over. Each new moment is an opportunity to start fresh. I won’t worry about hoarding fresh water or food, cuz it’d run out eventually anyway. I’m not gonna worry about a meteor, or floods, or fiat money crashing – I’m just going to try my hardest to live in alignment with the feeling deep inside me that tells me I’m on the course for good. If I feel crappy about a decision, I make a note to rectify it if I can, be brave when it’s daunting to do so, and make healthier, more loving decisions in the future. Oh yeah, I sound like a fucking saint, huh. Well, it’s all a grand, ongoing experiment. Plenty of days I just don’t feel like I have it in me for another day, and I’d rather sit at home eating cured meats and ignoring it all. But I know that that would ironically make living – and enjoying living – harder. The distractions only last so long, and then there you are again, with your own, lonely self, wishing life were more joyful and much, much less tedious.

I admit I’ve been blowing off the skills many of my brethren have been honing for years in preparation for this very time. Not some way-off future date, but goddam day-after-tomorrow. So there’s no time to remember how it feels to be ‘good’ at meditating (I could once sit in silence and darkness and keep relatively clear in my head for what felt like ten minutes but was closer to an hour. Couldn’t do that today.) There’s no community I can find to share this turning point with – in spite of all the social media… and so I come, feeling fairly unprepared and all alone, to a rather anti-climactic climax here at the end of December, 2012, planet Earth. Here we are. But where exactly are we and where, oh where, is the party?!

Well, after this Friday, I personally believe we will be entering into an age in which peace and understanding will permeate all cultures, a time when technology will grow at an exponential rate, leaving smart phones sitting on shelves right next to rock-carving tools. When the awareness of one’s own spirit will be second-nature, when the man-made institutions of religion are no longer needed and disappear altogether. But I do not think this will happen all at once. Nope. This is still Earth, and we are still humans, and linear time still binds us. But nevertheless we are all tiny particles of God, and we will come to remember that in the next thousand or more years – and behave accordingly. Maybe we’ll see and feel some of the change during our own lifetimes. Hopefully it’ll pick up speed during our childrens’ lifetimes. Dunno. But somethin’s afoot, of that I’m sure.

BTW – the party’s at my place. Thought I’d kickstart this next grand cycle with a little celebration of friends and community. Get it off to a positive, hopeful start. So I gotta get my party list and go shopping. Maybe I’ll take a look at the ’37 things’ and see if they’ve got any ideas for entertaining in Age of Aquarius…

Ballet Boy

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“That was transforming.” Elihu’s exact words immediately after the applause died down. We both sat in our seats, rather dazed and unmoving as the crowd around us rose, chattered and made ready to leave. We had just seen the Saratoga City Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker from the most intimate seating possible. Elevated enough, close enough. And for Elihu’s eyes, a situation like this doesn’t come often. He sat riveted throughout the whole performance – and why not? top-notch dancing, gorgeous costumes and all the production details of the real deal. Hell, this really was the real deal. I had even been moved to tears while watching the perfect and joy-infused performance of the only young boy in the company. He wasn’t even my child, yet I wept like a proud mother. An inspiring production all the way ’round.

Although I’ve been trying to get my son to see The Nutcracker for years now (we live in a town in which the New York City Ballet spends part of its summer) it was only just tonite that we finally went. His delight and amazement – and new desire to take dance lessons (?!) seemed to confirm that our timing was right. At intermission the floor was full of small girls playing at pirouettes and pretending to dance en pointe, and my son was flustered and frustrated. He was burning to dance around, to practice his own freshly inspired moves, but he simply couldn’t be the only boy. Yeah, he’s probably right. Nine is probably a bit past that window. But to be honest, I’m not sure there would ever have been a window for a boy to naturally join a cluster of pink-bowed girls in their dance-play. He sees how challenging actual dancing is, and he gets what a star that one boy in the company is, but it’s still not enough. I tell him he’d kinda be a rock star if he went down and joined the girls, but he angrily protests. So instead he goes to a corner and twirls a time or two, and makes a great leap, legs out and straight… oh the hope and promise of a young one. My mother’s heart smiles at his pure joy and possibility, yet I’m slightly misty too; uncensored, childlike moments like this happen much less often these days, and it seems we may be nearing the end of them altogether. Just in case, I savor it all with extra attention.

