From the Flagstone

From the flagstone in the far corner of the garden
All I see are flames leaping from the copper pit and
Manzanita branches, sketching dark lines against the not-yet-night sky.

I’ve been sitting here for hours, finally just sitting,
Letting night descend, letting plants seep and mingle into darkness.
Listening to the irises and the ribes.

The dog runs back and forth, shimmying in the November air,
Tearing through fallen leaves,
Dancing in the disappearing light.
She has taken over for the bees, dashing from plant to plant
while they sleep and wait for the sun to rise again.

This patch of earth and stones and trees and grasses,
Is ours. Our place apart from concrete and cars, electrical lines and insatiable billboards.
Our place to sit, to stare, to listen.
At rest in a world of bees and flowers and shifting light.

Rope Swing Summer

 

Image by bednuts from Pixabay

Near the far end of the back forty,

Off to the right,

A space opens up in the brambles that line the creek.

He swishes through high grasses to the opening and enters. 

From the top of the slope, he can see the rock slab at the water's edge and

the thick worn rope hanging from a branch stretching across the creek. 

He climbs down to it, reaches out, grabs hold.  The sturdy length gives him enough slack 

to pull it all the way back up the slope.

The worn path at the top makes room for two or three steps before push off.

 

He flies through the summer day.

Air rushes by, smelling of dust, heat and dry grass.

He feels the rough hew of the rope in his hands; 

It catches the grooves of his calluses, promising to hold on.

He glides back and forth, again and again,

Over the sweet blackberries on the slope,

Over the water tumbling across the creek bed rocks.

 

This is not the day the branch will give way and snap, 

landing beside him with a crack on the hard slab.

This is the day he snacks on garden apples and blackberries, 

snags his jeans on thorny branches as he pushes further in

to snatch the plump ones just out of reach.

 

This is the day he enters the opening and disappears for hours,

So far away he’s in another world, free to be anything, do anything.

It’s up to him when he finally drops the rope.

 

And when that moment comes, he watches it swing a few times before coming to stillness again.  

Sweaty, purple fingertips, he climbs back up and into the back forty.

Crosses the dry grasses and salutes the garden apple trees. 

He slams the screen door on the way in.

Knuckleheads, Home From the Dance

My parents were the cool parents: they let me drive around in our sleepy one-horse town before I was officially licensed. Emphasis on sleepy. Nothing ever happened there, so they figured nothing would ever happen to me.

And they were right...until they weren't. Until one night at 2 am, when my friend Samantha and I returned home from a dance in the next town over. No, they had not let me drive that far, but they did say I could take Samantha home once the friend who had driven us there dropped us both at my house. So we had enjoyed the dance and then a party afterward–no alcohol for me–and then arrived back at mom and dad’s.  

We hopped in the orange and white Volkswagon van I learned to drive on and headed across town. She lived up in the hills, relatively far away (but still: sleepy town, nothing going on, you get the idea). I had never actually been to her house, so did not know that she lived at the top of a very long, very steep driveway. We pulled up to the bottom, and I pondered the hill before me, one hand on the gear shift of the van. 

Now, the smart thing to do would have been to have Samantha hoof it up that hill. We were both quite smart teenagers, so let’s just say it was a glitch in the fabric of the universe that we did not use our smarts to make the decision in front of us.

Let’s do it, I suggested gamely, and up we went. 

The driveway had wide curves in it, and I did fine through the first one. On either side of us, the brown grasses of the Valley of the Moon waved in a gentle nighttime breeze, their carpet punctuated by scrub oaks here and there. I had enough speed going to be fine...at first. As the slope continued, and the second curve was upon me, I couldn’t keep the speed up. The van stalled, shuddered, and died, with little ole unlicensed, inexperienced me, gripping the steering wheel. A flush of panic headed up my spine, my hands trembled.  

We looked at each other. Nothing to do but try to start this bad boy up again, so I gave it a go. But after I started the engine, there was the small matter of needing to take my foot off the brake in order to give it some gas. Years later, I would become a bad-ass San Francisco driver who would have scoffed at the challenge, but I was not yet that driver by a long shot. I tried; I failed; I panicked. And the van started to roll backward.  

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I wailed, completely unsure which way to turn the wheel to stay on the driveway.  

“Go forward, go forward!” Samantha screamed. “I’m trying!” I screamed back.

Mayhem ensued as the van gained speed. I had no idea what to do, so naturally, I did nothing. I let the van go where its heart would take it, which happened to be off the left-hand side of the driveway, down over the waving brown grasses, faster and faster, until halted in its trajectory by an oak tree, that keeper of the California hills.

We stopped with a bang. Not injured. Not harmed in the slightest. Just completely freaked out, with the specific intensity of teenage girls. I burst into tears, while Samantha looked stunned and frozen, both of us entirely dreading whatever might come next.

Way up at the top of the driveway, a light went on. We looked up to see the silhouettes of her parents, pajama-clad, shoulders bunched-up against the cold night air, staring down at the Orange Blossom Special resting against one of their trees.  

Sleepless in the Kitchen

From her perch on the landing at the top of the stairs, she listened to the grown ups enjoying their dinner. Between the three couples, several courses, and many bottles of wine, there was a lot to listen to. With the nubby orange-brown carpet beneath her and her pink flannel nightgown pulled tight over her knees, she reveled in every minute of her eavesdropping.

They talked about small town news: “Did you hear that Jim is drinking again? I don’t think Susan will put up with that anymore.”

