Family, From Afar

How is it that my family looks morebeautiful from afar?

I am running the lake, feet pounding the gravel, breath pounding from lungs with each thud, and I see them -- standing on the concrete dock, like an island, a pedastal, holding them like art, no sound of them. Ken. Noah. Katherine's canary yellow stroller. Bright against the green trees, the gray sky, the smooth silver water. Framed. Still life. I slow down, hear only my breath. I want to stop running, to grin, satisfied, to linger, to take them in, like a painting I want to stop and gaze at for a long time, no sound of them, just my eyes soaking them in as art, no words, my heart gasping now, how beautiful they look from this distance, three beings somehow one solid sculpture of family, my family. Oh, my heart.

I didn't want to admit this - how much more I can see the beauty now, then up close, when I am mostly myopic and feeding and wiping and bossing.

And today I come across a quote I saved a few long months ago from the back of The Sun - and I feel better to know - why - they looked so beautiful in that moment on the dock, far away, no sound.

"If you see the whole thing - it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives... But up close a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern." ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

Thank goodness for moments from afar; those tiny glimpses of the whole.

Half-started vs. Whole-Hearted: A Blog Theme Emerges, and I Fight It, Still

I don't want this blog to be a mommy blog. Really, I don't.

Half-started posts linger on my Drafts page. Blogg-ish thoughts lurk, un-inked, in my mind. Thoughts on yoga. On our transition to rural life in the Skagit Valley. On living with my feet in two worlds, urban Capitol Hill and rural Skagit. On excercise. On the TV show Hoarders. Yes, I said it -- lately I'm inspired to write about Hoarders. Ties into my fascination with thrifting and how our culture manages their "stuff." I have many thoughts On Writing. On Not writing. On ego. On clinging -- to a strong body, to a non-wrinkled skin surface, on clinging to ideas about what is and is not okay to write about on a blog.

And yet. Somehow. The blog posts I end up whipping out and clicking "Publish Post" -- end up being musings on my children, on motherhood, on moments in time as a mom.

And dang it, I end up sounding like someone who thinks parenting blogs are less-than. It's not that. It's that I think I'm less than, if I am presenting myself to the world and all I have to talk about is my kids. It's just so dang cliche.

And if you know me in the slightest, you'll know that I hate to be put in a box.

Box or no box, the fact remains -- my heart explodes for my children, my head aches with the growth that's in it for me. Year by year, I know -- the complexities will only magnify. So I'll probably keep writing about what it's like... And so, I just have to go with it.

I like to write about the sweetness of life. I like to write from my insides, the blood-thumping red rimmed pulsing insides of our selves. I can blather on about brilliant thoughts of mine. Insights. Theories. Observations. But little of it feels connected to my heart. So I let those thoughts linger on my Drafts dashboard. Try as I may to impress, to impose a representation of my different selves into this new-fangled way of showing my self to the world, the fact remains. I write from my core and my core right now revolves around tasting life as a mother.

Between the various princesses, he chooses...

At what point is my son going to stop thinking of me, adoringly, as an angel? Perusing a catalogue of kids' Halloween costumes tonight, he pointed to the costume he picked out for me: "Beautiful Angel." Well, it was between "Beautiful Angel" and "Bride to Be" on the same page -- both decked out in angelic frilly white, looking lovely, peaceful, and perfect. Yes, ahem, that's me...

And it's damn sweet of him. Between the 24 pages of costume choices, between the various fairytale princesses and Queen Nefertitis and young vixen-y pirates--he chooses the virtuous for me. Gotta love him.

So. I'll take the compliment and fold it into my heart. At the same time as wondering, bemusedly of course, at what point along the parenting path will Noah's brain & being no longer adore me unfailingly.

By the way, he chose the 'baby pirate' for Katie (super cute choice); the football player or man-eating-shark for his papa (odd and fitting, in that order); and some Clone Wars/Star Wars-looking outfit for himself. In his mythical dream vision of family. Or, just want he thinks everyone should be for Halloween this year.

Wind in My Hair, Now - Still.

The wild hairs, they disappear so slowly these days I barely notice. These days as a mother now for nearly five years. Five years of now mostly keeping the windows rolled up so I don't blast the sleeping baby in the back seat. Five years of turning the music down low so I can hear my son talking to me from the back seat. Where is that woman I knew so well twenty years ago? The one with the wind whipping through her hair, across her face, as she drives with the windows down, cool air and cool tunes thumping through the car's body, feelin' free.

She's kid wild now. Laughs with abandon at her four year old son's joke. Cranes up at the sky and the trees with her 10 month old baby in arms looking up too, sharing love for the blue and the green, the shape of the earth above us.

She's definitely kid wild now. This woman who once drove a motorcycle under a moving truck. The one who knew she'd have made a great EMT or stunt woman had it occured to her just a little bit sooner along the career path. Her risks now? The most fearless includes: a hand down the back pants of her baby's dipe, to check for - well, you know. Brave mama, indeed. Fearless lover of two.

Homebody Hardbody I am Not

I'm just not one of those folks who can exercise at home. Okay, I can't - and I don't want to. Part of the gift of exercise for me is - change of scene. Getting outside. Especially, now that I'm a parent - getting away. Sanity check. It's not all about the sweat (or the buns of steel, hah!).

Still, sometimes I wonder why I don't just carve out time to do an exercise video while Noah entertains himself. Rather than getting no exercise that day. Then I remember. He'd be interrupting me. He'd be in my space. It wouldn't give me what I need. Because exercise means clearing my head means: don't talk to me. Shhhhhhhh.

And just when I was about to lose my mind from a stretch of days with no break from the kids ~ when I felt this hot rage surge in my chest, caged animal feeling ~ I pleaded Ken my case and hopped my bike for a quick ride around Walker Creek. Found a trail I'd been curious to explore up at the Boy Scout Camp. Sunshine on the snow dusting the lowlands from last night cold rains. Soft tires digging into rocks and mud. The only sound my breath and my tires and the soft swish of my coat as my legs pedal me along.

This is what I need. Shhhhhhhhhh. Only my breath and my bike and my quiet.