I’m not naive enough to expect this interest in ballet to last, as I am not expecting this week’s request to play the transverse flute will last (bass and tuba are still holding in strong though), but I see him feeling the inspiration rise within, and I’m witnessing his vision of possibility grow, and that in of itself is enough for now. I also know we’ll have to pick something soon and stick with it – but I’m not worried. He is musical – he’s got a great ear –  has better time than me, and he’s playing violin at school now. I’ll let him be. I’ll also listen quietly from the front seat, a smile on my face, as Elihu tells me all the way home about the moves he noticed, the questions he has about them, and how much he wants to start ballet lessons next week.

Elihu’s world has expanded once again. A ballet boy, maybe not, but a better boy? Definitely.

Cozy Cottage

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The grass is always greener, right? Whenever I have a new student over, or when Elihu has a classmate or two here (as he did today) I hear a lot of exclamations made about how ‘cool’ this place is. Usually by the end of the visit the kids are saying how they want a place like this too. Even some highbrow downtown types – their moms or dads – have cooed a little when walking in. And we’re essentially talking a two-room house here. Really. It ain’t big. But it sure is cozy, and especially at this time of year. So while the grass may seem greener to those that visit, I am so happy to say that Elihu and I find the grass of our own back yard a most inviting green and covet no other’s.

May I take you on a quick tour through our house? If it’s too tedious for you, move down a few paragraphs – I have a domestic tip to share later on… For the rest, here we go: You walk in through the kitchen, and were it not for my having moved the kitchen table to the left against the wall, the door would have bumped into it. But you’d forgive that when you find yourself looking out over a frozen Saratoga Lake and Vermont hills beyond. The tiny room you’re in now has pale, apple green walls, white ceramic pulls and counters, a wood floor (well, it’s laminate, but looks pretty darn good in spite of itself), a Brady Bunch era double stove in harvest gold. A small island table which I made myself divides the already tiny room, but quickly becomes the go-to destination for anyone who visits.

Our one hallway is painted a deep, colonial red and leads to the living room, which is a generous space with a raised hearth fireplace of white marble at the far end, my beloved Eames knockoff lounge chair in the far right corner, a large chocolate brown couch against the right hand wall and a picture window to the left. Flanking the window are a harpsichord on the right and a grand piano on the left, and at this time of the year, our Christmas tree stands between them, obscuring the view. The long walls are a deep gold, the short ones dark brown. There’s a small foyer to the left of the piano – it leads out to our seldom used but attractive screen porch. (My dream is to frame this in and make a dining room so we can enjoy both company and the view at the same time! A wood stove in the corner and a bank of window seats, the vision is held fast in my mind…)

We also have two bedrooms and a bath tucked away through a tiny hallway off the living room’s right wall. Just enough room for us two. And downstairs we have again the footprint of the house! A storage room, my office, my treadmill (yes, I do use it, thank you) and a music room again with another fireplace. We have our drum set, Wurlitzer, amps and such there. The addition of overhead can lights on dimmer switches last year has transformed this room from crappy basement to ‘ooooh’…. No acoustic privacy yet, but one day…

So. That’s our joint. Small, tidy and functional. And it is something I am grateful for any number of times in a day. When I remember the duress under which I came here, the agony of the process and the pain that lingered, it’s hard to believe how I feel now. Invigorated, inspired, comfortable, thankful. And even the significance of this day is interesting to me; it is my first wedding anniversary on which I’m no longer married. Twelve twelve it is, and I’m finally free. After a long trip, I’m finally home.

“It’s so cozy”, I’ll hear Elihu say quietly to himself as he checks on the progress of our narcissus bulbs or admires the tree (when you live alone you tend to talk to no one in particular rather routinely). I agree. And this year the house has taken on a particularly cozy feeling, even without the benefit of snow. I think our low, Achromatopsia-friendly light levels might have something do to with it. Generally our place is warmly lit. Some – like my mother – might complain the place needs more wattage in general, and while see her point, I also see the gentle intimacy that softer lighting imbues, and although maybe not the best for reading the instructions on a rc helicopter manual, it is the best light for just sitting on the couch and hanging out. In order to help my child look more comfortably out of the picture windows, I’ve put up a tinted cling film. Sometimes, at the right time of day, it can look like a storm is coming (when it’s not), an unintended side effect I personally like a lot. And hey, if I want to read, I crank up the three way lamp. Not a big deal.