About the upcoming election: “Will you be at Kathy and Bob's election night party?” “Of course! We wouldn’t miss it–can’t wait to see Reagan lose!”

About their kids: “Yeah, we tried telling him not to go out, but what can we do? He’s a teenage boy, and he’s just not listening to us! Little bastard!”

Sometimes they laughed so hard the walls shook, their voices building off of each other and blending in raucous shouts that filled the whole house. She loved listening to them like that: happy parents, enjoying their friends, in a warm house. Spying on the dinner party gave her hope for her life and future.

After they left, all six of them spilling out into the night for a late cocktail, she tip-toed downstairs in the suddenly quiet house. Dishes and serving platters filled the table. Used cloth napkins, empty wine glasses, and mismatched silverware splayed everywhere. The adjacent kitchen looked as if it had fed an army, with dirty pots and pans, used measuring cups and ingredients occupying every surface.

She didn’t want to go to sleep, as her siblings had done hours ago. She wanted to inhabit the space where all those noisy, happy grownups had been until a few moments ago. She trailed her finger on the table, glanced at the sink full of dishes. And then she started to clean. It took her a long time and she did it with care. She wasn’t normally one to volunteer for extra chores, but cleaning up on this night seemed like the best way to say thank you to her mom and dad for hosting the happy dinner party, for creating a soundtrack of friendship for her to grow up with. She put away all the food, scraped the leftovers off of the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, and gathered the table linens and started a load of laundry. She wiped down the dining room table and all the kitchen counters. Saving the best for last, she finished up by polishing the chrome on the old Wedgewood until it gleamed.

When the kitchen was finally clean, it was very late. Her parents would be home soon, she knew. Flicking off the downstairs lights, she climbed back up the stairs to the landing and sat down in her usual spot. Pulling her nightgown back over her knees, she smiled in anticipation and waited for them to walk in and find her thank you gift.

Daybook for 21 June 2021

Outside my window: there is a hazy blue sky that cannot decide if it is presiding over an uncomfortably hot day or a strangely cool one.

I am thinking about: my job. I work in development and communications for a charter school network, and the summer is always a time of reflection and planning. What did I and my team do well last year? Where can we improve? Remember the beginning of each new school year, when you had sharp pencils, fresh binders, and big plans to "be better" this year? Working for a school system means that I still have that experience. The big plans part starts early...that's what's on my mind these days.

I am thankful for: the beautiful game. We had an epically long, hot weekend of soccer with our youngest child, a weekend like we haven't had since before the pandemic.  Between Thursday night and Sunday night, we traveled many miles, ate lots of takeout, watched 320 minutes of girls pounding up and down the pitch, took one dip in a hotel pool, used many bags of ice to soothe sore muscles and to battle the 100-degree heat, talked soccer, watched soccer, thought about soccer, planned for soccer,...you get the idea.  On Sunday night, finally home and drifting off to sleep, when I closed my eyes I saw shadowy figures zig-zagging back and forth in my vision.  And all three of us -- myself, my husband and my badass 14-year-old soccer player -- enjoyed every angled minute.  We keep talking about how much fun it was. We are grateful for this thing that has pretty much taken over our lives, so I guess that makes us very fortunate indeed.  

From the kitchen: sadly, nothing special. I am trying to plan for a better kitchen week.

I am wearing: black yoga pants and a dark purple and black striped shirt.  And really clean shoes, because my husband oxy-cleaned my favorite tennis shoes for me after they had been on one too many hikes.

I am creating: epic to-do lists for my week.  My to-do lists are divided into four categories: (1) work stuff, (2) household and family tasks, (3) stuff for me, that makes me feel good, and (4) cooking and grocery shopping. Lists pretty much keep the whole AIRY-5 enterprise careening through the universe.

I am going: to pick up my daughter from her first day of high school summer school. Hoping we get along better on the way home than we did on the way there.

I am reading: too much Twitter, not enough actual books.

I am hoping: that my daughter gets the Trader Joe's job that she interviewed for!

I am hearing: an Amtrak train as it blows its whistle and barrels through West Oakland.

Around the house: sooooo many messes.  Too much dog hair on the floor; too much laundry to fold, too many projects left unfinished by too many people.  Must muster the strength to get them all to help me.

One of my favorite things: I'm going to repeat myself with this one and say soccer.  We really did have a great weekend, and I can't wait for more.

A few plans for the rest of the week: I plan to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary with my favorite person in the world!  Good thing that person is also my spouse. 

And a picture:

Sunflowers next to one of our
soccer fields this weekend.

I invite you to join me by posting your own daybook!

An Unlikely Pair, Linked Forever

A strange combo, to be sure.  Read on.

When I was thirteen years old, I got my first job working at a deli market.  Two doors down from Sonoma's historic plaza, the deli was a popular lunch destination for all kinds of people: shop workers, construction guys, tourists, and laborers. Jim, the owner who hired me, was a great boss.  He was the picture of decorum during business hours, until the older employees went home and the teenagers were left to close up. Then, he would swear like a sailor–always in jest–to horrify and entertain us. We loved him.

The "older employees" consisted of three or four women who became like a whole fleet of grandmothers to me. They were good country folk, hard-working, no-nonsense women who taught me how to make egg salad, prepare all the sandwich fixins, and slice deli meat on the giant electric slicer. They teased each other, but not me: they were strong, plain, kind, and funny.

Shone's Deli is also where I met Ann, the best friend a soon-to-be high schooler could possibly find, and we quickly knew we would be by each other's side for life.  Landing the deli job was a hugely positive development in my young life.

