Being accountable for our time . . .

 ". . .a strange burden of proof has been imposed upon our backs, a burden to account for our hours and days, to prove to all who care to watch from their screens that we are doing something worthy with our time.  In the meantime, have we forgotten how to be content in being present?"
- Rebecca Parker Payne, Kinfolk magazine

Noticing our shadows . . .

Working with these little people, I cannot help but be completely present in just about every moment.  Their verbal skills have just barely caught up to their keen and fresh observation skills.  It's like they have been seeing and looking and observing since emerging from the womb and suddenly they are able to ask, describe and imagine out loud.  And I am privleged to be able to be present for these great moments.

Remember to look up sometimes . . .

And remember to look down . . .
This is the ancient sidewalk of Central Park, New York City.
Below, our feet in the sand, La Jolla, California.




A valuable gift of life that I seemed to have grown up knowing, by being allowed to play within an unscheduled, unplanned environment:  Never disturb a child who has found something to do on their own (safely, of course), like building with blocks, drawing a picture, playing house, or making something in the sand.

What is real anymore?

So, I am starting off with FOOD . . . What food is real anymore?!!  Now, I am speaking, you may have read from my last entry, as your classic, working (harried, tired, guilty, frustrated) single mother.  The guilt comes from being too tired and harried to be able to do EVERYTHING!  So I commiserate with my fellow moms, single or not, that these are tough emotions to power through.  So I pick my battles with myself.  As my child has become older, I have been able to share with him a desire to make food from scratch (and we learn together, as I was never taught this as a child).  Now that he can take part, it has become an activity, a bonding time (even though now, breaking into the teenage years, he does resist, but he still participates).  So as I sift through the hundreds of digital pictures, unprinted on my computer, I come across a beautiful picture of this turkey sandwich (organic, free range turkey of course), made on our simple made-by-accident bread (pizza dough gone awry) with yummy, less guilty grapeseed mayo (has the good fats in it) and a lil' butter.  Some lettuce and even cranberry jam would've made this much more gourmet, but this is what was in the house and it was delicious.  And it was real, so it makes it that much better going down the gullet.

My child would much prefer eating junk food. 

This picture was taken on a looong mid-western 

road trip, where you give into such things.  "Bugles" I think these are called, were something I ate as a kid (during my never-eat-anything-that-isn't-processed-and-made-from-a-box childhood) and I stacked them up on my fingers just like this!

As my kid has grown, I seem to be getting more and more compliments on his character, politeness, conversational skills.  He has surprised me by pulling out some of the cooking skills (and clean up skills) I have strived to instill in him when he is at other people's homes.  He will offer to make a classic Julia Child style omelet (which, once you give in to watching her black and white youtube video, is the easiest meal to make in the world!  We should all know how to make this 3 minute miracle!) and he will take his dish to the sink and he will say please and thank you.  Mind you, I would be pleasantly surprised to hear these reports from the hosting parents, as he does not always do these things at home.  But, evidently, I'm not doing such a bad job in raising a decent young man.  And dammit, I am allowing myself to be extremely proud of that.  He is, after all, my life's work.

So, look at this beautiful sunflower.  I do not successfully garden.  Somehow, possibly from years of trying to garden and buying seeds and planting them and then the dog digs them up or pees on them, THIS giant sunflower TREE (it was a good 8 feet tall in late August through September) showed up all by itself ( a volunteer my friends said).  It sprouted right by my front door.  I recognized the leaves as sunflower, so I just kept watering it.  It must have bloomed 15 huge sunflowers during its peak and it made me very happy, effortlessly . . .That is a nice REAL thing.

That same growing season I got the idea to try to prettify my alley doorway and fixed this window box to the alley window and had the idea of making planters out of recycled materials.  My son was in charge of hammering holes in the bottom of the containers and planting the flowers I had purchased.  It was a great project and looked really pretty until we went away for the weekend and the very strong sun in the alley burnt the blooms to a crisp.

Getting over Vivian . . .

I can still emit tears.  The heart hurts a little.  There is nothing like leaving your childhood home, forever.  2605 Vivian Street.  I went back recently, like inside of it. Thirty years later.  The people who had owned it for so many years got old and moved out and there it sat, weary for the years.  But the still-single-paned, back porch french doors were unlocked and welcomed me to enter, like arms ready with a hug after a long trip.  When I entered I instantly turned back in time, to the age of about 7.  I heard my mom rustling in the kitchen and saw my brother sitting on the floor too close to the tv.  I sensed my father upstairs in his yellow bathrobe, smoking a cigarette, taking his time. . .Ghosts.

The way I have endeavored to get over Vivian, is to have my own home and family.  It is sacred to me.  It is a part of who my son and I are.  It is everything Vivian was for so long, without the sad ending.  It is a huge priority in my daily life, to create home.  It is our work in progress, proof of life.  It is not just a building.  
"Getting over" things, has been a routine in a life full of frequent losses.  Creating one's own stability and source of comfort is a standard, for me anyway, in a world where our connections are becoming more battery-operated (I am being a hypocrite now - I'd rather this was real paper in a real book!).
Writing had been my only refuge until I had a child.  I have a journal for almost every year of my life since I was 12.  I wrote incessantly when I was pregnant, worrying about whether I would be a good enough mother.  And then when the boy came, I wrote incessantly about every detail about him, until he was about 5 years old.  He became my refuge. Then chaos of single-motherhood/only bread winner/"head of household" left me with less "disposable time" (who has that, anyway?) and that time was spent face to face with the boy, and doing homework at the kitchen table and trying to have the energy to keep the house clean.

I lost my job last year.  I knew it was coming, so I planned.  I found that I'd become pretty wise over the last 13 years of single-mothering and become quite good at my profession.  So I forged my own path, and have found myself with the time to write again, thank you.  When I started writing today, I had the idea of "House", as it is so important to me.  I was going to write about all the cool things we do in our house, our "work in progress".  But then when it came time to upload the picture, I found the Vivian shot, and this first entry became much different than I had pictured. . . 

So we'll see what happens.  I am hoping to post pictures of my homemade bread that I have had the blessing of less fettered time to make.  And some art, and some comforting thoughts for others who have felt sad or chaotic.  We'll see.