But this season there’s an additional mood-creating use of light which we only just thought of a few days ago. And dear readers, I encourage you all to try this yourselves, it will instantly ‘up’ the charm and elegance of your tree. ?? What device can do all that? A lamp dimmer switch. Fifteen bucks at Lowe’s and you’re on your way. I have combined my dimmer switch with a big fat on/off button on the floor. So I merely tap my toe to produce the most warmly lit tree…. The resulting lower-wattage bulbs not only allow one to see the ornaments themselves so much clearer, but the lights take on a more natural, more flame-like quality. Words don’t describe it well enough. All I can say is that if you’re using those ubiquitous tiny white lights, try out this lamp dimmer thingee and see if you don’t say ‘ahh’ when you first get it just right. And, you’re welcome. It’s the very least I can do!

So many things need work, the outside of my house just doesn’t match the inside. It’s always my great hope that when people visit, the inside will redeem the outside. It takes money to keep a property up. Mowed just once last year. Chose to take a trip instead. Lots of upkeep, limited resources. We’ll make it to the greenery one day. But for now, it’s all about home and hearth. This will be Elihu’s very first Christmas in New York. And what a perfect time to be here at home, we two, in our very cozy cottage.

To Do, To Be

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I feel a little guilty because it’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m still in bed. I’m in my son’s bed, actually, lying beside him as he drifts in and out of a fevered sleep. Poor kid has got a stomach bug and he’s riding it out the best he can. I’ve done a few things today – had a phone interview, scheduled a new piano student, finished the dishes, responded to some emails and tended to some office work – yet I’m still in my pajamas too, and I’m feeling like I should be doing something more.

But if I leave the room for long, I hear Elihu faintly cry ‘Mama’… He just wants me near. And honestly, if I can shush that silly voice that keeps beckoning me to ‘get something done’, this is exactly where I want to be. And I understand that just by being here I’m doing my job. I know it, but it’s just that we’re all so conditioned to do, do, do, that simply being can feel unimportant and unproductive.

So for now, I’ll just stay here, next to my son. I’ll listen to him breathe, I’ll feel relief when he sleeps and I’ll be here to stroke his head when he wakes. Today, my job is just to be… right here.

Ho Ho, Huh?

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In our four years here we haven’t kept a lot of holiday traditions; each year has been slightly different – and in fact this year is the very first Christmas for which Elihu will actually be here with me. Each year we try to make that important visit with Santa, and to watch him light the town tree, and each year we grow narcissus bulbs. That’s about it. Yeah, we get a tree, but never even do that the same way twice. Last year we cut one from a field and ended up modifying it a bit; I drilled holes in the trunk and stuck in branches to fill it out… (you can see pics of that tree under December 2011 in the archives to the right). Some things remain simple and routine, yet each year we’re met with a nice surprise or two that continues to make a believer of me.

When we arrived home this afternoon we found a Christmas tree leaning against our kitchen door. Huh? I just love that first moment after such a discovery… our jaws drop, we look at each other, then our mouths close and turn to smiles… And while it may be offensive to some, yes, some hearty expletives are uttered too (Elihu is skilled at this, he knows exactly when and when not to, and when he does, gotta say, he’s right on). So holy crap and hot damn, we have ourselves a tree. Although we don’t keep too many rigid traditions, I will admit to being a late starter at Christmastime, and I really like it that way. (Remember please that the three wise men didn’t even get to the manger – and give their gifts – until January 6th – Epiphany, ya know? And much of the Christian world correctly recognizes this day as the big one.) Plus, I’m kind of a control freak. I like to choose a tree. It’s kind of a big deal. I take pride in having my home reflect my own aesthetic choices, and the size and shape of a Christmas tree is a pretty big one – plus it’s one which comes only once a year. So ironically, in this holy moment of true giving, my less-than holy self is having a tiny tantrum.

How can I be like this for long? Elihu and I both know that somewhere out there is a person who is so excited for us, who couldn’t wait to bring us this gift, whose whole day was uplifted at the thought, who is right now happily wondering what we are saying and thinking at the surprise. And this makes us laugh. How can we not honor that and be just as joyful? After some preparations, we get the tree inside, and my able nine year old adjusts the bottom as I hold it straight (just love that my kid can finally help out like this – he does too.) We stand back. Hmm. It’s short and stout. It’s not quite the shape or size we would have chosen, but we note that it’s a good tree for a country cottage. We also remind ourselves that a tree hadn’t even been in our budget this year. It smells so nice. We thank the tree for giving her life to us, and we promise to love her and dress her up beautifully. We take a moment and just admire the real, living tree before us. Wow. Christmastime indeed.