My first day of work, however, was not an auspicious beginning.  At first, everything went fine: I was soaking up all the training, figuring out how to make a roast beef sandwich just like the customer ordered, and ringing up orders at the ancient cash register, all while managing not to freak out when cute boys came in. But then, on my first solo voyage with the meat slicer, disaster struck. The tip of my left index finger got in the way of the spinning blade, giving the roast beef a little something extra as my A negative plasma spurted all over the slicer's gleaming chrome.

I did not react well to the sight of my own blood; the wooziness began immediately. Thankfully, the grandmothers jumped right in. One of them, Helen, whisked me away to the back room, magically producing a glass of ice water to calm me down. A couple more cleaned everything up lickety-split: no customers were the wiser. Helen bandaged me up like the experienced farm hand/mom/grandmother she was, and sent me home a wee bit early from my shift – and slightly lighter than when I'd arrived, now missing the tip of my finger.

I always felt kind of stupid about that injury.  I had wanted to do well at my new job. I didn't want to cause any problems or draw too much attention to myself. Bloodying up the workspace was not exactly the kind of value I wanted to add as a new employee.

But rather than making a big deal out of my mishap or lecturing me too much, Jim and the grandmothers just welcomed me back the next day. They were as matter of fact as you'd expect good country folk to be, and we all just got to work, smiling at customers and taking orders. The slicer and I got along fine after that and I never had another work place injury.  I went on to work there for four more years, until I graduated from high school and went to college.  It was a great, easy job, with fun people, and it put spending money in my teenage pockets.  All that's left now of that first day is a hardened, crescent-shaped scar on the tip of my left index finger.

I have developed an absent-minded habit over the years of circling the crescent with my thumb, almost surprised every time I feel how calloused and un-skin-like it has become. Every so often, I recall the day I got that scar.  I can hear the whirr of the electric blade and feel the sharp pain and the rising wooziness.  I also remember feeling stupid and silly, embarrassed about causing a ruckus on day one. Tiny as it is, it has always been a quiet rebuke to me over the years.

But then. Then something happened that might make me believe, for the first time in my life, that Everything Actually Does Happen for a Reason: I took up the fiddle. Two years ago, I started taking fiddle lessons after years and years of wanting to. Learning to play those beautiful strings has been one of the greatest joys of my adult life; it has also been extremely challenging. Those lovely sounds that professionals make? Those are the culmination of an incredible about of practice, coordination, skill, and technique. There's so much more to it than I ever anticipated, and I find my brain, body, and creativity stretched in multiple ways. My new hobby is a lot of damn work.

Happily, it turns out that having a pre-installed callous on one's left index finger is quite beneficial to the whole endeavor. One of the first things you have to accomplish when learning a fiddle is building up the necessary callouses on the second, third, and fourth fingers of your left hand. Thanks to Shone's Deli, I came to this party ahead of the game.  Yes, I still needed to build callouses, but my index finger was already a seasoned pro. Pressing hard with that finger produced no pain at all, and the little scar's moment to shine had arrived. Now, when my left thumb circles the hardened crescent on finger #4, I don't think about shaving off the tip of that finger with a meat slicer. I think instead about how that scar helps me play the D note in a A major scale. I think, with pleasure, about how my whole hand knows how to deftly move its fingers in order to play St. Anne's Reel and Angeline the Baker and many other traditional bluegrass and celtic tunes. I freakin' love that scar now.

Who knew that something that happened when I was 13, something I had only ever seen as residue from an episode I'd rather forget, would play such a central role in one of the most positive developments of my middle-aged life? Not I, said the duck, but I'm endlessly grateful to have experienced this happy convergence of events.

It makes me wonder what else in my life might be acting in this mysterious way. What strange scars and bumps have morphed into something beautiful and beneficial? Which ones will do so in my future? What gratitude am I missing?  How have the experiences of my life layered one on top of the other to get me where I am today, mother of five, wife of (still just the) one, fiddler, writer, pray-er, friend? It's a lot to ponder. All I know is that I find great comfort in discovering that something painful has become something joyful. There is so much hope in that discovery.

A tiny scar. A life-changing new practice. Linked forever, and beautifully.

***

Daybook for 14 June 2021

Outside my window: A perfect June morning is wrapping my neighborhood in its fragrant, warm arms, and all the birds are singing their appreciation. 

I am thinking: that I need a new attitude about my job. My current attitude has me unmotivated and unexcited about the tasks and projects on my work to do list. This happens to me every now and then, and could be related to the end of the school year.

I am thankful for: birria tacos. Specifically, the ones I got from this taco truck last night at this taproom.

From the kitchen: literally nothing. I made a very thorough meal plan and shopping list on Friday, but it turns out that the essential step is actually going grocery shopping which I did not do. There were too many other fun things to do this weekend.

I am wearing: black yoga pants and a cute linen, flowered top that I got at a thrift store. Actually, I also got the pants at a thrift store. Thrift stores are my jam.

I am creating: this post.

I am going: to the Outlaw Music Festival in October! Really looking forward to it.

I am reading: My Grandmother's Hands. A beautiful book. Why I am reading it is the subject of another post. I should plan to write that. 

I am hoping: that my daughter gets a job for the summer. Quickly.

I am hearing: the birds chirping in the perfect June morning.

Around the house: all of my daughter's stuff that she brought home from college. We haven't figure out where to store it all yet, and I think she is coming home with approximately three times the amount of stuff we moved her into the dorms with back in February.

