Fully and Completely

It was a perfect moment. The sun was rising over the ocean, the display of light phenomenally beautiful. I was walking down the beach, looking for ‘treasure’ in the form of shells, driftwood, and other objects that might have been delivered to the shore during the nightly tides. I heard my son call to me, and I looked up. There he was, standing ankle deep in the water, the sunrise behind him. I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture, then walked over and joined him.


The picture I took of my son standing in front of the ocean sunrise is one of only 5 pictures I took during our weekend trip to see The Angel Oak Tree and The Isle of Palms. As a comparison, the friend who accompanied us on the trip took well over a hundred photos. I’m told one day I’ll regret not having documented more of my son’s childhood through photos…but I am the daughter of a ‘junker’ who has seen my father bring in too many discarded boxes of old photos to attribute too much importance to documenting every moment in my child’s life. I’m too busy being IN the moments to record them.

At 39, I have boxes and boxes of photos that I never look at. They are images from the past, of lives I tried on and decided didn’t fit, people I may exchange Facebook comments with from time to time, but am not in regular contact with and likely will never see again. When I move, I’ll store these photos at my parents’ home and hope for the best. The pictures I’ve collected from the time my son was born, I have pulled aside to put into collective albums, of course…but images of people I knew in college making silly faces, or a sculpture I created out of nuts and bolts in high school, or weddings I’ve been in, places I’ve visited, things I’ve done and worn and seen…I hardly see the need to haul these halfway around the free world.

Thank heavens for the digital age…

Still, even the digital age has its drawbacks. At the beach, I saw oodles of parents directing their children into cute poses over and over again, then saying ‘hold on, wait, hold on, I’m putting this on Facebook’ as they fiddled with phones…this brought to mind the question: do we spend so much time trying to record the moments of our lives that we forget to really live them? And does the ease of technology and social networking make us somehow feel obligated to share with friends and friends of friends and strangers even all the things we’re doing in our lives? I have very few photos on the walls of my home, but I have hundreds of images posted to Facebook, simply because it’s easy. It takes a few seconds to caption an image and share it with hundreds of people…but how much do those seconds take us out of a moment? How do the comments and responses that interrupt the remainder of our day after posting the photo affect our being fully present in our lives?

When I snapped the image of my son on the beach, I did not post it anywhere. The moment was simply too grand; too precious. After snapping the image, I was there beside him, telling him to hold up his arms and give the sunrise a big hug. Pelicans, one of my favorite birds, soared above us. Seagulls and ocean waves created the sound of the sea. The weather was near perfection, that autumn blend of hot and cold at the same time. The beach was sparsely populated; we found deer tracks. The sun came up, and we changed into our suits. As I promised myself I’d do, I charged into the sea on the morning of my birthday (note to self: the ocean water is pretty doggone cold at sunrise) and stayed in the water most of the morning. I took no more pictures beyond the one of my son at sunrise; I didn’t need to take anymore. What I needed was to be fully present, there with my only child, reveling in delight at ocean waves and the immensity and beauty of the sea. I am not sure when we’ll see the coast of our home state again. But I hardly need photos to recall it.

Later, visiting my parents, I showed my mother the 5 pictures I took. “That’s it?” she said. “Geez, why didn’t you take anymore pictures?”

I shrugged.

“I was there.” I said.

And I was, fully and completely.

It has taken me a long time to learn to be there, fully and completely. The garden helps. I check on my seedlings again this morning, the tiny shoots I’ve vested my hopes for a fall garden on. They are taking their time, growing, a miracle unfolding there beneath that dirt. I want so badly to put them in the ground, but they aren’t ready. I’m impatient by nature, but gardening has been a wonderful lesson for me in learning that not everything wonderful that can happen will happen overnight. The seedlings still aren’t ready, so I busy myself washing off the shells we collected that morning on the beach. The scent of the sea clings to them. I used to think I needed mountains to be happy, but I’ve come to realize it is the sea I now crave.

How did this happen? Can I own this change in myself? My mind flashes to the movie my son and I watched last Friday, Tim Burton’s remake of Alice in Wonderland. Towards the end, Alice stumbles upon the caterpillar Absalom hanging upside down, a chrysalis forming around his chubby body.

“I’ve come to the end of this life,” he says to her.

“You’re dying?” she responds.

“Transforming.” He replies.

I place the shells out to dry on a towel. These changes I'm embarking on, this future I feel coming, every step that I am taking to move towards a destiny I never imagined for myself...they, too, are moments.

Here I am.