We put the clues together and we assess who might have done this. I have an idea, and yes, it’s becoming more evident. After a trip next door to tell Grandma and Grandpa our news (this is too good for the telephone) we pick up the phone and call our suspect. We have her on speaker, and she’s good…  She brightly exclaims that we’ve been ‘elved’! – and tells us that she too had been elved last year when she came home from work to find the pole at her driveway wrapped in Christmas lights… I listen carefully to her voice. Yes, she’s good. And I like that she is, cuz way down deep she’s got me believing. Course the kid’s here too, so she’s gonna do her best, but damn, I really do believe her. It makes such sense, ya know?

Ho Ho Ho! We’ve been elved!

Touchdown, Takeoff

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It was almost midnight when I picked my son up at the airport last Thursday. I arrived a few minutes early, so went to the observation room in hopes I might actually see his plane land. The huge glass walls mostly showed the reflection of the room itself, so I had to lean way in and raise my arm above my head to register the inky black airfield. As I looked at my reflection in the glass, superimposed against the blinking lights of the tower beyond, the strange mix of the archaic and the futuristic struck me. I was in my farm jacket, my hair hanging messily about me – an untidy figure in a clean, modernistic room of glass; the farmer come to meet the sky ship.

This time I was lucky, for as I casually turned my head to the right I saw two lights approaching at what seemed to be a breakneck speed. I couldn’t see the plane itself, but knew my son was there somewhere in the darkness between the two lights. I watched as it zoomed past, wondering how on earth something like that can possibly stop in time, and never taking my eyes off of it as it then turned and taxied briskly back towards me. As the plane came closer, I saw big, fluffy white snowflakes in its lights. My son was home safe, and it was snowing. Perfect.

As I expected, Elihu seemed taller. But more had changed than just that. No longer did he run into my arms as he had at nearly every other reunion. He stood, shy, waiting, giggling somewhat uncomfortably. Huh? I hugged him, I exclaimed how happy I was, and after thanking Dave (our friend at Southwest) we were off to baggage claim. But what’s this? Tears? Already? What the hell just happened? This: apparently I made ‘too big a deal’ of seeing him. I ‘treated him like a baby’. Oh man. Are we here already? I mean, really? I swear sometimes there’s a teenage girl lurking somewhere close to the surface… sheesh. But I try to honor his feelings, after all I remember very well that horrible kind of embarrassment that only parents can create, and it’s made worse because they keep telling you you have no reason to be embarrassed… Well, yes, you do! If a kid’s embarrassed, no matter how hormone or insecurity-induced, if it’s what the poor kid’s feeling, it’s real! So I have to respect it at the very least. I let him talk, cry, explain. Might also be the late hour, I think, but I don’t say that. Eventually, we reach a new understanding. I’m not to call out his name, run towards him, nor open my arms in hopes of a huge, public reunion. I will simply stand there, arm around him as I sign the release, maybe give him a subtle sideways squeeze and a quick kiss atop his head.

In my mind’s eye I play the scene of my adorable six year old boy squealing with delight at seeing me again. I remember his little lisp, his tiny body. Did I savor those moments? I guess I did. I can’t have regrets. I just need to switch gears, because those days are over, and we’re entering a new chapter. As we drive home through the fluffy flakes I wonder at the new stories ahead of us. This week alone there will be plenty, from lessons to chores to his first school assembly (he sings the harmony part and will likely carry his section with great pride and confidence…) and the many other unexpected events that will pop up before us. We two live a full and interesting life here, and now that we’re both refreshed from a week away from the routine, we’re ready to begin it all again…

Up and Away

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Up at 3:30. Laundry’s in the dryer, Elihu’s bag is packed, including his carry-on, which is a large FAO Schwartz shopping bag from our summer trip to New York City. He’s bringing his Christmas gifts for his little brothers early, and one wouldn’t fit into the suitcase. I remind him several times that the book he’s brought to read is in the bag too – so when someone offers to stow the bag in the cabinets above his head, make sure to get the book out first. That’s all I can do. In the past, he’d most likely forget, and sit idle the whole trip, not wanting to make anyone get it down for him. This time, he’ll probably remember, he might even ask for help if he needs it. He’s getting older. He’s doing more for himself, but still, I advise, I remind, I worry…

