February

If one word can be used to describe an entire month’s worth of happenings and emotions, I think February’s word is soup.  Oh, short-long month of pots bubbling on the stove, and slushy muck on the yard outside, I am not so sorry to see you go.  We had good times, yes:
Chilly evenings warmed through with a lovely potato, leek, and dill soup with a side of drop biscuits and homemade jam.  Foggy mornings that reminded me of former ocean- front New England living, and longing for just-a-moment for those old places.  Sunsets that beckoned us to leave the shades open until the last blushing rays of sun were drowned in twilight.  Lovely snowfalls caught in the pools of light beneath our streetlamp.  Familiar hikes to old, sacred haunts that began in dappled sunlight and ended in tiny blizzards and rosy cheeked babes.  Hot cocoa and Fig Newton picnics in the winter-abandoned park bandstand, testing our voices on a stage we would not otherwise sing on.  Sunday mornings and second breakfasts.  Extra trips to the compost pile, with the whisper of spring’s promise just barely audible on the wind if you but stopped and bent to listen.  And always, always soup on the stove, in a big pot, with a side of strong coffee.
We worked, in these February days, to keep our bodies busy and our minds off of, and yet into, winter.  It is both an embrace and a shrugging off.  While winter spins and swirls outside, inside of our home and our hearts there has been a building anticipation of what is yet to come.  There are so many, many plans being made for both these weeks ahead and also the years down the road.  It is funny how much you can plan while lingering over a bowl of steamy soup, and how much excitement can be had over the making of such plans.  It can be exhilarating and giddy and scary and silly and maddening, a veritable soup of emotions.  But with each idea we place with ink on paper the further we get from meager traces of hope, and the closer we get to real, honest-to-goodness action.  There is power in the planning of good things. 
And so, on to better weather and longer days, out of the foggy-soup dreams of February and into the intense planning for those spring-times that are coming faster than we could have hoped for three weeks ago.  Yes! 

The Edge

I made Brendan drive us all out to Wellfleet last week during our vacation in Cape Cod.  It was out of the way and took awhile to get there, but I insisted and he relented and even agreed that perhaps it was a good idea.  I just felt this strange need to be there, in a place where I had once stood decades before; I felt as though my soul needed to breathe in that particular air and gaze upon on that particular stretch of sand. 
While standing at the edge of the water, at the point where ocean meets land, I was reminded of some things that seem important and noteworthy.  Before me the sea spread out, wide and expansive, reaching as far as nowhere and more powerful than anything.  The sand dunes, like mountains, plunge down steeply to meet it and in between the two I realized this: we are nothing.  Insignificant.  A mere blip on the radar that is this time on this earth in this universe.  The feeling that came with this realization was one of immediate and overwhelming peace: no matter what I do in this life, the world is much, much bigger than my circumstances, choices, mistakes, or ideas at any moment in time.  It will all go on whether I am here or not, wave after wave will pound the shore and grains of sand will move in the water and wind and rain. 
Then I turned around and saw this:

and this:

Two shivering kids waiting for their mama to finish with her crazy picture taking so they could run on the open expanse in front of them; one husband, knowing his wife needed to see this for some reason that stretches back in time to another family trip that was clouded with grave sadness, waiting patiently for the time to be enough, for the ocean to soak into her pores and restore her.
Seeing them there, waiting for me, I realized that we are bigger than the sky, our actions are broader reaching than any ocean, more grand than any sand dune.  The connections we have with the people around us are the biggest thing I know; I remembered that as much as we are nothing we are also everything, entirely significant.  All I have to do is look in their eyes and I can see it:  we are bigger than we know.  Being at that edge, on that particular stretch of sand, refilled my soul and brought back to the forefront all that I know about life and family and friends and connection: slow down and be, give each other a little room and time when it’s needed, live with intention and listen with an open heart.  Allow them to grow and change, and bend like the dune grass in the wind when they need me to change and grow.  Enjoy this push and pull of life.  Dream bigger than the ocean, but remember my own insignificance in all of this. 
Perhaps this is why the ocean calls to me, why it calls to so many people across time and religion and state and country and continent: to realize that we are everything and nothing all at once.  Maybe we need this reminder as much as we need food and  water, air and shelter.    Maybe we just need to be able to stand on the edge of something and find an inner peace and a reserve within ourselves that fills whatever emptiness the rest of the world and life carves out.  Maybe we just need that reminder to be human again. 

