Birthdays. They're not my favorite. There are too many in this house. And spaced poorly to boot. I should've been Jehovah's Witness when it comes to birthdays...I'd rather skip them. I crumble under the pressure of providing a sense of celebration or fanfare. Presents are always difficult. I hate spending money for the sake of spending money. I'm not a buyer of wants...I'm more of an as-needed shopper. So this is what I offer: Dinner of your choosing. Cake of your choosing with our neighbors. Presents: TBD by birthday person. I love offering birthday meals. The food I make -- I put love and good feelings into it. It tastes good. I choose my ingredients with care and consciousness. I put them together not by measurements, but by feel and by intuition and, most importantly, by taste. Our time together around the table is another kind of gift in my book. And cakes -- I love the birthday cakes of our past. Each one has been a testament to where each boy was in his life at that time. We were stuck in Batman for many, many years. Honestly, I'm glad those days are mostly over. How many times can a person make a Batman cake? How many different ways? Batman. The Batman. Batman Beyond. Lego Batman. You name, I made it. My personal favorite birthday cake? Glad you asked. It's simple. No brainer. Carrot. Which brings us to carrots. One of our favorite books in this house is The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss. If you haven't read it, here you go:
We first heard about the book from a song. It's available here. Well worth the listen. So we've been reading this book and I've been thinking about that type of dedication to an eventuality that has yet to reveal itself. It takes faith. It takes determination, perseverance, effort. The cultivation of something from almost nothing; the regular maintenance of a patch of blank, with merely the hope that something develops; the every day exercise of plucking out that which isn't fruitful to make space for that which is -- the task is daunting. And so I ask myself: What am I cultivating? Daily in this life, I know I'm making strides in a direction. Most days, I'm not sure where to. Hourly, I'm course correcting, redirecting -- my energy, my focus, my attention. Each minute, I'm aware that there's effort involved; trudging along feels like work. But I found my carrot -- one of many -- the other day. It popped up right before my eyes. And it looked like this... My morning was busy and full of errands. Groceries for birthday dinner. An agreed upon present to be bought. More groceries for glorious cake. And in the middle of all those errands, as I was walking to my car, my cart full up of ingredients for a life well-lived topped off by a huge, gift-wrapped, luxurious present, I passed a man. With a sign. "Hungry. Homeless. Anything helps." We made eye contact, with a knowing head nod, as I passed by to my car. As I started unloading my goods into my car, the conversation in my head sounded like this, and LOUD: I am the single mother of four boys. I have three, four jobs. I work tirelessly to provide for my family. What is my obligation to him? Am I only feeding his dependence on hand-outs if I give him something? Should I give him food instead of money? What's my responsibility here? To my kids? To a stranger? What's the right thing to do? I turned from the cart back to my car when I heard a voice. "Boy or girl?" I looked back. There he stood. "Excuse me?" "Boy or girl? The present? Whose birthday?" "My son." He reached for his pocket. Retrieved a dollar. "No," I said. "Yes," he replied. "I can't," I insisted. "You must," he responded. "I want to do it." Stuck the dollar under the ribbon on the huge purple package. "No," I repeated. "It's what I want to do with what I have. Makes me happy." I stood in stunned silence as he turned and walked away. Carrot. A bigger carrot than I could have ever hoped for. That day's yield...far greater than expected.
I remember one of my boys, when he was tiny, and not wanting to meet strangers, would say, "I'm shy of you." I used to think it was cute. Now I know what he meant. I'm shy of writing. She's like a dangerous stranger to me. Only worse, because it's like we used to know each other and know each other well, and now...well, we're strangers. I have always heard "write what you know" and that's what I do here -- at least until I realize what I know is merely what I knew, past tense. Life is like that for me...one day it's true, the next day not so much. I'm constantly examining and re-examining, chucking the old and fetching the new. It's trouble for people associated with me -- my ideas and approach constantly shifting. It's got to be maddening to interact with someone as fickle as I feel. And I can honestly say, it's no cakewalk being this way either. When I'm in the middle of whatever it is -- a feeling, an idea, a belief -- I'm all there. In that minute, I'm clear, committed, a true believer. And when the winds change -- another perspective is shared, time passes, emotions settle down -- well, I'm all there, too. Equally committed to exactly the opposite. So writing. I was all in. Until I wasn't. And it wasn't because I was at a loss for things to share. More so because this writing, this space felt too revealing and too exposed. And that's when I retreat. I'm amazed and thankful there have been people, and continue to be people, who write down their insides, the workings of their minds, the details of their existence. We, as a people, have benefited greatly from this kind of sharing. From novels to scientific endeavors (successes and failures) to religious and spiritual texts and beyond -- I'm grateful there was a need and way for people to write down what was going on. But that's not me. I'm not revelatory in that sense. I'm always aware that you're reading this. I'm haunted by the idea that my