The Spider Lily

There is a chill to the evening, a damp chill. It is autumn, my absolute favorite season. And it is evening, my favorite time of day. Evening is coffee and teechino, playing and lounging outside, dinner and tidying, bedtime routines, and then, a few blessed hours to myself. I used to spend this time painting, and I have an arsenal of canvases as a result of 10 years’ worth of burning the midnight oil with a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. I wanted different things back then, things I accomplished in small and great quantities, things that I no longer desire to accomplish now. It was a beautiful phase of life, but a phase I feel is through. Now, most evenings find me knitting, reading, or chatting with a friend on the phone. This particular evening, however, my alone time finds me outside in the dark, fooling around with seeds and soil on the patio.


I have a birthday coming up; I will be 39. I have never given a whit about age, be it mine or someone else’s. I only know that birthdays are a special time, and I look forward to mine as much as a child might. It is part of the reason I love autumn, actually…I know with it comes my special day. On the patio tonight, I spoon soil into small starter pots and add seeds. It feels odd to do this while the chill of winter hovers, but I am excited. For the the first time in my life, I’ll have a fall garden. On the patio sits a greenhouse, ready to hold the small pots and protect the young seedlings until they can be put into the ground. I assembled it Sunday and am quite pleased to be putting it to use tonight. As my birthday approaches, I'm always reflective about life. Seeds are so symbolic, the act of planting a thing so magical.

It is late to be starting these seeds, I know, but I’m always late. My family says its part of my M.O., which isn’t entirely true; at least it’s not intentional. But it seems to be who I am, the person who is always be one step behind in getting a thing done. I tell myself it is because I am doing so much, and that appeases my ego, but truth is I do no more than anyone else. I just tell myself I do for the same reason everyone tells themselves they are 'so busy'... no one wants to think they are always running one step behind because they're inept at being punctual. No one wants the image in their head of themselves always running, period, be it away from something or towards something. It is one thing to strive for a thing; it is another to be always running. Nevertheless, it seems I am always running behind, no matter what the event. I make it to work on time only with great effort, even though I wake up 2.5 hours before I need to be there.

Being late, running behind, how I need to improve my punctuality...this on my mind when noticed the Spider Lily plant, stuck in a dim corner under the potting table, it’s tall stalk now pale and withering. I look away; I’ve mixed feelings about this plant. I was happy when I potted the bulb, and happy when its first green shoot sprouted up from the dirt…but now the sight of it leaves me feeling gutted. I’m a pretty laid back person, not prone to create or participate in drama. For this reason, I never quite know how to react when it explodes into my life. Weeks ago, reeling from the aftermath of events I will never understand, I pushed the pot holding the lily under the table. It is one thing to strive, it is another to run, and it is something all together different to simply push a thing away. Still, I am rarely confrontational, especially with myself and my own feelings. I hid the plant, and my feelings, away...

But here's a fact: a growing thing left untended dies, and I am too much of a hippie tree hugger to allow any living thing to simply die if I can help it to live. I want to go back inside and forget the plant, but the pitiful sight of it now, compared to how it looked mid-summer, is too much. I pull the pot out and give the lily some needed attention. I prune leaves from its dead stalk and add water. Perhaps I am not too late…that would be a first for me, I think.

It’s a big pot, for I was under the impression it would be a big plant, and with the new additions of the patio greenhouse and potting table, there seems to be no proper place for it now.Then it occurs to me to just dig out the bulb and put it into the ground. But if I do that, then when I leave this place, I won’t be able to take it with me. But do I really want to take it with me? Is it that important if I shoved it under a table?

And so, here I am, outside alone on a rainy night, spade in hand, trying to decide how important a plant is to me…a plant I already hid from sight and allowed to nearly die because it made me  sad when I looked at it. Why save it now, only to have it bloom in spring and make me sad again?

I’ll celebrate my birthday this year by running into the sea during the early morning hours. I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve always wanted to do many things I’ve not yet done. Late, always late...still it is better to run into the sea at 39 than it is not to do it all. But I’ve had a hell of a start to my birthday week and the sight of the lily has done nothing to appease my mood. I waited months for this flower to bloom, and perhaps it would have, had it not been shoved aside and neglected. Now, I’m outside in the damp darkness trying to save it, for suddenly it is of tremendous importance to me that this flower lives. And I don’t know why. Given the bizarre events I associate with it, I don’t think even the most radical environmentalist would blame me for tossing the bloody thing into the compost heap and being done with the entire production.

But I can’t, because I still remember when it was given to me. I still remember how I felt, how I rushed home to plant it, what a special, wonderful gift it was, at least to me. And soon I will leave this place; I’ve began already a course of action that will surely result in the life change that I am seeking. I was born here, in this place, but I seek now a different home. I seek a different life, a life that will take me far from this potted lily on a painted patio in a small Southern town in a state I returned to but never intended to stay in.
In these little flashing moments of clarity, it occurs to me that it is inumerable, all the things we leave behind when we move on.