The Summer List

“We write things we want to do over the summer.” says Harrison of
The Summer List.  Oh, but it is so much more than that!  The summer list is my saving grace in an otherwise uncharted, weeks long stretch of time that, admittedly, sometimes scares me.  The Summer List has plans to make, ideas to toss around when the inevitable I’m bored! starts to rear its ugly head, and lofty goals that might never be met but are fun and interesting to talk about.  For the past four summers we have brainstormed as a family all of the things we wanted to do over the summer, both grown-up and child friendly ideas fill out the page and we cross off our achievements as we go.  At the end of the summer, we have proof of our escapades and our kids are armed with plenty of ventures with which to answer that classic first day of school query, What did you do all summer?  This is the best sort of to-do list, with only fun things!
Here, the beginnings of the 2011 version, to be updated as we go along:

• go to Crandall Library
• go swimming in our pool
• go to camp (our family’s camp)
• go to the Great Escape (Six Flags)
• another tour of the beaches at different Lakes
• go out for ice cream
• go fishing
• go to the drive-in
• try making hypertufa troughs
• go to the movies
• start a cutting garden for flowers
• dig in Pie and Mike’s compost pile for worms
• learn to ride bikes without training wheels
• go to concerts in the park (Shepard’s Park, City Park, Crandall Park, etc.)
• go to Crandall Park and play
• go kayaking
• go for lengthy after dinner strolls
• Farmer’s Market!
• go to a baseball game
• play tug of war with Ginger (this from Miss Emma)
• go to the ocean…Cape Cod!
• tie dye t-shirts
• make our own hula hoops
• make a worm bin for compost purposes (and little boy worm digging purposes)

Early Birds

We have a new rule this summer: no television before 5p.m.  It’s a good rule, one made because we had slipped into some very bad habits around these parts.  There are days when I’d like to abolish the screen entirely, but then I remember that I, too, really enjoy watching movies and hypocrisy in parenthood is not a good thing.  So anyway, a new rule.  When we arise each morning without slipping into a comatose hour of cartoons, our day is longer and our possibilities are greater.  Today we snuggled down in bed for a few extra moments, getting a head start on our summer list* and making grand plans for our free time.  Once we were fully awake (such a time can be marked by the amount of giggles and general wiggly-ness of small children) we quickly dressed and headed out the door.  Where to?
We hadn’t been to Hovey Pond in awhile.  It’s close enough to home that we sometimes overlook it, but this morning it was the perfect choice.  We were there before the dew evaporated:

We spent some time identifying wildflowers, spotting turtles, and counting birds (turtles are shy and fast!):

We stopped to ‘say cheese’:


We made it home before 10a.m., with the rest of the day’s adventures still waiting for us and some of those wicked wiggles out of our systems. 

It’s going to be a good summer...

Walk With Me

We could sit inside during this cold wet spring break.  I could alternate tea and coffee, constantly sitting with a steaming cup between my paws for warmth, and read book after book beneath an afghan wide enough for three.  We could watch movies and have popcorn for lunch and it would be fine, perhaps even lovely. 
Or, we could choose to thumb our noses at Mother Nature’s joke of a spring break and we could get out there.  We could take that trail that I’ve driven past one hundred times and never stopped to walk.  We could wander beneath the trees and in between the tall grasses, listening to the red-winged blackbirds’ and chickadees’ calls against the lilt of the brook and the swish of the wind.
Guess which we chose this chilly morning?

It was grand!  We walked slowly, absorbing the textures and variety, allowing the wind to brighten our cheeks, and stopping not only to breathe deeply the rich scent of the awakening earth, but also to feel the bark, lichens, and soft, soft mosses. 


We explored; none of us had ever been there before and so we were travellers together and it was a relief not to be the adult in charge, just a companion out for a stroll.


We got chased by a pair of nesting Canadian Geese, got rained on just a little, and found a random teapot in the woods. 

We stood on stumps,


and stopped to wonder what kinds of creatures populate the tiniest of worlds:


Despite weather that was dubious at best, we discovered a few signs of spring:


And so I challenge you: do not let spring - no matter how chilly or wet or disappointing it is - do not let spring pass you by.  Bundle them up, put on their rain boots and yours, and get out there. 



 


Delight in the bizarre:



Wonder at the destinations of unknown paths:

Feast your eyes on the small things, the ones we drive past and speed beyond without seeing.  Stop and look when your little ones call to you with their discoveries; see things from their perspective.  Have an adventure!

And when you arrive home, do not forget to perform the obligatory tick check; we found one after our adventure.
___________ 
Today’s pictures from the Bog Meadow Brook Nature Trail. 

Another Backyard Slope

If only I could post all of the pictures from this day.  Oh, there were some doozies: big spills, seriously goofy grins, misplaced hats, and a few mishaps involving a lilac bush.  I have been strictly forbidden from sharing the fun shots by the people in those very shots.  So instead you’ll have to see the cute photos and use your imagination.  We had a ton of good, old-fashioned fun sliding down the very hill that I spent much of my childhood sledding down. 

Ems

Brendan and me

Sir Harrison

With my mom (of the misplaced hat…ahem)

I love this one. My three favorite people!

And just to prove I’m no chicken when it comes to goofy shots, here I am having some of that fun.
I hope you are enjoying the cold and snow, because really it is the only way to survive winters here. 