mother, my workmates, my kid's teacher may be looking in on my insides from this vantage point. When all else fails, I revert to what my high school boyfriend's mother used to tell us: Only do and say what you'd want Jesus to see you doing and saying. This is what Jesus can see of me. I remember 24 years ago like it was yesterday. Better than yesterday, in fact. I remember climbing out of a car in a parking garage, being met by my brother there in that dark, exhaust-filled space. It was a Friday, late afternoon. I remember him telling me what he had to tell me: They say she won't make it through the weekend. They were right. I remember that brother, that bearer of news, that brother who now has theys of his own, telling him news of his future. I remember what I was wearing...black cut-off sweats. Everyone wore cut-off sweatpants then. The ultimate in relaxation or sloth or slobbiness? I'm not sure. I had a light green shirt with ducks on it. Said something about being different. I had my period. The news felt insulting. I had my period, in my black cut-off sweats, with my green shirt, and you're telling me she won't make it through the weekend? As if. I remember sitting there that afternoon, by her bedside, as they came in to take blood. I had come of age in that hospital, among those people. I had watched small people come into being only to leave just as suddenly. I had witnessed young people come and stay so long that falling in love and getting married, there in that hospital, seemed logical. I watched people fight and struggle -- mostly the family members. The patients seemed at peace. Nurses -- their names, their lives were -- became like extended family. I remember that blood draw. I'd seen them dozens and dozens of time. And yet that blood draw was different. That blood draw made me swoon, lightheaded, dizzy, faint. I remember my conversation in my 15-year old head debating the meaning of it all. What was going on? Why was the world spinning uncontrollably? Could I make it stop? I remember being present when the doctors came in and brought the news to her. I remember as they told her that they refused to perform surgery on her. I remember her objecting. I remember them explaining in horrifying, life-ending detail what would happen if they tried. I remember the lone tear that slid down her cheek, her eyes too swollen to open. I remember the doctors' tears, too. I remember sleeping in a room of strangers, still in my black cut-off sweats and green duck shirt. We were strangers in cots covered in scratchy blankets linked by the sadness of loss and losing. I remember waking in the middle of the night, because in times like that the clock doesn't matter. I remember the sense of panic that I might have overslept, might have missed my last minute with her, might have missed what she had to offer. I remember lotion. Some people crave absolution. She craved lotion. I remember the feel of her skin, the softest skin you would ever touch, the result of years of lotion. Lotion. More lotion. I remember our last conversation, the minutes we shared. I remember apologizing and I remember her asking me not to. I remember her thanking me for always treating her just as horrible as I treated anyone else. She was like that. We laughed. Cried. I remember retreats to the cafeteria where I drowned my loneliness and disbelief in dark purple grape juice and donuts. I still can't see either, smell either, consume either without spending time back in that cafeteria. Those days. All those days. How many days in that cafeteria? I remember golf. Golf? Yes, I remember golf. Golf in the background, lotion on the feet. I remember her losing consciousness. I remember the methodical, meditative state of applying lotion to her feet, her legs and back again. I remember feeling the slightest of movements under my fingers and looking up to see the sweetest of smiles on her face. I remember that moment of disbelief when it happened. When the theys became right. When she was gone. Sunday afternoon. That minute when you want to take it all back and start over again, not wanting the way it is to be the way it is. The panic at the unchangeable. Sunday afternoons still inspire that sense. Sunday, 4:15, sadness. I remember riding home with that brother, the bearer of news. I remember what he said: She would have helped you pick a college. I can help you pick a college. You have to go to college. I'll help you get to college. Go to college. I remember getting home and taking off those black cut-off sweats and that green duck shirt. Packing them in a box. You can't get rid of the clothes you wore the last time you saw her. Right? Pack them away, with the grape juice stain, the smell of strange cots, the tears woven into the fabric. I remember all of it. And this year marks the shift...she's been gone longer than she was here. That's how my life clock has been calibrated. By that day. The marking of time in relation to the end of her. And yet, these days, she's here more than gone. I see her in the eyes of my boys. I see her in their tenacity. I see her in the way they angle their heads or purse their lips. They embody her having never met her. They remind me how close she is even when she's so far. I see her in my life's work, as I hover in that space between beyond and living. Living and beyond. Those days, that day, she led me here. Comfortable in the space between. Last year, I picked up my cell phone and tried to call her. A cell phone. Her. I remember the conversation in my head that happened at lightning speed. What was her contact info? Work? Home? Why have I not talked to her in so long? A cell phone. How profound the disconnect between heart, head, logic, and reality. I remember that day, that 24-years ago day. I remember that bearing witness to someone going from being to beyond. I remember. How could I forget?