It also occurs to me that this flower should be transplanted in spring, not fall, and that I have not, for a long time, thought about the day it was given to me, and I certainly would prefer not to think about it now.  I have meetings to plan for, articles to write, bills to pay, projects to finish, laundry to fold, emails to write, the list goes on. I shouldn't be out here, letting my mind wander this way. So I shove the pot back under the table and come inside.

When spring comes, I’ll plant the bulb in the ground where the sun will shine on it for hours, near a patch of daylilies that flourish each season. Maybe it will blend in with them, but I doubt it. It is something rare and different, and it will no doubt stand out against the sea of carbon copies that surround it. The next person to live in this place will surely notice it one day, wonder what it is and how it came to be there, just as I once wondered about a small bed of unusual succulents that thrived in an odd spot in the yard of a house I rented years ago. I tried to take one with me when I moved, for I’d grown rather fond of them, but it died a few weeks later, having not adapted easily to being potted after years of growing free.

It was my fault entirely.

I should have known that for some things, roots go deep. Still I will plant the bulb and hope the spider lily will be okay. I hope that it will always stand out from the sea of carbon copies that surround it. I hope it will grow and grow and grow, never allowing itself to be confined, never forgetting it is a transplant here, not meant to blend in, and that is a glorious thing. I hope the daylily roots won't strangle the life out of it, as things planted in too close of proximity will often do to one another.

But most of all, I hope it blooms...I really, really hope it blooms, even if I'm  not around to see it.

Catch What You Can

Years ago, I discovered one of the most remote yet inhabited places in the entire world…or the world as I’d seen it up till then. Seward, Alaska - a northern port city, where the sea and the sky blend together so easily that you can only tell where one ends and the other begins by the bold black gash of mountains lining the horizon. I wore a jacket but still felt cold. It was August.


I was mesmerized, entranced, captivated. I have always loved gray northern places. I love the sea…but not the bright, cajoling seas of the SC Coast where everyone heads for vacations. I want a rocky, remote sea. I don’t want to bask in the sun in a string bikini…I want to wrap up in a blanket and feel the chill that rides the crest of waves colder than ice water. I want that other sea, that rocky, rugged sea that Captain Ahab knew. I have never entertained the slightest notion of taking cruises to the Bahamas or other sun-drenched shores…but I’d jump aboard an icebreaker in an instant, just for the offhand chance I’d see a narwhal.

My fascination with the far north has been with me since childhood, but my fascination with the sea came to me as an adult, when something about the vastness of it seemed to pull me in. Standing on a dock in the middle of Seward, I was suddenly possessed with the thought that if I ever wanted to run away from something, this would be the place I’d come…no doubt. No one could ever find me here. No one would ever think to look here, of all places. It would never occur to anyone who knew me well that I’d flee to one of coldest, farthest-reaching corners of the US. And yet I could dissolve so easily, so completely in this cold, windy place. I could find work, rent one of the numerous little apartments that dotted the cityscape, spending my free time knitting items I’d need for a harsh climate and tossing food scraps to gulls and eagles on the rocky shoreline. There was only one glitch in this little fantasy…it’s not in my nature to run away.

Stepping outside just past daybreak, the cool air and overcast sky remind me of my time in Seward. I was in my early 20s then, and I had few valid ideas about, well, anything. I had no experience with what kind of situation might actually make one want to run away. And I had no idea that, when presented with these situations time and time again later in life, I’d prove to be a fighter, not a flight-er. There would never be a time in my life when I would consider running away from, well, anything. And there would never be anything in my life that I was more willing to go to bat for than someone I loved.

“I so enjoy your writings about letting go,” says a friend to me via text this morning. “You make it sound so easy!”

I think for a moment of the power of words, how they can flow so smoothly from our minds to the page. My words convey a sense of ease about the struggles we all face, because I want somehow to encourage people to actually face those struggles, to break free and live the lives the dream about. I try to accomplish this by taking my own experiences and putting a positive spin on them, so that someone else might draw strength from my observations, just as I draw strength not from palm trees, hammocks, and a still sea, but from birch trees, thunderclouds and crashing waves against a rocky shore. In Wilmington, NC last summer, I was struck by the beauty I saw. But these are not the beaches that strike a chord with my soul. Seward, Alaska, was a place more suited to my nature, more beautiful, even in the cool drizzle of late August rains.

I look down at the text, and send only a simple smiley face icon as a response.