One of my favorite things: Music. Listening to it, playing it, singing along to it, watching it live...all of the music things are my favorite.

A few plans for the rest of the week: Lots of soccer! No summer off for this soccer family.

And a picture:

This is what I saw when I looked up from where
I was sitting at last Saturday's soccer game.

I invite you to join me by posting your own daybook with these categories (or any others you choose).

White People: This is Not About You

When my kids were little, one of my daughters had a little bit of an issue with her sibling’s  birthday celebrations. With all of our attention being lavished on one child, she would act out.  She would be meaner than usual to the birthday kid, demand things from mom and dad in the middle of the party, and exhibit negative behaviors so that we would turn to her and away from the guest of honor. We would have to remind her that on HER birthday, we get to focus on her, and on her sister’s or brother’s, we get to focus on them. “This day is about someone else, and that’s OK.”

Typical stuff. Typical for a kid to have to learn how to navigate jealous feelings and how to have a generous spirit, even when you want things for yourself.  She was little: three or four, maybe? It can be hard when someone else is getting all of the attention; it can be hard to be three.

But when her brother had a bad fall that injured his kidney and sent him to the hospital, when we were so worried about him, and when all other family activities and considerations were put on hold, she didn’t do any of that.  She didn’t say “hey, what about me? Why is everything about him?”  I never once had to tell her “This is not about you.”  But that's what really needs to be said now, in this moment, to anyone who thinks All Lives Matter is a valid response to police brutality or protests for racial justice.

To my fellow white people who think that somehow you are being ignored, slighted, passed over or excluded when Black people and those who stand with them say #BlackLivesMatter, I deeply want you to hear the words “This is not about you” and figure out how to not be insulted. You are not less important because someone else stands in particular need of solidarity and support. I need you to take a moment, be quiet, and focus attention outside of yourself and your immediate world.  Take a moment to consider the possibility that something more immediately critical is going on and that’s why the focus is not on the rest of us right now.

You may have heard the house fire analogy: Yes, all of the houses on the block are super important and beautiful and it absolutely matters that everyone’s house stays intact. But the house down the street is engulfed in flames and that’s why the fire truck is there and not parked in front of your house, or my house. That’s a great analogy for why saying “Black LivesMatter” is not racist or exclusionary and why the All Lives Matter response is moronic and exasperating.

I also think about families, and how families can inform us on societal issues. A family is filled with different people and relationships, different experiences, just like society at large. And in a family, when one child is suffering, parents don’t turn their attention to the ones who aren’t suffering and take care of them first: parents take care of the child who is suffering first, and then they help the other children.  If one of them acts out and tries to shine a spotlight in some way on themselves, the parent says: “This is not about you right now.”  When my son was in the hospital and we didn’t know yet how bad the damage was to his kidney, I didn’t prioritize my other four kids and tend to their needs first: I focused entirely on him until I knew he was in good hands at the hospital, and then I turned to help his siblings manage their own responses to his accident. Significantly, some of them didn't really care all that much, which is also instructive vis a vis society at large. 

If you object to someone saying that Black Lives Matter, I wonder how you respond to other human suffering. If you assert All Lives Matter, I wonder why you think that the Black experience does not warrant the same kind of compassion as people who look like you. Why on earth is it necessary to bring the focus back to you -- or even to some hazy concept of "everyone" -- when a specific person or people is in crisis? I can only conclude that you don’t see Black people's suffering as valid. I can only conclude that you are ready to explain it all away, or assert that vandalism and looting are just as bad as murder, or that you simply are not hearing Black parents when they describe “the talk” they must have with their kids to try to keep them alive. I can only conclude that you are racist, even if you don’t know it, because you are not listening to or seeing the experiences of fellow Americans with Black skin.  

When you say All Lives Matter, I’m right back there with my toddler, looking at her in exasperation and thinking “What the hell is wrong with her? Of course we love her, but it’s not about her right now. Why can’t she just let so-and-so have the spotlight?” It’s annoying as hell when it’s just a kid’s birthday party: it’s frightening and dangerous when it’s about people’s lives.

My once 4-year-old daughter long ago grew out of her jealous, self-centered reactions and learned how to lift up someone other than herself. When will white people in our country do the same?

Nitty Gritty Little Ditty

Tonight I cannot write a post
Because my brain has turned to toast.
The day has worn me to a nub,
I need to sink into the tub.
But can't because I'm too darn beat,
And find I cannot move my feet.

It's all their fault, this state of woe,
As every mom does surely know.
Theirs, the fault for my malaise.
Theirs, the fault for this dark haze.
For in the space past 5 o-clock,
My children hover and they stalk
Each other just to make me scream
So they can say YOU ARE SO MEAN.

Tonight the girls did cry and fight,
And test my patience with great might.
And bicker, bother, pick and poke
And hassle till my heart done broke.
They are nasty, brutish, short:
Hobbes was right, sad to report.

My spouse is out, I'm on my own.
Herding cats, all alone.
Then a toilet I had to fix.
And toss a dog into the mix.
(I found her on our dining table.
Chaos, people, is here enabled.)

And then I had to feed the crowd.
The complaints were both too many and loud.
Feeding ingrates ain't no fun,
Like bitterness inside a bun.
Breaking bread should be a blessing
But tonight, it ain't, I'm just confessing.

The boys: no better were these two;
They made me want to eat my shoe.
Oh yes, they're teens, it's DE VEL OP MENTAL
It's hormones, or it's elemental
Call it what you must or will,
Then call me in from the window sill,
Because mothering teens might do me in
And send me to the looney bin.

