Diego-Catto-B+W

Big Y, Tuesday at 9:00pm

I went to replace a gallon of bad milk and return a bag of mealy peaches, plus we needed potatoes. The cashier, who couldn’t have been older than 16, admired my tattoo and asked me first what the Hebrew meant and then what *that* meant to me.

I told him “Aya” means hawk and is one of my wife’s Hebrew names. He went on to tell me that he’d have to think long and hard about getting ink, and I told him that had been the case for me, too. Then I asked if he had any ideas.

“Well,” he said, “I had a brother who I never met because he was strangled by his umbilical cord, so I always thought maybe I’d do something about that.”

“Did he have a name?” I asked. “BJ,” he told me. “My parents just called him BJ.”

Then the bagger, also of high-school age, chimed in. She gestured to her back and told us about the Banksy image she imagined spreading across her left shoulder blade– the butterfly girl. “Suicide has been a big part of my life the last few years,” she said. “And I’m a writer so I love defiance and symbolism.”

When I mentioned that I was also a writer, she brightened and told me she is a published poet and takes workshops with a local group for teen writers. She looked so proud.

I left the store with milk, potatoes, and a reminder that all of us carry so many stories, whether they’re visible to the outside world or not.

Diego-Catto-B+W

Mindfulness, Mad Milk, and Running Low on Dream

I look around the room, as if it’s going to tell me what to write. The dryer is spinning in the small pantry attached to our kitchen; my back is to the fridge and I’m facing a wall that’s painted a southwestern red, with lots of irregularities beneath the paint. To my left, my calendar sits open, with appointments scattered throughout the days in three different colors of pen — not by design but as a result of whether black, blue, or purple was closest by at any given moment. Just beyond that is a 90-page manuscript I’ve had the privilege of reading twice now, once last fall and a revised copy just recently; I have a call with the author in a couple of weeks to discuss her edits. To my right is my unlined notebook, the kind with the blue cover that I replace every couple of months at Hastings, the local stationery store that special orders them. The face-up page is divided into boxes — six for various writing groups and a couple more for other to-dos. Mani just informed me that the milk is bad and we’re almost out of cream — though with typos before I just fixed them, that read “the milk is mad and we’re almost out of dream,” which one could argue is how some poems and new ideas are born.

I used to blog this way, a long time ago. I’d sit down and just write. Sure, sometimes I’d have a thing I wanted to write about — a moment or collection of moments from my day that were swirling around my head, seeking some semblance of synthesis and accidental alliteration. These days, not so much. Maybe it’s because I do so many short freewrites in my groups, or frequently write little bits on Facebook; these are definitely factors. I could say it’s because I’m busy, but HAHAHAHA. When wasn’t that true and who among us couldn’t claim as much? Really, it’s not useful. Just say you chose not to make time write; there is always ten minutes, especially if you are willing to write something that may not amount to anything.

Today was a day of adulting: Parent-teacher conferences, conversations with my kids’ dad about various kid things, when the separateness of our parenting collides with the “co” part of it to which we’re both committed. Pulling together tax-related documents for a state audit notice that came in yesterday’s mail. I even walked to town to the copy store before remembering that our printer doubles as a copy machine! Um. Brain?

Around 3:45pm, I crawled under the cozy covers for a short nap. After thinking I would never fall asleep, I must have crashed hard, because when the alarm sounded, not only was I in a deep sleep, but I also had that strange sensation of time have shifted somehow, as if the earlier part of the day was long ago, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I noticed my mind doing some obsessive-leaning theatrics reminiscent of some of my most reptilian tendencies, and managed to share with Mani some of my thoughts as a way of not letting them work me up or take m down.

Then I got up and confronted the kitchen sink, which over the course of the day’s meals had piled high with dishes, a daily result of not having a dishwasher + neither of us leaving the house for work. I sudsed up a sponge and adjusted the water temperature to where it was just hot enough not to scald my bare hands, and washed. Dish by dish, just like Thich Nhat Hanh writes in Peace Is Every Step, the very first book about mindfulness I ever encountered and read, back in my senior year of college. That was 22 years ago. I am very much still practicing and very much still failing and very much still growing and very much still human and alive — all of which is ultimate very, very good news. I’m alive!

And oh man. Life, yo. It keeps being interesting, that’s for sure. And after listening to wrenching news this morning as I wound my way over the Notch — the tiny mountain pass between Amherst and South Hadley — about the chemical attack in Syria, I see that what I might label as stressful or challenging is real but also needs to be held in perspective. Comparing lives is not useful, but awareness is one of the sources, for me, of compassion. When I lose track of myself by getting tangled up in the nets of what I can’t control, I’m of no use really to anyone. But one thing I really appreciated and needed to hear this afternoon was this: “That is a lot.” Mani said these words, or some version of them, and I felt the tears spring just for a moment then to my eyes. I didn’t need a big heaving cry, only just that acknowledgment. Someone to say, “Hey, it’s ok. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed.”

Making the space for it helped me move through it.

I dreamed last night that a man I worked with was working, it turned out, three days a week, but getting paid the same as if he was working five days. I was furious and there was nothing I could do about it. From a Jungian perspective, if I am all the people in the dream, then maybe I feel like I’m working way more than I’m being compensated for. Welcome to motherhood. That is the nature of the beast, and a beautiful beast it is. One I give thanks for every day, no less so when we’re bushwhacking through all kinds of uncharted jungle with a hand-held machete. Turns out there are some pretty stellar guides who are familiar with these jungles, and while no one else has answers, I am not alone, and neither are my kiddos. This is comfort and courage alike.

And this, I remember as I wrap up — must go to the store now before it gets much later — is why I used to blog this way, dropping into the moment without a clue as to what would come out. Practicing writing is how I navigate through these days of mad milk and stocking up on dreams.