Near Miss

If you had left work ten minutes earlier

I would have made it to my yoga class on time

You would have walked in the door
At 5:15 instead of 5:25
And sat with our son and his summer fever
While I sought inner peace for 60 minutes
In Community Room 3

If you had gotten home ten minutes earlier
I wouldn’t have had time to work up a lather
Watching for your car to pull up
And we wouldn’t have argued about your lateness
And those damn baseball cards you bought

By 5:50 I would have been breathing
And sweating and shaking
Through Triangle Pose and Side Plank and Warrior One
And dying for Corpse Pose
To put an end to it all

I wouldn’t have admitted defeat at 5:55
And turned my car toward home
Just shy of my destination
Too late for a graceful entrance
And too mad for inner peace anyway

I wouldn’t have walked back in the door at 6:25
And told you I was going for a walk
Alone
And that I’d bring my phone
But don’t call me (unless his fever gets worse)

I wouldn’t have crossed the street
And ducked into the woods
Where no one could see me
Except whatever it was with the long black tail
That slipped into the undergrowth

If you had gotten home earlier
I wouldn’t have walked past that fallen tree beside the path
Roots exposed as they never intended
Toes in the air, dangling clumps of dirt
Spilling their secrets like an outed lover

I wouldn’t have emerged, swatting flies
Into the field of close-cropped stubble
Dirty blond with dusty breath
Cutting my ankles
And coating my shoes with powdered earth

I wouldn’t have felt, without a moment’s warning
Sun and rain falling equally on my shoulders
A freak cloud in a cloudless sky
Washing and drying in one efficient step
My hair, my cheeks, my legs, my back, my arms

I wouldn’t have sought out the fishing pond
Just past the field
Where I took our son when he was not yet two
Where we threw grass and sticks and leaves and flowers
For hours, to watch them float away

I wouldn’t have remembered carrying him
When it was time to go
Away from the pond, across the field, against his will
Enraged and thrashing (he has his mother’s temper)
Until he fell asleep in the woods, in my arms

If you had been on time
I wouldn’t have recalled his baby hair, shining copper in the sun
Pressed against my cheek
And plastered to his forehead
With the sweat of so much effort

I wouldn’t have smiled
To think of his gorgeous fury
A brand new will
Pitted against the incomprehensible constraints
Of an old world

I wouldn’t have laughed to think of my own indignation
When the fortification of clock and calendar
By now old and trusted friends
Were breached against my will
And I was forced to slip outside and have a look around

I wouldn’t have sat on that bench by the pond
Alone, in the sun and rain
With cuts on my ankles and dust on my shoes
With roots and sticks and fury and its aftermath
On my mind 

If you had left work ten minutes earlier
I wouldn’t have remembered
How to walk away
And I wouldn’t have known when
And why to walk back

O+?

It just occurred to me... Now that people other than myself know about this blog, I really ought to update it more than a few times per year. I'll probably alternate the serious posts with the silly, the short with the long, and meaningful with the meaningless. So keep checking, you never know what you'll find! Like this photo, for instance. How many of you good people identified it as a half-used bag of O+ blood? I'm sorry, but the correct answer is Shiraz.

I'm both proud and ashamed to say I've recently begun buying my nightly wine in boxes, rather than bottles. It's cheaper, it apparently creates less waste, and I love how the wine comes out really fast when you press the button. It even makes bubbles sometimes. And since I'm not terribly picky, I don't mind the limited (yet growing) selection of boxed wines. On the other hand, where there is a box, there is a bag, and a bag is decidedly less elegant than a bottle. This evening I discovered that the box portion of my wine package had somehow become soaked with the liquid portion, so I had to to discard the cardboard and salvage the bag. Gosh, the bag. What can one say? It certainly takes the romance out of red wine. And to quote Forrest, Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

discovering what i think

I once heard someone introduce an author as someone who "writes for the pleasure of discovering what he thinks." I thought that was a beautiful way to sum up what the writing process is all about. It's not all pleasure of course, but I find that astounding personal growth—and the satisfaction of having grown—is often as much a product of writing as the written piece itself.

Today I turn to writing because I long to feel better. I hope the critical thinking that writing requires will help me grow and feel better, even if just a little. Also, I find that having to extract thoughts from my own head and say them "out loud" sometimes demystifies them. Things that seem so important and true within the labyrinth of my mind are often exposed for the folly they are when I bring them out for show and tell. I recently learned a beautiful line from the play Macbeth. As Macbeth ponders his wish to kill the king and gain the throne for himself, he says "Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires." Only I desire the opposite: I want to bring my darkest fears and weaknesses out of myself so that they whither in light-saturated reality.

next painting?