I think that I am being clear:
Do your homework.  I think they hear.
But then they don't, and then they start
To make up ways to test my heart.
They obfuscate, evade, and lie
They manipulate, they plead and cry,
They make me crazy, sho' enough.
I must leave them in a huff,
So that I do not scream and yell
Cuz them that do, don't parent that well.

I closed my door: time out I took.
And closed my eyes to take a look
Inside my heart, inside my brain
To find and soothe the place of pain
That comes from having angst and strife
With the ones for whom I'd give my life.

I made some vows, I shed some tears,
And then I reached across my fears.
Through the door, back to the fray
And darned if I didn't hear myself say:
"What did you say, honey? What do you need?"
Cuz I gotta remember, they'll follow my lead.
Grace under pressure, and patience galore.
That's what I'll pray for, evermore.
I'll need a ton of both, for good,
If I plan to make it to grandparenthood.

They kicked my butt 10 ways to Sunday.
But I'll keep raisin' 'em up till someday,
When they have young ones of their own,
And apology texts pop up on my phone.

* * *

Written 8 years ago. 

2021: Different problems, same exhaustion.

A Field of Mustard, a Climbable Tree

We walked up and into the bright, cold, late winter morning, rolling hills of green in every direction. My calves, tight and rusty, objected as I huffed and puffed up the narrow trail, quick daughter at my side. She stopped to move a rolly polly off the trail and into the tall grasses, the tiny creature now safe from less observant hikers. 

Our mission: find cows. At the top of the first steep incline with another just ahead, multiple paths offered themselves. We stood catching our breath, already sweaty in the bright sun. She was sure, having been here the week before, that if we went left, down into the small copse below, we would emerge on the other side in a field of mustard where the cows would be. Off we went, following a cattle, not people, trail (they know all the best places).

We arced down and to the left, then back to the right. We ducked under a low tree branch: how did the cows traverse this part, we wondered to each other. Then through a tiny meadow, not much more than a shallow bowl of grass. Twenty feet ahead, a small climb would take us up towards the mustard meadow, and between us and it, plenty of mud. We mucked on through, unprepared, wearing our everyday shoes. At the top of the small climb, Tallulah cleaned the sides of her shoes in the tall wet grass at the side of the trail, and we kept going. A blaze of yellow burst into view; we gained the mustard field!

I grew up in the Valley of the Moon, where yellow mustard heralds the spring and vacant lots and vineyards alike are brightly carpeted every February. I have driven miles and miles on roads flanked by this invasive weed, a conqueror that slipped in hundreds of years ago and dazzles us to this day. But in all those years, I had never before walked through a field of mustard, until the day my quick daughter and I went looking for cows. Stalks of mustard are more spare than I would have guessed–less chock full of yellow petals than they look from a car window. They danced at our knees and blew in the breeze, and I could see each individual stem, like walking through a party and making eye contact with each person instead of just looking from afar and seeing a dense and teeming crowd. 

No cows, though. Just patties announcing they'd been there recently.

On the other side of the mustard, we stopped briefly at an immense concrete water trough, felt sorry for the cows who drink that muddy swill, and kept going up and to the right, still searching.

We turned a corner just as a fluffy brown beast ambled up and over a crest, large watery eyes unimpressed to see humans in her way. She stopped and considered us, her massive sides heaving with resignation. We considered her, all smiles and delight on our part. We had gotten what we came for. 

We stood there a long time, letting her lope past us at her own pace. When she finally moved on, so did we. We followed her path, up and over the hill, and came upon a small opening with a young calf in the middle of it, munching wildflowers and meandering aimlessly. We must have surprised her: she raised her head, trying to see past the hill we had just come over. From where we stood, we could see the calf and we could see the mama, but they couldn't see each other. The calf let out a bleat; the mama answered with a deep moo. Privy to a bovine conversation, now we got more than we came for. We scootched on out of there so the baby would have a clear path to maternal safety.

In front of us, seemingly endless hills rolled on, dotted by stands of trees and hints of creeks, and way off in the distance, on top of the tallest rise, a bench. Occupied, unfortunately, but perhaps empty by the time we got there? It would be lovely to look out over the hills from that perch. We headed towards it.

The narrow cow path that carried us forward joined with a wider one meant for people. Pretty soon, we entered a grove of trees, welcoming the cool shade. My quick daughter is 14, but trees still talk to her. She cannot resist a good climb, and there, halfway through the grove, was a tree that seemed to have purposely grown limbs like a ladder just for her. She answered the call. In a flash, she was high above me, standing on a branch, leaning against another, tossing her sweater down to me, and telling me about the incredible view.

I've gotten used to waiting for her at the bottoms of trees. I found a fallen log to sit on, and grabbed the moment to catch my breath, inhale the winter afternoon, and try, again, to plant perennial gratitude down in the deepest part of me. I am forever making this attempt, it seems. A constant battle–my anxious mind and restless heart, not to mention my ever-scrolling to-do list, conspire to make the ground where I would plant a non-committal host. 

Catch the breath. Slow down. Look up into the tree to see your daughter there. Imitate her ability to stay in one place and take in the view, never the first to say it's time to go. Of all the many things I do each day, the hardest is to quiet my mind and simply be present. My quick, climbing daughter is a good anecdote, if I let her be.