Act Your Age

I am so cold.  I am cold in the way I used to be when I was little and we spent all day at Hickory Hill, alternating between skiing and sitting on the deck in the sun.  It is a cold that runs all the way through me to my bones, the kind that makes a hot bath sting like pins and needles.  It feels so, so good! 

I am this cold not because of an old house and thin walls, but from hours and hours of playing in the snow, racing down one of the very best backyard hills that I have ever had occasion to ride.  Forget Crandall Park and it grassy stubble, forget Gurney Lane and the lines of children - the backyard slope has so much more to offer: no lines, no waiting, ride as many times as you can bear to climb the hill, the bathroom is only a few feet away, there is probably a good chance of hot cocoa, and even the smallest of slopes can be wickedly fun.  I have not laughed like this in ages, laughs that come not from the belly but from somehwere deeper, perhaps stretching all of the way back to my childhood.  They come bursting out as I lose control and eat a faceful of snow, or as the last jump at the end of the run sends my sled and I flying in different directions and I land with a giant thud in front of my friend who cannot stop laughing, either.  And my bottom hurts and I feel silly but I am having so much fun that none of it matters.

Brendan races down faster than all of the rest of us.  His sled goes further, getting ever closer to the edge of the yard where another dropoff will send you to a watery surprise in the marsh.  He bails at the last possible second, plumes of snow spraying into the air as he flings himself from the sled.  He is buried, but we know he has survived the tumble because he whoops and hollers and quickly scrambles up for another go. 

And my children are fearless.  I get butterflies in my tummy before pushing off, but they run and jump onto their sleds, launching themselves face first down a huge hill, or even a small one, but they do not seem to fear anything at all.  They eat snow, and laugh, and for just a few moments we are all children together and I don't have to be the mom and he doesn't have to be the dad.  It is good. 

Finally it gets too chilly, we all have snow up our sleeves and in our pant legs and down our collars, and the sun is starting to slip behind the trees.  One last run! we call to each other, our friends and our family climb the hill for the final descent.  It is faster than it was earlier, the temperature has dropped and the snow flies in clouds around our sleds.  It is awesome, maybe even better than it was when I was five or seven or ten because I needed, this day, to remind myself of my age.  I needed to know again that we are young, that fun is not something that is purchased or sought out or even acquired...it just is.

So now I am cold, enjoying the feel of my windburned cheeks and the smell of outdoors that lingers in my hair.  And I am scheming for tomorrow...maybe a snowshoe adventure?  Or another backyard slope?  Or even a winter hike around Pack Forest to the Grandmother Tree?

What are you doing to act your age?

***See previous post for video of today's sledding fun! (I can't figure out how to embed within this post)

Hiking: Pack Demonstration Forest, Nature Trail

These shots aren't the greatest because I was fighting a mostly dead set of camera betteries, but someone told me I have been negligent in my sharing of photos of the kids so I'll post them anyway:

November’s Quiet

We’ve been sick.  I seriously had no idea how often we would be sick once our children began their school years, but the answer seems to be summed up neatly in one word: constantly.  Fortunately the illnesses are of the annoying variety rather than being incapacitating.  We sniffle and sneeze and whine and wheeze our way through each week and just when we begin to feel better, perhaps a day or weekend goes by before we succumb once again to an illness.  I am fairly certain the manufacturer’s of Puffs Plus will not need any help from the bailout; we are keeping them well profited.

There is a good side to all of this sickness in that it forces us to slow down.  Our non-school weekdays are spent on the sofa next to the cheerfully burning woodstove with stacks of books on the table before us and quilts tucked cozily around our legs.  My knitting is never far from my hands, and the tea kettle (its whistle broken, sadly) is nearly constantly making a fresh pot of boiled water for our tea and cocoa.  My fire building skills have vastly improved over the last few weeks and I am now proud to state that I can successfully begin a long lasting fire without filling the house with smoke…most days, anyway.

With the leaves now gone from the trees the bright light of winter has begun to fill our home on sunny days.  The patches of sunlight work their way around the house as the hours tick by and we shift our seating arrangements accordingly, with Charlotte (our beagle) being the member most concerned with catching this solar warmth.  The world outside of our windows is looking more wintry with each passing day, but in the tiny little garden beneath our chimney my clematis has one brave bud still basking in the late-autumn sun.  The rest of the plant’s leaves have been caught by the frost and the other blossoms have long since faded, but this one bloom refuses to die back.  Nature, even at the end of it’s season, contains the audacity and willfulness of life.  Our November days are are warm and quiet, and we savor them knowing that soon the holiday season will be upon us with all of its chill and cheer, followed by the deep freeze of the early year.  It will be a long time before new leaves and buds make their appearance on the clematis, so today I am thankful that just one blossom has held out its neck to reach for the sun.