I think it’d be nice to return to Seward…I’d like to watch winter descend on a Northern seaside town. I’d like a new experience to take my mind off one I’m trying to forget. But I’ll go to the library instead and check out Ahab’s Wife, or, The Star Gazer, by Sena Jeter Naslund. It seems a little less impulsive than hopping a plane to a place I’ve not seen in over 15 years and hoping to crash in a lighthouse for a week or two. Not to mention a trip to the library is much more financially reasonable than the catastrophe of expenses a spontaneous Alaskan adventure would incur.

Memories…I cast them out, like rocks into a raging sea. I hold on to nothing, not even tokens of affection I once treasured. And I write about letting go, striving to make it seem so damn easy that everyone will want to cast something out of their lives, just to get in on the fun.

I think for a moment of the power of words, how they can flow so smoothly, just like water. Cup your hands, try to catch what you can…but it’s as futile as trying to hold back tears.

There are some fights that you just can’t win.



When I looked at the water, I felt contempt. The color was more green than the dark blue of English poets, and the waves were small and choppy.

“It’s not wild enough,” I said.

“You always loved a storm,” she said. And she told me again how when I was a small girl, only freshly equipped with language, when it rained I had said, “Harder,” and begged her to make the rain bigger and more extreme.

“How do you like the lighthouse,” she asked.

“I wish that it were taller.”

She laughed. “Accept the world, Una. It is what it is.”

~ Ahab’s Wife, or, The Star Gazer - Sena Jeter Naslund

Blue Moon Jazz and A Story of Stuff

Sitting around a bonfire tonight, waiting on the blue moon to rise, our host passed around a piece of paper and pen to everyone in attendance. One by one, we wrote something on our piece of paper that we wanted to release from our lives. One by one, we were to toss our small papers into the bonfire and bid farewell to what was written on that slip…what we wanted and needed to let go of.

I’ve written before about letting go. As I held my slip of paper in my hand, it wasn’t letting go that was on my mind. It was the idea of holding on, or rather, what we hold on too.

Earlier this month, my 89-year old grandmother decided that the 4 bedroom house she was living alone in was simply too much upkeep and expense, and decided to move into a smaller dwelling. Within a few weeks, she’d signed the lease on a perfect little duplex apartment. Her new neighbor had a porch full of flowers and potted herbs. Wind chimes danced from a shared overhang. The apartment was tidy and quaint, the yard well-maintained, and she seemed very excited about moving in...but within a week of beginning the process, she changed her mind. She wanted to stay in her house.

Why? Because she could not live in the quaint, small apartment without letting go of some of her stuff. “I worked too hard for what I’ve got to just give it away for nothing,” she said. And despite the fact that she’d already paid two month's rent and signed a lease, she has now gone back to a house that is too much upkeep and expense simply to maintain possession all of her stuff. Huge furniture, glasses, china that hasn’t been used for about 25 years, collections of dolls, doo dads, knick knacks…when I was standing in the midst of it, realizing this is what she was bound to, I wanted to say to her, it’s only stuff! You could have had a beautiful place to live, a nice neighbor close by, and a rent that was almost half of what the mortgage you pay on the house is...but sometimes it pays to remember that when it’s nearly impossible for us to understand another person's actions, it’s just as impossible for the other person to comprehend that we don’t understand their actions.

I’m sure she will face legal repercussions for pulling out of a rental agreement, but she says she doesn’t care. I suppose, to her, not having to let go of any of her stuff is worth whatever consequences she might face. Attachment…is it ever a healthy thing? Trying to decide what to write, I look up at the night sky above me. Clouds part just enough to allow the stars to shine down. My son asked me recently if stars were really our ancestors, watching us from above. It’s an age old concept children seem to easily understand, something I've taught him since he was a toddler to believe in. Today, after school, he proudly presented me with a bracelet he’d made for me with beads and a pipe cleaner. It will not last forever, nor will I try and force it to. I treasure it, yes…but I treasure more the gesture itself, the knowledge the he was thinking of me in the moment that he fashioned this bracelet from the simplest of materials. I treasure the love behind the bracelet more than the bracelet itself. I told him, when he asked about the stars , that yes, they are the lights of our ancestors, shining down their love upon us, allowing us to see just enough of them to know there is something beyond this world. Logically, I am aware of what a star actually is…but my son is a child and therefore needs to believe there is something beyond this world, some greater purpose to our existence than the routines of daily life, than working simply to acquire and hold on to...stuff.