My fallen log sat 15 feet from the path. Between it and me, the tree that held my daughter stood, the tallest tree in the grove, offering along with its brethren a shady respite to the urban dwellers who hiked up into the rolling hills each day. I watched them pass the tree, in ones and twos and threes. One couple spied the girl high up in the tree and laughed with delight. "Well hello up there!" they called before continuing on. Others didn't see her, and I thought how wonderful it would be to be up there with her, listening to conversations rising from the path, the speakers oblivious. This man, thinking about leaving his job; that woman, who just keeps calling and calling but he won't answer and it's just not even possible that he's not with his phone that much! 

Along came a woman and her granddaughter. They entered the grove, coming upon the first climbable tree, a small sturdy one that might get a kid a couple feet off the ground. A starter tree, if you will. The girl, seven or eight, ran right up to it, excited to climb. "I don't think that's a tree you can climb," the older woman said. "Oh, I think it is!" said the girl. 

"Nooooo, I don't think so." 

"But why not?" 

"Oh, I just don't think it looks safe." 

"I could do it!" said the girl. 

"I don't think that's a climbing tree," repeated the grandmother. 

The little girl stood for a moment or two, contemplating the very climbable tree in front of her before giving in to her grandmother's opinion. They continued. Then the girl saw the ladder tree: "Oh wow!" she said. "Look at that one!" And her eyes traveled up and up and up until they landed on my daughter, way up in the branches. "HEY! LOOK AT HER!"  

The grandmother looked up too. "Oh my!" she exclaimed. "How did you get all the way up there?"  

"Just climbed," Tallulah called down cheerfully. 

"How are you going to get down??"  

"Not sure yet: same way I got up, I guess!"

I smiled at them, smiled at the little girl in particular, a meager attempt to encourage her obvious love of trees. She stared up in awe; the grandmother kept walking, already finished with the whole climbing foolishness. 

"I don't see myself ever doing something like that!" the girl said definitively, mostly to herself, before turning to rejoin her grandmother. Their backs to me, her self-assessment hanging in the air, I heard the grandmother reply: "Me neither, sweetheart!"

Yes, you can, I thought as loudly as I could. Yes, you can climb this tree, and you can imagine yourself doing anything at all, and God, do I hope you have other voices in your life besides your loving and limiting grandmother. She wants to keep you safe: you want to climb. Find a way to climb, kiddo. Walk with people who see the places you want to climb and say: go for it.

My own climber eventually came down. We made it to the now-empty bench. We sat, looking out over endless hills, eating oranges and plotting our next move. We stayed out there in Wildcat Canyon for another hour or so, she sitting in the middle of one particularly beckoning hill drawing in a sketchbook, me continuing on to add more steps to my middle-aged day, searching for more fertile ground for my fledgling gratitude seeds. I made a big loop, eventually winding back to her hilltop perch. As I hiked, I could see her from far away, a tiny shape hunched over her sketchbook, the sun glinting off something shiny next to her. I took a photo from far away–pointless, because my iPhone couldn't capture what my eyes could see. 

By the time we came down out of the hills, the sun was setting into the gritty neighborhood beyond Wildcat. The chill in the air signaled an end to this suspended time. Soon I would be in my cluttered kitchen, trying to make dinner, trying to herd feral distractions and demands. 

Savoring every crunchy step, we walked back down to our car and back into the dense and teeming world.

A Conversation with My Daily Affirmer

Her:     Hi there! You’re doing great!

Me:      Whatever. Why are you here?

Her:     Because you need me! Also, because you are wonderful!

Me:      Whatever. Will you be staying long?

Her:     Oh, I think so. Or, for as long as you need me.

Me:      Cool. Well, then, you should know that I don’t need you. You are free to go.

Her:     Wow, you are so strong. That’s great. So glad to hear it. So then, is she leaving too?

Me:      Who? What are you talking about?

Her:     That chick over there with the storm cloud over her head and the scowl on her face. Is she staying? Cuz, if she’s staying, I’m staying. I love a party.

Me:      Her? I hardly even notice her. Don’t stay on her account.

Her:     Wow, how can you NOT notice her? I mean, she’s actually growling at you.

Me:      Look, I didn’t invite you here, I don’t even know how you got here.    

Her:     [playfully] Oh, so you invited her then, did you?

Me:      What? No! She’s just…she’s always been here. At least as long as I can remember. Look, she and I have an understanding. A long standing unspoken agreement. She’s fine. She gets to stay. 

Her:     OK, you’re the boss! She stays!  So, what does she do?

Me:      What do you mean, what does she do?  She doesn’t do anything. Just hangs out. 

Her:    And talks, right? Seems like she talks too. Can’t you hear that? 

Me:      Oh, well, yeah, she talks. Kind of a lot, actually 

Her:     And LOUDLY!  She’s working herself into quite a lather over there! 

Me:      She’s not always that loud. I think she’s trying to be heard over YOU.  

Her:     Cool: I love a good competition!  So what’s she saying?

Me:      Does it matter?  Don’t worry about it.

Her:     Oh I never worry. Not about you, anyway: you’re a strong, incredible, smart woman. But I’m super curious – curiosity is kind of my thing: what is she saying? Can you translate that growl into something intelligible?

Me:      She’s just…giving me her opinions. Like, all of them. It’s OK though, I’m used to it. It’s fine. And anyway, she never actually gets OUT...just hangs out and makes a lot of noise.

Her:     Hmmmm. Yeah, call me crazy, but I think that’s the whole problem. The whole “never gets out” thing. Doesn’t that mean that she spends all her time in here, shouting or mumbling or whatever? In your head? That’s a lot of growling and scowling to be happening inside one person’s head. Oh my, now she’s spitting at you! At beautiful you! 