Seed pods nicked from a tree in front of my son's school last week. I was transported by their systematic yet wild beauty. Trans. Ported. I'm still not sure how I will approach the painting stylistically, but I have a few ideas I'd like play with. There seems to be a lot of room for experimenting with paint application and texture. First some sketches to get a feel for the pods, stems, tendrils, highlights, textures, and shadows. Then I will play with the paint. I wonder what will happen. I wonder if "god" will decide to show up in my paint the way he lives in the thing itself. I'm planning to work both from photographs and the real thing. The photos are mostly a reference point for the light patterns I'm aiming for and to keep a record of the pods in case my small son finds them on my shelf and decides to explore their inner nature. Nothing gold can stay; it's best to be prepared.

Follow-up note: I did paint this as a still-life and will try to post a photo of the painting soon. I treated this painting as an exercise in thinking about light. Very enjoyable process.

tattoo

It's late and I really should be heading to bed, but I was just thinking about something I wanted to jot down. The past couple days I've been focused on getting a tattoo. I wouldn't say obsessed, just focused. Really focused. I've been pondering a tattoo for years, but until recently I hadn't been thinking about it seriously. It just never seemed like a good fit for me before. I mean, it's permanent, on your skin—your wrapping, your shell, your soft and vulnerable exterior.

This permanence has both positive and negative points. Such permanence, to me, is like a scar—I would willfully be scarring my skin. Making it ugly? What could be more beautiful than unscarred skin? And yet, permanence indicates a certain devotion—a certain loyalty and seriousness. What, in my life, am I certain will never change? What am I utterly, unalterably devoted to? Only one thing really: my child. In particular, my child while he is a child. So little, so vulnerable, so dependent on the goodwill and sound judgment of the adults around him, especially me, his mother. As soon as he was born—before he was born—I knew that I would do anything to protect and nurture him. It's such a primitive, almost violent, need to keep my child safe and thriving. I remember rocking him to sleep when he was a baby, looking down at his beautiful, pudgy baby face and realizing that pure love and pure violence—apparent opposites—are sometimes two sides of the same coin. To protect this innocent for whom I felt pure love, I would, without a doubt, destroy anyone or anything that threatened his existence. I remember Jon Stewart, the comedian, saying essentially the same thing about becoming a father—that suddenly you realize you could kill.

In a way I have already scarred my body for my child. I have stretch marks on my belly, breasts, and thighs, and my skin will never recover its elasticity. My understanding is that even ancient skeletons can be identified as mothers due to hairline pelvic fractures acquired during delivery. From what I remember of the intense and frightening pressure as my child traveled through my pelvis, this finding seems entirely plausible. So do I really need another scar on my body to keep the essence of my child and my own motherhood fresh in my mind? I want to consider that question.

My son and I like to sing Edelweiss, among other songs, before he falls asleep at night. It's from a sometimes silly musical, and I don't even like musicals really. But my father sang it to me when I was little and now I sing it to my own child. These simple facts alone make me happy.

 Edelweiss, edelweiss, Every morning you greet me. Small and white, Clean and bright, You look happy to meet me. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, Bloom and grow forever. Edelweiss, edelweiss, Bless my homeland forever.

It's easy for me to imagine the words of this song, written in devotion to a small white flower in the Alps, are for my own son, who, like me, has skin on the far-fair end of the spectrum. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever. It would probably sound silly to anyone else, but since I've been singing Edelweiss to him since he was a tiny baby, it means an awful lot to me.

Which brings me back to the tattoo. It occurred to me that I would very much like to bear some physical mark of my child—something other than the stretch marks and episiotomy scar I acquired in the early days. I want a record of him as he is now—a very little person—before he thinks I'm annoying or embarrassing, while I'm still the center of his world and we still hold each other and sing unabashedly every night before bed. I know this sweet time is fleeting and I'm trying to soak up every drop while I can.

Given all this, I've decided I want an edelweiss scar. I want to carry those bedtime songs with me on my skin for the rest of my life, just the way I do on the inside where only I can see. I want to be able to look into the mirror and be reminded that this little boy has left a permanent mark on me, a beautiful scar. Edelweiss, edelweiss, bless my homeland forever. I should be so lucky.

k-mart

Sometimes I like to walk around K-Mart all by myself in the evening. It's open late and it's five minutes from my house, so every few weeks, after Liam goes to bed and Scott becomes absorbed in his computer game or Family Guy, I head out. I usually really need something like toothpaste or hair color, but that's not why I go. I go because it's a chance to lose myself in fantasy. Yes, K-Mart is my fantasy land, but I have to go alone, at night, or it doesn't work.