The night sky is as magical to him, as it is to me. He greets the stars, tells them hello as they begin to appear in the evening skies. We spent a tremendous portion of summer clearing our home from unnecessary stuff. Clothes we haven’t worn in a year? Gone. Toys he no longer plays with? Gone. Books we no longer enjoy? Movies we no longer watch? Gone. Furniture, knick knacks, and collections of doodads and things given to us that we never really liked or needed? Adios. I’m not overly sentimental; I do not hold deep attachments to material things, nor will I teach my son to. I tell him it’s the thoughts, the memories, what is in our heart that we hold on to…not things. I would never hold onto china that I wasn’t going to actually use, no matter who owned it before me. My mother fusses over my using antique bowls to mix cookie dough in the kitchen, or using an heirloom quilt on the bed…but what other purpose should these items serve? They were meant to be used when they were created. If they become damaged or broken, well...so be it. They will have served thier purpose, which isn't merely decorative.

Stuff weighs upon us, whether it is material or emotional. It locks us down, binds us to places we may not particularly want to be. It holds us to a certain place in time, keeps us paralyzed in a moment when we should be moving forward. I spent the entire summer freeing myself from the baggage of both. I’m in love now with the open spaces in my home and in my heart. I want to be able to embrace new life experiences, to pack up in a moment’s notice and head out on any new adventures that come my way. If I can't take all of our stuff, then we leave it behind. I've done this before. I think to write ‘attachment to things’ on my slip of paper, but no, I believe I’ve already conquered that. And if there were any doubts, the image of my grandmother standing alone in a house that is far too big for one person, surrounded by things that are just things and will cost nearly every amount of income she has coming in to keep, will never leave my consciousness.

The bracelet my son made for me catches my eye in the firelight, and I touch it, smiling. He opted not to come to this gathering with me, but to spend the night with a buddy instead. I allowed it because I believe giving children some degree of say-so in their own lives at an early age can negate the need for them to demand it through rebellion in the teen years. I don't know it all, by far, but I'm proud of my son and my choices in raising him. I'm proud of our hippie-ish lifestyle; that we take no medications but ibuprofen; and that we know the produce seller far more intimately than the pediatrician. In this moment, I am comforted by the vastness of the night sky, because it reminds me of the sea, and I think of my son making me the bracelet in class; how proud he was to bestow it onto my wrist; how well he played his first soccer game this week; how excited he is that his two top teeth are loose; how he bursts into my classroom full of joy at the end of each day; how in tune he is to the energy of others. I need to pay more attention, I think, to that last one. I need to pay more attention to how he reacts to the people I bring into our lives. He's never been wrong about one yet, and the ability to read another person's energy almost instantly and discern a good situation from a bad one is a gift I need to teach my child to honor. It's a gift I wish I had. In Reiki training, I learned that intuition is a voice very, very much worth listening too. I need to work harder to teach him to recognize when it is speaking to him, and I need to teach myself to do a better job of listening when my own is shouting from the rooftops at me.

But for now, I'm in this moment, surrounded by friends on a beautiful property that is home to woods, a pond, and a yoga studio, as well as home to one of the most amazing women I've ever met - a 79-year-old yoga teacher more vibrant and full of life that most people half her age. She is a living testament to another way of being in and with the world, and her presence reinforces my belief that the lifestyle I'm most comfortable with is truly the right one for me. Any advice she gave me, I think I'd take, because she radiates the energy that I wish to send into the world. She represents a place I strive to arrive in, and I am so happy here that I can't even think of one thing to write on the slip of paper. I'm in such a state of peace that I can't imagine there could still be something I still need, in my heart, to let go of. But then it comes to me, one simple word, and I quickly scrawl it on the paper, then watch it turn to ash in the fire. Judgements is the word that I wrote, and it symbolizes not only the feelings I deal with when others judge me and my actions/choices, but also my own willingness to judge the choices and actions of others. I don't understand my grandmother's behavior anymore than I undersand how a close  friend can retire and choose to simply sit on a quarter of a million dollars and live on his meager retirement because he is afraid to 'start dipping into' his savings, or how another friend can keep returning, over and over, to a relationship that unhealthy to the point of being toxic and keep thinking somehow that this time it will be different...but I have to remember these are their choices, and whether or not I understand them is irrelevant to their freedom to make them...and keep making them. What would it say about me, really, if I allow myself to lose respect for another person because a decision they made was not what I felt it should be? I have to let go of judgment, and remember others may not be in the same place as me. Their path is thier own, as mine is my own. We are all bound by something, whether it be stuff; numbers on a bank statement; or the belief that another person can change. We all have something we could stand to let burn.

Beside me, someone starts to tap lightly on a drum. From somewhere else in the circle come the low, melodic notes of a flute being played. “There, behind the tree, you can see the moon” my host says. “Oh look, it’s so beautiful!” I don’t get up from my spot because I’m just feeling too warm and full of joy to move. But on the way home, later, the blue moon in its full glory stays with me, visible through the window, shining down. I think of my son, who is no doubt sleeping soundly now. I think of another person I love, of a conversation we had earlier this week, of the excitement I feel knowing a package from afar is on its way to me...