Me:      Well, I think you’re upsetting her. She’s sort of used to being the only voice around. I try to leave her alone and let her do her thing. You should do the same.

Her:     Oh I see...her thing!  What is that exactly?

Me:      [blank stare]

Her:     I mean, what does she do for you, that she’s earned the right to be the only voice that gets to stay?  

Me:      [long pause]

Well...she...um...she...keeps me accountable? And..uh...humble. And..um, stuff like that. Keeps me in line, so to speak.

Her:     Fascinating. Accountable, huh? And humble? Those are both great things to be! I’m so curious how she does that when she seems so...nasty and un-fun. Where’s the love, man? Where. Is. The. Looooooove?  

Me:      The lo—oh geez, it’s not enough you’re always cheerful, you gotta be a hippie, too? Let’s just say she doesn’t let me get too big for my britches. Like, when I am a little too confident, she brings me down a peg or two.  Whips me back in line and keeps me safe.

Her:     [raised eyebrows]

Me:      She can be a little harsh, I guess. But she keeps me safe.

Her:     Well, safety is cool. Love that. We all want to be safe. Harsh doesn’t sound so good though--who needs that?  And how exactly does she keep you safe?

Me:      Oh for cryin’ out loud, what’s with all the questions? She just does, OK? She tells me stuff.  Stuff I need to be aware of. You know, she tells me the truth.

Her:     Which is…?

Me:      Damn, you just don’t quit. Honestly, it’s annoying, especially with that perky smile plastered to your face.  

Her:     Haha! Yes, I do smile a lot! It’s my favorite thing EVER. So, what’s this big truth that whatserface over there bestows upon you?

Me:      Oh, I DON’T KNOW. Just, she keeps me safe, she keeps me here, she tells me what’s what, that I’m better off inside. No risk, no failure. No risk, no rejection. Also that I’d screw up if I tried anything anyway so what’s the point.  

[pregnant pause]

ME:     That sounds bad. It’s not like that. She keeps me a realist. She keeps my expectations in check. Protects me from rejection. It’s a valuable service, OK?

Her:     Goodness gracious, who on earth would ever reject YOU? Ha! Only a crazy person! That doesn’t sound like the truth to me!

Also, why does rejection matter again? I mean, if you’re out there just doing your thing, why does it matter what someone else thinks? You’re just being your beautiful self, right? Not hurting others, not breaking any laws? Just being you?

Me:      Well, yeah, but…

Her:     But what?

Me:      I just know it matters. I can’t explain it. It just matters.

Her:     Yeah, I don’t think so. Also, you’re fantastic and there’s no wrong way to be you. You’re great, and I’d love to see anything you want to do in the world happen.

Me:      Oh for pete’s sake, knock it off. I see what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work–it’s just a bunch of bubble gum psycho-babble.

Her:     I love bubble gum, don’t you?  [smiles teasingly] Or do you prefer deep, dark, liver-and-onions psycho-babble? Me, I’m going for the bubble gum every time.

Me:      You would.

Her:     Actually, bubble gum or pilates. They’re both pretty great, if you ask me.

Me:      True. I do enjoy a good pilates sesh. Feels so good.

Her:     Right? Oh my goodness, pilates is just the best. I wonder what she thinks of pilates. Have you asked her?

Me:      I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Like I told you, we have an arrangement; she wants to say so she gets to stay.

Her:     OK, it’s your psyche! You can have anything you want in here.

Hey, does she have a name? No? Oooo, let’s give her one! Not like a real name, cuz we don’t want that whole Karen thing to happen. Everyone deserves to love their own name, don’t you think?  But something we can call her...like...I dunno...how about Blah Blah Blah?  LOL.  I like that!  We can refer to her as exactly what she sounds like anyway!

So, I wonder what Blah Blah Blah thinks of pilates? I mean, who could be anti-pilates, ammiright? 

Me:      Uh, I have no idea what she thinks. She’s usually not around during my Zoom classes.

Her:     Really? Isn’t that interesting??? 

Me:      Well, honestly, sometimes she tells me I look ridiculous while I’m trying to balance on one leg, or that there’s no way I can do that plank move. But then she goes away. Mostly, she’s not around.

Her:     Well I think that’s just fascinating. Blah Blah Blah is mostly not around during pilates….you feel good during pilates...think there’s a connection?

Me:      Oh good grief, do I have to think about this?

Her:     Oh gosh no: you don’t have to do a thing. You’re already doing so much! Honestly, you’re like a super woman, I don’t know how you do it. Your job, your family, pilates, dealing with Blah Blah Blah over there–that alone seems like a full time job and it’s only ONE of the many things you are managing every single day! So impressive. So inspiring.

Me:      [Fingers to my temple, eyes closed] Oooooookaaaay. I get it. You’re here to prop me up. To counterbalance the negative voices.

Her:     Blah Blah Blah. Say it. It’s super fun.

Me:      Ugh whatever, you’re here to counterbalance Blah Blah Blah.  OK, you’re right, that was fun. And yeah, I admit, she is pretty annoying sometimes.

Her:     I KNOW, RIGHT?

Me:      Yes. Fine. She’s annoying. And mean. And nasty, like you said. The other day, she told me I’m never going to get any better at fiddle: that made me sad. But maybe she’s right and I should just give up.

Her:     She SAID that? Geez, she just interrupted you like that, while you were playing? How RUDE!