I love to walk in and head for the hair color aisle. There are hundreds of colors. Hundreds. I usually go for dark strawberry blond or light auburn, which is close to my natural color but slightly more interesting. Sometimes I go a little lighter or darker, or maybe a different brand, but I look them all over every time. I imagine myself with short dark hair like the pretty, sophisticated-looking lady down the street who takes her kids to my son's karate school. I've wanted dark hair ever since I was a little girl. It has always seemed more mysterious and dangerous and alluring to me, which are things I've always secretly wanted to be. With dark hair I'd be a creature so unlike who I am—the wholesome Midwestern girl with strawberry blond hair, freckles, and a desperate fear of hurting people, or being hurt. On the other hand, sometimes I imagine getting the peroxide streaking kit and being very blond with sun-dried beachy hair, a tanned little nose, and a perky, fun-loving personality. I would take up surfing and be good at it, and wear a red bikini and feel nothing but warm sunshine and busty confidence. The boys would like me, especially the lifeguards, and I wouldn't be afraid of them. But mostly I want to have lots and lots of dramatic, wild, curly dark red hair, like a Pre-Raphaelite fairy tale character or Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I tried it once about twelve years ago. My hair was long and I dyed it very red and slept in pink foam rollers. The next morning I went to work with my hair and gave tours to old ladies all afternoon. By evening the curls had gone limp and I felt like an ass. I washed my hair several times to fade the color, but it was a state of being only time could mend. Back at K-Mart, I consider all my options—all the people I could be, all the lives I could live—and then select my usual L'Oréal RB8 and put it in my basket.

Next I head for the shoe department. The shoes are terrible at K-Mart, but I always scrutinize every aisle just in case I find a gem. In winter I look at slippers. They are all imposters, but I like them anyway. Some look like princess slippers, all pink and fuzzy with little satin bows in the front. Some are made for a pretend ski lodge, with faux wool linings and indoor/outdoor soles. Usually they don't have my size (M, 7–8), just lots of small and big ones (S, 5-6 and XL, 11–12). Once I did find a pair of pretend ski lodge slippers in my size and I bought them. I wear them year-round when I'm doing housework, even though they tore in the front early on. The soles are slippery too, so I have to be careful on the stairs.

Hosiery is next and typically more promising. I can count on K-Mart to have interesting tights that will last through a wash or two, which is really all you need. I usually check the thigh-high hosiery display as well—I sometimes like thigh-highs because they don't pinch my waist after lunch. I never like K-Mart's selection, but it never stops me from looking, just in case. The women on the fronts of the thigh-high packages are all decked out in corsets and lacy underwear, as if taking away the control-top suddenly makes the whole concept of nylons more exciting. Could I ever be like that take-her-home-to-mother whore on the package? Me, who knows all of my own inadequacies so intimately? She looks so happy and comfortable in her sexy thigh-highs and bustier. But then, she has dark hair. She is by nature mysterious and exciting. Perhaps I could exchange the L'Oréal RB8 for something darker and buy the sheer thigh-highs? Does K-Mart sell the corsets too? No. No. Better to go with the opaque thigh-high tights in the plain packaging at Wal-Mart. They will be warmer in the winter anyway.

At least 25 minutes have passed. Sometimes I move on to the gloves, scarves, hats, and handbags area. Accessories really are the most transforming of possessions. K-Mart sells a winter glove I really like, with half-fingers and a moveable mitten-top you can flip back and forth to cover or expose your finger-tips as needed. For two years in a row I've bought these glove-mittens in red. They are the only red things I own and I love them. One spring I bought a 100% real straw gardening hat and I put it on whenever I weed my garden boxes. I love this hat as well. When I wear it I am in southern Africa under a hot sun, trying to grow coffee like Meryl Streep. Sometimes, at K-Mart, I also try on polyester newsboy hats or plastic aviator sunglasses or rayon scarves or vinyl motorcycle bad-girl handbags with faux metal studs. I feel comfortable in none of these things, but I put them on and look in the mirror anyway, hoping no one is watching. I am a grunge model, Amelia Earhart, Grace Kelly, and Joan Jett.

Sometimes I stroll through the patio furniture display or the garden section. The pool toys, board games, office supplies, linens, furniture, and (a favorite!) the kitchen gadgets. I pick things up, examine them, consider the price, and put them back. I do this over and over and over again, all the while knowing I will most likely never buy any of this cheap, piece-of-shit merchandise. But I like to consider these items carefully. I like to imagine what it would be like if they were nice and I had them all in my dream house with my dream life and my dream self, who could change every day depending on her moody inclinations.

And then, when my conscience tells me I'll start to raise questions at home if I'm gone much longer, I head to one of the two open check-out lanes. I wait and wait, and finally I unload the contents of my shopping basket onto the counter: one box of L'Oréal RB8 hair color, one pair of cheap tights, children's spf 50 sunscreen, a birthday card, and boys' size 6 Batman underpants. Sue (Layaway Manager) scans my selections and puts them in plastic bags. I swipe my debit card and stare at the giant bra Sue is wearing under her cheap polyester blouse. Lace? Sue? Really? Pin number entered, receipt taken, have a nice evening. Oh, Sue, you have no idea. I have had a nice evening. I've been a whore and the Princess of Monaco, a surfer girl and Robert Redford's Danish-African lover, all courtesy of K-Mart and the miracle of synthetic fibers. I feel refreshed, renewed, and ready to go home and face my reality for a few more weeks, until RB8 fades and it's time, inevitably, to recolor.

fear

In the grip of other intense emotions, like grief and jealousy, we might feel anguish, but fear shuts us down, arrests the life force—to be driven by fear is like dying inside.

Sharon Salzberg, "Faith"
In the Face of Fear