These are the things I hold on to.

The Finnish Yarn

I am doing it again...taking apart what I have created with the Finnish yarn I bought 2 years ago in Helsinki.

I've come to see this as a symbolic ritual, almost. Anyone who knits knows the feeling of pulling apart a project that you've spent hours and hours working on...it's not the best feeling in the world. This time, it is not an unfinished project I'm taking apart, it's a large wrap shawl completed last summer on lazy evenings sitting outside while my son played.

But before it was a large wrap shawl, it was several panels of a bolero-styled sweater. Before that, an infinity scarf, and before that it was the beginning of a hat; a sweater that tied in front; a scarf with simple ribbing... I don't know what it is about this particular lot of yarn, but nothing I make with it seems to be right. The bolero-style of sweater is not flattering on my figure; I don't really wear infinity scarves; all this color on a hat is too much for me (not to mention it is way too much yarn for one hat); a sweater that ties in front is likely to be annoying, as I can see it constantly coming untied and I don't like fussing with my clothing; and the yarn seems just too precious somehow for a simple scarf pattern. The large wrap was nice, yes...but I never wore it.

So no matter what I have made with this particular batch of yarn it just doesn't feel right somehow.

I often buy yarn with no project in mind, just because I'm drawn to the sight and feel of it. It will sit in baskets or bowls in various rooms of my home, where I live with it a while, looking at it briefly as I pass by, thinking about it as I putter around doing other things, until I come across a pattern somewhere and know just what to do with it. Only with this Finnish yarn, no pattern seems to work. It has been two years now, and I know there is a purpose for this beautiful, soft, elegant rainbow-colored fiber. But nothing ever seems right. I don't know what the yarn wants to be, or what the significance is in my life of creating something, then unraveling it, over and over, for the past two years.

Or maybe I do.

A friend recently posted a beautiful saying about fibers on the Facebook page of my knitter's group (The Fiber Goddi, check us out!). It was a quote by Dodinsky, stating simply that "We are made of the strongest fibers known in the universe - hope, love respect, courage, perseverance, etc. These are the threads we use to repair our soul when unfortunate things momentarily cause a tear in our lives." There is a sense of Zen in the unraveling of a project one has invested hours in. A letting go that many find hard to imagine...but why put more time into something that just isn't right and then attempt to justify it with the fact that you've put time into it already?

And so, I unravel the large wrap, wind it back up onto skeins, and place them into a yarn basket. I won't try to steer the flow this time, I've learned more lessons in patience these past two years than you'd think necessary for one soul in a lifetime. And even though I'm damn eager to create something beautiful with this yarn, whose place of origin alone makes it near and dear to my heart, I'll let it sit for a while longer, allowing the lessons I've learned, lessons in love, hope, courage and perseverance, fill my soul and remind me that persevering in the wrong direction is not noble but futile; that it takes tremendous courage to unravel and thing and begin something new; with every ending comes hope for a new beginning; and love...what can I say I've learned about love?

Go with the flow. Like a pattern you finally get the hang of, love has a way of unfolding perfectly when the time is right.

You're the Inspiration

I was delighted by the bounty of today's mail: a package and two fat letters, all from girlfriends who live states away. But the most exciting one was from a friend I've not seen since my son was an infant. We've touched base off and on through the years via email, but real letters means something, just like a phone call or an actual face-to-face visit. And I was delighted to get one of the three from her. It was multiple pages, catching me up on 6+ years of life, which has taken her from South Carolina to Georgia to Virginia, wow! I was impressed and cruising happily along through her letter when I came to the line, "You are an inspiration to me all the time, how you are able to accomplish so much being a single mom and an artist."

This letter comes on the heels of multiple emails loaded with praise of an art-writing collaborative show I participated in and attended a reception for on Friday night. And in the middle of introducing one friend to another at a poetry reading Sunday, the friend I've known longer referred to me (to the other friend who has not had the pleasure of knowing me quite as long) as a 'catalyst'. He'd mentioned to her that I talked him into participating in an event. She basically warned him to get used to that. "She's a catalyst," she said. I know it was a compliment, but it comes on the heels of the most unproductive summer I've ever spent since I began teaching 8 years ago. I smiled, then left, thinking, "I need to get something accomplished before summer ends."

But my interests have shifted, I've been exploring new art mediums and creative philosophies and ideas about writing, living, parenting, not to mention basically making over my home, my vehicle, my clothes, and myself. And still somehow it doesn't feel I'm doing enough. I've always battled this predicament. I once had a mantra on my mirror that said, basically, "While you're goofing off, someone else is working hard, and they'll get the prize." But what prize is that, really?