Me:      No, it wasn’t while I was playing; she’s not around then. I think she started talking about it cuz I haven’t really been practicing that much and feeling kind of bad about it; I think she was trying to help–to give me a reason to stop and just let go of it.

Her:     Aha! THE PLOT THICKENS!

Me:      Gonna regret this, but what are you talking about?

Her:     She’s not around during pilates; she’s not around when you’re playing the fiddle. Those are things you really enjoy and make you happy! Seems like there’s no room for her then!

Me:      You want a nickel for that insight? I can’t do pilates and play the fiddle 24/7 now can I?

Her:     Now THAT would be pretty awesome, LOL, but I guess you’re right. What else has she said to you?

Me:      Well, there’s the thing about how I’m a not that great of a mom, how I’m a disappointment to my friends, how my writing is stupid, my opinion irrelevant, yadda yadda yadda, then there’s a whole topic about how socially awkward I am–that’s a popular one. That one can keep her spinning for days, it feels like sometimes.

[another pregnant pause]

Her:     Just sayin’, I’d never do any of that to you. That’s all bullshit and you know what? I think you already know that.

[a third pregnant pause]

Me:      Wow, she’s kind of a nightmare: a noisy, never shuts up, really awful nightmare. God, why do I let her have the run of the place? Why can’t she just shut UP for once?

OMG, I freaking hate her.

Her:     Right ON! Me too! She is literally no fun at all. No one wants someone around who just gnashes her damn teeth and predicts disaster all the time.

Also, she’s so totally wrong about you. And really, that’s why I’m here.

I’m gonna give it to you straight, no bubble gum, no cheery cheeseballs, no fairy dust up your backside, just truth: you got this. You got EVERYTHING. Life is gonna be sad and boring as HELL if you listen to BLAH BLAH BLAH and don’t do things just to avoid a little rejection or failure. And the POINT, to get back to your point, of trying things is to enjoy them.

You’ve got a million things you love to do and want to do: I know that about you. And wow, you have so many people you love and who love you, and not a single damn one of them wants you paying any attention at all to Blah Blah Blah when you could be out there living life and being your badass self.  No one wants you to hide your light under a bushel. Well, Blah Blah Blah seems to want that, but she’s a bitch and half in heels.

Oooo, that made her mad!  Now she’s spitting AND throwing a tantrum! Wow, I think she might be barfing a little bit too. GROSS! Ooooo, girlfriend is a MESS! Hahahahahah!

Me:      Whoa. Look at that. She’s slinking away! She’s–actually–leaving! I had no idea that was even possible! How did you do that?

Her:     Like I said, I like a good competition, and I looooove to win. Ask enough questions, and those nasty bitches get tired of not being center stage. While you’ve been “wasting your time” talking to me, she just did her spoiled only child thing and stomped away all mad. Pretty awesome, don’t you think?

[silence]

Me:      Wow.  Listen to that. Listen to the silence. I didn’t even know she was spewing out all that noise pollution until it was gone. I could get used to this; it’s sort of beautiful.

[silence]

Her:     Of course it’s beautiful.  It’s you.

Me:      [rolls eyes.]

[more silence]

Me:      Wow. I feel so peaceful. She's...gone!

Her:     She might come back. But I can too. I can come back whenever you want or need me to, you beautiful person, you.

Me:      Wait, what? She might come back?  

Her:     In my experience, Blah Blah Blah doesn’t give up quite that easily. Yeah, she’ll be back, at least for a while; she’s had quite a home here for a long time. But I’ll come back too and we’ll deal with her together!

Me:      Uh..do you have to come back? I mean, this is kind of embarrassing, that I even needed you to be here.  

Her:     Hey, you do you! Just know that I can come back anytime at all, and I’m pretty sure if we start talking about pilates, or music, or the sunset, or some heartbreakingly lovely thing one of your kids did, or really anything that makes you happy, we can kick her ass to the curb whenever we want. Whaddya say? Sounds fun to me!

Me:      [resigned sigh] OK, fine, sure...I guess...but can we keep this whole relationship just between you and me? No self-respecting sarcast wants the world to know she’s got a...what are you again?

Her:     A daily affirmer! The best friend you’ll ever have! Also, I’m available daily, weekly, monthly or on demand.

Me:      Right, well that just made me cringe myself into next week. Seriously, I’ve resisted this whole daily affirmation thing my whole life.

Her:     Imagine if you’d put all that energy into resisting Blah Blah Blah.

Me:      Got it, you’ve made your point, she’s a total bitch and I don’t need her. So, we can keep it to ourselves? Our whole relationship?

Her:     Oh sure. Whatever you need. You’re in charge here, and you’re SO GOOD AT IT. You’re amazing, you know.

Me:      OMG alright already! Just Stop! Except don’t. I mean– I know you’re right, it’s just–  WEIRD, all this affirmation is so WEIRD and unfamiliar, and like water in a desert and so strange at the same time–  I mean, OK OK OK:

I AM amazing! Hell, yeah! I got this, and I can pretty much do anything I want!

Her:     And for now, my work here is done! God, I love my job: career satisfaction is AMAZING, let me tell you.  

Me:      So happy for you.

Her:     Thank you! I’m happy for you too! So what are you going to do now?

Me:      Gosh, I don’t know. I feel pretty great right now. I’m thinking of picking up my fiddle and playing for a bit.

Her:     Of course you are: that is so like you, to want to CREATE something.

Me:      That’s true. That is like me. If you’ll excuse me, my axe awaits.