I touch his soft, perfect face while he sleeps and behold this boy who’s fast changing… The other day he told me he really wanted to have a beard when he was older. Will a beard actually grow one day from his velvet-smooth cheeks? If I try, I can kind of imagine it, but secretly I’m a bit horrified. Yet is this not what parents aspire to? Raise our children to be healthy, happy autonomous adults who may live as they choose?  I’m far from ready. These days it seems he’s readier than I am. He’s been flying alone for four years. It’s no more eventful to him than a car ride to the grocery store. He’s smart, he’s funny and he’s got a natural savvy about life in general which far exceeds his years. But in the end, he is my little boy. And knowing that in a few hours he’ll be speeding through the sky away from me at hundreds of miles per hour, his plane becoming a mere speck in the sky… that thought has me feeling a little light-of-being, a little empty. It’s always in his leaving – and then again in his homecoming – in which I feel the passing of time most acutely.

But I’m excited for him. He is seeing his father at long last! And his baby brothers (for the most part I omit the word ‘half’ as a descriptor, depends on how equanimous I’m feeling at the moment). “They’re not babies” he reminds me. “It was a figure of speech, baby” I answer him. He smiles. We choose some paper to wrap their presents ahead of time. We finish, and they look nice. “I’d be happy to get one of these, wouldn’t you?” I ask him. Elihu waits for a minute. He’s looking down. For a second it looks like he’s thinking about something else. “Thanks,” he finally says, “I know this isn’t easy for you”. I tell him it’s all ok – I really am so happy for him – how excited I am too to know that his brothers will love the presents. He doesn’t stay in the sentiment long, it seems he believes me. All I can do is hope that he really does feel my support. He’s right. It’s not always easy, even now. But it does get easier. And knowing how excited he is helps motivate me to move past my own hurt.

He’s been hugging me a lot today, saying extra “I love yous”, getting ready in his heart to make the parting. To switch parents. We’re alternately easily frustrated with each other and needy of each other’s affection. It’s been just us for months now, and frankly, we could both use a little break from each other. And yet…

I move around the house getting ready. The kitchen cabinet handles are sticky with his clementine-wet hands. I see the charge lights on his toy helicopters blinking, ready. His drawing paper is out and waiting for a new bird sketch… signs of a nine year old boy living here. One minute they’re parts of the house as usual, the next, they’re strange, ghost-like suggestions of the absence all around me. I try not to let my mother’s mind wander to that unspeakable, remote possibility that my son may not come back… I leave the sticky door handles to remind me of him, just in case. I scold myself for being so morbid. I remind myself to stay positive, to cancel those thoughts immediately… This trip is nothing new or remarkable, he’ll be fine. A parent has to let go eventually, right? Maybe our time in practice will help when the time really does come for him to move out. Maybe.

I’ve just returned from the airport. It took a while for his Southwest flight to get going. The only person in the vast observation room at the Albany airport, I watched as the plane was de-iced, watched the plane taxi away and waited. And waited. Finally, as I began to despair that I must somehow have missed his plane take off, the morning sun crested over the hills just as his plane sped past, the wheels lifting off the ground precisely as the sun freed itself from the horizon. A movie moment. I watched it all the way as it got smaller and smaller… until it banked and headed west. Finally, the tiny dot was gone.

As I was leaving the garage I called his father to tell him Elihu was safely off. Strangely, we often talk for a while on these occasions. Fareed chats about things going on in his world, we catch each other up on our parents, we try to make sure we’re on the same page about Elihu. It’s all so strangely civil – more than civil actually, maybe, not sure if it’s the word, but it’s something close to friendly. In the past it’s thrown me off – it’s like I see a window to the man I used to love and share my life with, and it almost seems he’s still there, that this has all been a dream… But now, somehow, it’s easier. Easier to understand. After all, we both love our boy so.