In my den there is a basket full of yarn that almost matches the ridiculously gigantic bowl of yarn on the desk in my bedroom. I love the look of them both, they inspire me with their colors and textures. I have a million ideas in my head for how I'll use the skiens. Books of patterns (which I can oddly follow the logistics of despite not being able to balance my checkbook without breaking into a cold sweat) are my favorite reading material these days. One of the blessings of having a brain that can derail with the slightest provocation is the ability to bounce between projects, ideas, drama, peace, moments I'm in and the moments I'd like to be in. One of the blessings of knitting is that it is a moving meditation, which is good for me because it's the only meditation I'm able to do for more that 37 seconds at a time. I can knit for hours, but I'm always amazed when I actually finish a project. Somehow I never see that far into the future when I'm casting on. I don't see the finished project in my head, I only see the steps of the pattern, the stage I'm in, the colors and textures and how it's coming together. Knitting, I'm in the moment, because I can't be anywhere else. When I'm too busy to sit and knit, I'm passing by my baskets full of yarn, thinking of what I'll begin next, of what I can yarn bomb and winter sweaters and scarves and hats and what on earth can be knit for young boys obsessed with style. I'm even thinking of asking a friend who is handly with tools if he'll build me a loom so I can finally indulge my dreams of weaving, which I've been slow to explore due to lack of, well...a loom.

My mind is always working, and as a result, usually I'm always doing.

Only this summer...not so much. This has been my summer of dreaming.

If I'm an inspiration, a catalyst, some one others might actually look up to, then I need to get busy doing, well, something that could merit such high praise. But all I want to do, really, is touch these natural fibers, work them together, blend them to make something beautiful. I want to touch them with the same reverence I have when touching the earth, with a mixture of love and wonder akin to what I feel for seeds and the way they hold life, unaware. Like alchemists of old, I want to take the simplest of materials and use them to create something that, without me, would never have been.

Which is what a dream is, really...something that, no matter how simple or profound,without us, will never be. Like seeds, we hold life unaware.

Knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two, yarn over, knit one...I'm lost in the moment, everything else falling slowly away. Hurt feelings, they pass with each stitch.

For a second my mind wanders, but I shake my head and bring my thoughts back to my needles.

This has been my summer of dreaming.

Prey

Earlier this week, I got a call from an organization I volunteer with to pick up an injured hawk and deliver it to a rehabilitation center. I told my son to quickly get dressed. "We've got to help a hawk that's been hurt," I explained. He moved fast.

My son is my partner in crime for all things, mainly because I have no choice but to haul him along on all of my adventures. There is a distinct absence in my life of people chomping at the bit to tend my son so I can have adventures on on my own; I’ve not been to the grocery store alone since he was born, and I rarely ever make it out to Starbucks for a solo coffee. But after seven and a half years, I have grown accustomed to it. I like thinking of how his life, personality, and experiences are being shaped by being my constant companion and listening to writers, artists, and poets discuss their passions; seeing wild animals in the wild instead of on Animal Planet;  hearing hushed conversations about life's realities between my friends and I at kitchen tables (this is tall talk, go play) ; by watching me win, lose, succeed and fail, but always, always try. The older my child gets the more I reflect upon my own memories from childhood, and I feel on display to him somehow…everything I’m doing now he’ll remember, just as I remember my own mother, sitting around the kitchen table with my aunts, drinking coffee, giving one another permanents, and talking about someone’s surgery, divorce, or who was having a  baby.

The men, on the other hand, were always outside, and that’s where I usually ended up. They were loud and their laughter was prefaced by expletives that felt dangerous on my tongue. I saved the words for later, when I was alone in the woods, and could say them out loud without reprimand. The men caroused outside the main houses, always in shops or sheds, lords of grills and pots of hash, denizens of poker games at card tables without chairs, sitting on 40 gallon drums or large engines turned on their side. I’d always inevitably be drawn away from the kitchen table female chatter and the mindless girl-play of my cousins to the backyard where the men were, because they always seemed to be having so much more fun. There was always a smoky haze around them from grills, cigarettes and cigars; it clung to their hair and clothes; it followed my father down the hall when he came in for the night and became a scent I still associate with all things masculine. I can remember, as a child, preferring to be where they were, even if I was merely hiding out somewhere unseen, listening.

I have very few memories from childhood that include men and women being present in the same room; this was primarily reserved for solemn occasions, like funerals or hospital visits. Inside, the men seemed larger than life somehow. Like animals in a cage, they paced and cleared their throats. They bumped into things and thier boots made scuff marks on slick linoleum. They'd shoot outside the first chance they got while the women rolled their eyes and said, “Good riddance.” And this segregation of the sexes makes perfect sense in the South, a place where men and women really have precious little, if anything, in common. So it’s funny, now, me always having my son in tow. Were we a typical Southern family, he’d be at the age where he’d begin to spend most of his time with men, sitting around smoky grills, practicing swearing (don’t you go saying that ‘round your Mama now, yah 'ear?) and learning how to be a man in the South, which is a unique lesson, for I’m not sure anything like Southern men exists outside the Mason-Dixon line and Animal Planet reality shows. But my son’s been on my heels alone since he could walk, so it stands to reason he will end up being just like me…I thought.

Last week, I took him with me to the salon, and he asked for a haircut as well. I was hesitant; I love his long curls, and have only trimmed his hair 4 times in 7.5 years. But then I remembered my philosophy on parenting (which is basically to just do what makes sense to me) and I told him okay. I gave him complete freedom of choice. He took a book of hairstyles to the chair and picked one out without showing me. I watched his curls fall to the floor in horror, and I nearly cried out when I heard the trimmers. When he came bounding up to me, he was another child. I was astonished. He’d chosen a typical short cut, nothing trendy, no faux-hawks or surfer flips like I was expecting. In the car on the way home later, he announced proudly, “I want to have short hair from now on because men are supposed to wear short hair.”

“Really?” I asked.

He nodded, adding, “And watch football.”

The day before the salon trip, he’d pitched a fit in a store for a Clemson shirt. I bought it, because it was a resale shop and the shirt was only $2, but I was surprised he wanted it so intently. While he has a natural agility and stamina that screams ‘high school star,’ his only experience with watching any sport, ever, has been a few brief glimpsing of football games at a friend’s house. I did not grow up around men who stayed inside and watched sports, save for the occasional Nascar race, which was usually listened to on the radio around the grill rather than watched on television. Guys who were into sports were foreign to me. They were the boys who ruled the schools, who elbowed and disregarded you in the halls when their friends were around but told you deep secrets about their plastic girlfriends and alcoholic fathers during study hall when no one was paying attention. I could hardly see my child fitting into the mold that all the star athletes of my alma mater seemed to pop out of, clad in thier Clemson shirts with hair that never touched thier ears.

“I’m gonna play football, too, when I’m bigger,” he says. “And baseball. Boys do that.”

Lord.

Two nights ago, we found a mourning dove that had been injured by a cat. I held it in my hands while he ran inside and got a box and a blanket. We settled the dove in safely. My son didn’t hover as some children might; this is not an unfamiliar experience. He knew the animal was in shock and needed nothing at the moment but a calm, safe place, just as he knew not to even touch the box the hawk was secured inside of, lest he risk losing a finger. The next morning, we carefully carried the box outside and opened it. I’d fully expected the bird to fly out; the injury did not seem to be severe. When it didn’t, I carefully lifted it and held it in my hands, where it sat, motionless, until it heard the soft, low cooing of another dove. She then stood and opened her wings, and that’s when I noticed the odd angle of the right one. She couldn’t - and possibly never again will – fly. I gently placed her back in the box and called the same wildlife center where we’d taken the hawk.

“Why can’t we just let the vet fix her wing and keep her, mom?” My son asked in the car. I have known people who did keep doves or other wild animals they’d found as pets, but this simply wasn’t an act I was going to put my stamp of approval on.

 “No,” I said. “It wouldn’t be right, or fair to the bird.” And that it's okay to tame the wild is not a lesson I’m going to teach you, I thought. Truth is, there was something similar about the idea of keeping the bird as a pet and my own internal reaction when my son announced his desire to be an short-haired athlete. What flashed through my mind, at that moment, were my own memories of obnoxious high school superstars, and the idea of my son being like them made me cringe. I had, until this week, been operating under the misconception that he would be like me, that as a teen he’d want to wear long floppy hair, t-shirts with the logos of Indie bands and cartoons no one has ever heard of, and the only sport a sport he’d partake in would be riding skateboards he’d painted himself. But no…he wants his hair cut so close that it doesn’t need to be brushed and prefers football shirts with jeans and plain sneakers to anything I pick out. In his own words, he wants to be 'just like all the other boys'. The child whose mother would freely allow him to express his individuality in his appearance and not bat an eye chooses instead to blend in with the crowd.

I could not have predicted this any more than my own mother could have predicted that, during family gatherings, I would refuse to stay inside playing dolls under the kitchen table with my cousins like a proper little girl. So be it; I bless my child with the freedom to be the person he chooses to be.

I wouldn’t dream of caging a dove.