I get home, have a snack. I smile to myself when I feel the sticky surfaces. I wipe them clean. I take a bath, and just as I get out and wrap myself in a towel, the phone rings. It’s Elihu, safe and sound. Father and son are together again and both so happy. And for now, I’m a free woman. Clean the house? Work out? Walk in the woods? Meditate? Go to hear some live jazz on the weekend? So much possibility! Wow. The sky is amazingly clear right now, I’d better fly while the flying’s good…

Increasing the Fold

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life2 Comments

Big day here at the Hillhouse Coop. We acquired sixteen new laying hens from Elihu Farm. Bob and Mary Pratt run this lovely hillside farm which produces eggs, meat birds and lamb. Named for its homesteader/builder and Revolutionary War patriot (so fitting for this Veteran’s Day!) Elihu Gifford – who lies a few paces down the road in a family plot – we first found the place several years ago through a quick Google search for anything “Elihu” in our new neighborhood, and we soon came to learn that this farm is well-known in the culture of the area farmer’s markets. We’ve visited Mary at both her farm and her farm stand over the past few years, and she’s given us some very helpful information about the raising of hens. She’s been very kind to us as we fumble our way into the next level of chicken farming.

Today we learned how to tell the difference between a hen who’s currently laying eggs, and a hen who’s taking a short hiatus from the job. In the fall, with the loss of daylight, a hen’s system often switches gears; her system slows down a bit and among other changes, she often shuts down in the egg department. There are physical indications; her comb is dry-ish looking and more pink than red, her legs may be less colorful, she molts all over, and finally – and most importantly – her ‘vent’ – that is to say, the hole where everything (yes, everything) exits her body, is much more constricted during this phase. Mary showed us how to informally ‘measure’ the vent to see whether it was in shape for passing eggs or not. She flipped a gal on her back, and kinda held her fast between her knees, bird head up and back, vent end up and forward. Mary showed us how two of her fingers easily fit between the pelvic bones and how the vent itself was much larger on the gal who was currently laying. Another hen also so checked, showed a much smaller vent – quite easy to see at a glance – and the fit was much tighter between the pelvic bones. For now, this hen was considered a bit of a ‘free-loader’ as she was eating but not producing. (She’d most likely be a stewing chicken fairly soon.) I’d thought it would be some messy, wet-ish, esoteric, veterinarian kinda challenge to see the difference between the birds, but it was easy. Invert bird, inspect vent. Done. Give the gal a couple weeks to get back in the egg laying game, and if she can’t get it together, she’s retired. Retired gals will be thanked for having contributed their wonderful gift of eggs thus far, spoken to ever so gently as we box em up and drive them to the Amish farmer who’ll have em dispatched and bagged up half-frozen all in less than a half hour. (I must remember this time to have them quartered. And to save those giblets. !)

Elihu hasn’t been this thrilled, happy, nor deeply contented in a good, long while. The very essence of joy was all about my son this evening as he stood in the middle of his flock, stopping to handle each and every one of his birds, new and old, to look them over, talk to them in a low, reassuring tone before returning them to their roost. We have 48 birds. Four are grandfathered in; two roosters, one male guinea fowl, and one white gander (Ya only need one rooster. Our neighbor’s offered to lend out his Roo as a stud service in the spring, thereby making our old boys redundant and quite unnecessary. Elihu won’t have it. He’ll send the old gals off to the butcher, but he can’t see these boys gettin done in. Oh well.)

The sounds of a full house – a full coop, I should say – are gentle and pleasing sounds. I think they’d soften even the hardest of personalities. As you stand in the coop, rows upon rows of birds before you, sitting on their roosts, getting comfortable for a good night’s rest, they make all sorts of quiet little purring and cooing noises. It’s a peaceful place to be. Elihu can simply stand in the presence of his roosted flock for literally hours. Literally. There’s a spiritual quality to this quiet time; there’s a true communing with the birds that seems to take place. The coop is an oasis, separate and apart from the buzzing, high-energy output of human life.

Today’s acquisition was not an impulse; we took a look at some numbers before we made our move to increase the flock. Our prices are far too low, our egg output lately has been the worst ever, and it’s been a while since we’ve donated to Heifer International (one of the founding principals of Eggs of Hope), so we had planned this addition for a while. We’d added a few hens here and there over the past few months, but hadn’t found a true solution until Mary told us she was selling hers. So, calculator in hand, we ran by some different scenarios til we arrived at what we think will be a profitable number of birds. We will have to step things up a bit; get some new customers, announce our new price for a dozen ($3.50 – still a steal!) and work our way up to our new price for Spring of $4 a dozen. At that point we’ll be solidly in the black, and perhaps able to save. Whew.

(Now if only folks wanted piano lessons like they do fresh eggs!)

Election Addendum

Posted in An Ongoing Journal...1 Comment

Seems an ancient topic only three days after the event, but some thoughts linger in my mind which I’ll express here now, before life swiftly sweeps us into the future and these musings hardly warrant a read-though…

On election night I’d gone to bed shortly after Elihu. I know that the only time I have to myself is after he’s asleep – but I can never last that long to enjoy the window. And that particular night I had a heavy, waiting heart, so going to bed seemed the gentlest and best thing to do. However, I awoke with a start at 11:36 and realized that we’d probably chosen a new president by now, that the waiting was likely over – so I turned on the TV. It had already been on the comedy channel – and so it was through a characteristically heavy-handed bit by my beloved Mr. Colbert that I learned the breaking news. What a lovely way to awaken from my nap… I was relieved, quietly thrilled, and I was laughing. Thank you, Stephen.

While I might have gone directly back to bed to enjoy a sound sleep, I simply could not. I had to stick around and hear from the men themselves. So I did the dishes, I tidied the kitchen, arranged things for the next morning’s breakfast and packed lunches to pass the final hours. I heard Mitt speak first. And was I thrown – for the first time, I could hear the humanity in his voice. Relieved of the campaign, he was, I believe, finally able to represent himself as a person. As he thanked his family, friends and team members I heard genuine gratitude. I was riveted; who was this guy? First I’d seen of him! It wouldn’t have changed my vote – fundamental principals remained – yet it warmed my heart to see him let down a little. I actually liked him in that moment. He was behaving like a real person. ! At the risk of appearing a bit naive and sentimental here, I believe that when he thanked his family, he was speaking from a place of real love, and that is always transformative; it is inherently honest. So now he can go spend some quality time with his five sons and their families (it’s Mrs. R who’s the unsung hero here, I think). Good. Let’s move on.

The following day I heard a few passive-aggressive comments from people whom I took to be Romney supporters. Only long after the moments were gone did I think that maybe it might have been a more powerful choice to call out the elephant in the room – and maybe even have a short, civil chat about the beast. I understand that there’s some steam to be let off from the folks whose candidate lost, but do I need to pretend that I didn’t hear the almost, but not quite under-their-breath remarks on the subject? Am I supposed to – as I did several times – merely chuckle politely and just sort of ‘oh well’ it away? Won’t do so if another such situation arises, but I doubt that it will. It hardly seems there was an election. From a churning ocean to a still pond. Crazy.

Reiterating my sentiment from the previous post, I say again that as humans we all share a few basic goals in life, regardless of race, economic status or gender. I hope that this simple reality might one day bring a certain peace – and balance of representation – between all political parties (and I do mean all; the ballot shows us we have more options than an appetizer menu, but it’s still for all intents and purposes a two-party show). I’d hoped that in the meantime we could treat each other with respect and civility, but it doesn’t look likely. While it’s certainly human to feel anger and disappointment – the way in which you express that is governed by your personal self-control and sense of decency. So far, I’ve only seen rage expressed by Mitt fans. I’ve heard a lot about Obama signs being defaced or stolen (both through the media and in my own neighborhood) – but I have not once heard the same about a Romney sign. I’ve been mulling over this phenomenon, trying to get at the root of the reason, and I’ve arrived at this thought: I feel that this is symptomatic of a larger issue that seems to belong to the Republican mindset: fear. Anger may be the symptom, but fear is its first form. Fear and anger bear some nasty fruit. But where does this fear come from? It grows in an environment absent of love (as well as the tolerance that love engenders). Taking someone’s Obama sign off their front lawn is not an act born of love, ya know? You gotta be pretty angry to go and make that happen. Please understand that I by no means think that all Republicans are fear-based vandalizers – (some of my oldest and dearest friends are Republicans!) however I have never heard of equally hate-inspired acts attributed to Democrats.

To many it may seem simplistic, but I believe that the last vestiges of fear (control, hoard, distrust of others, keep to self, save self and those like me) are living under the wing of the Republican party. I also believe the party represents a mindset that will one day in the not-too-distant future become obsolete. This world cannot thrive and grow into a healthy future with fear-based groups controlling her populations. We see this changing in dramatic ways all over the globe, and while it’s perhaps not as overtly apparent here in the US, we too are morhping slowly into a new culture of love and understanding. Our interconnectedness, our diversity, our shared economically-challenged realities – and our brotherly love for each other as fellow citizens of one planet – these things have finally gotten their foothold in our modern world, and we have begun our journey up and out of the mess we’ve made.