On Harvest Moons and writing

My eldest and I gasped simultaneously.

Did you see that Mommy??

I did, sweetheart.  It's pretty amazing, isn't it?

A huge harvest moon had just begun its ascent, and hung right above the horizon.  Luminous in the dusky blue of a September evening.

I almost pulled the swagger wagon over to the side of the road, just to look.  In and out of the trees it seemed to bob and weave - or maybe it was me bobbing and weaving.  And then, for a long stretch on I95 I had an uninterrupted view.

I watched that moon from the corner of my eye as I drove.



Its glow seemed so self contained.  The huge circle hung in the sky, not gold not yellow not orange.  Just....the color of warm light itself.  The moon seemed to have no compulsion to cast shadows, to spotlight anyone or anything.  It seemed content to glow within itself, guarding a secret knowledge of the autumn to come, the long winter beyond it and a spring that will surely come. 

I want to live like that harvest moon, I found myself thinking.  I want the inner glow, the self possession that doesn't include bright flashy sunbeams cast on those around me, but rather inspires them to glow themselves. 

But.  But. I know that that spark within me, the origin of the glow is the writing.  And honestly, that light has been dim for such a long time.   Every time I sit down to write anything, I start, then sigh, and stare at a blank screen.  I hit delete-delete-delete-delete and keep that moon from rising on the horizon with its radiance and indescribable color.

Just write.  Its a message I have muttered to myself so often in the past six months.  Just write.  And yet the darkness feels unshakeable - a total eclipse, if you will.  It doesn't mean the moon has gone away - it simply means it is obliterated temporarily by the brilliance of others in its orbit - by the roles of mother wife daughter teacher.

So here it is.  I'm just writing.  Inspired, as with so many other years, by the reflections of autumn, by the wisdom gleaned in gathering days, by those around me who urge me  to Just Write.

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Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary - a blogger who makes me laugh like few others, and then choke up with tears with her very next post - yesterday put a challenge out there.  Can you do it? she asked.  Can you let go of your inner critic, of your daily routine just for a moment, and Just Write?

I am so grateful to have someone ask that simple question, the night I talked with the harvest moon.

eight and three quarters

watching her in motion is like watching two ostriches do cartwheels - all long legs and arms waving around of their own volition.

long long long feet rest on her flip flops, showing me all the growing that is still to come. three sizes, she grew this school year.  three shoe sizes.  

mosquito bites make a point-to-point map up and down her shins, meeting at the matching bandaids on both knees.

the denim miniskirt, so big she had to tie it on in the fall rides high - almost too high - this summer.  A hand-me-down Hollister t-shirt from her cooler, older neighbor friends up the street has been chosen over all the sweet flowered blouses in her drawer. 

the [finally] long hair meets her shoulders, the summer blonde streaks starting to shimmer throughout - it was carefully brushed this morning. i recognize the calculated nonchalance of hair tucked behind ears Just. So.   instantly, i remember those painful early days of knowing you want to look a certain way, but having no idea how to make it happen.

her smooth cheeks slope over razor-like cheekbones she got from her dad.  i watch the dark brown eyes follow everything that goes on around her, exactly as they did when she was six months old.  even now, so serious, she can't help the way they sparkle with curiosity, with challenge, with imagination.

she folds those knobby knees underneath her as she sits, graceful when she's not thinking about it.  she's completely unaware of my gaze - rare for her these days, with a 3rd grader's budding knowledge of the world's perceptions and judgements.  she is wise after a tough year at school, learned some life lessons far more critical than the second grade curriculum of math facts and reading strategies.

my changeling - changing.  in front of me.  so much the same as the day she was born, and yet ever a new creature in our lives.  inexorably, she moves all of us to the next phase: a hazy future involving growth spurts, hormones, algebra. a life away from - outside of - us. 

she'll never know the moments i have taken to study her.  to etch her into my heart, the exact way she looks today.  i haven't had enough moments of absorption, of making sure I know her.  just today, just this split second, i caught my girl in mid flight, even as she begins to soar so far beyond us.

Seriously, April? It's been too long.

and, hey there, March?  Um, don't let the door hit you on the backside on your way out.

Have never been so happy to see the beginning of April.

March.... well.  March is just about the worst month on the calendar.  It is the monthly equivalent of Tuesday in the work week.  (My antipathy for Tuesday - every single blessed Tuesday - is a whole other post.)

I tried to work it, really I did.  We did 'in like a lion, out like a lamb' weather experiments, coloring pages, and data graphing. I enthusiastically cooked up some corned beef & cabbage and made rainbow with a pot of gold fruit salad for St Patrick's Day.  (I drew the line at green milk, however. I wave the Not-Irish AT ALL flag here.)  We learned about kites, and wind, and planting seeds, and everything early-spring I could come up with.  We even threw in a Star Wars birthday party in there!

The weather remained resolutely cold, wet and miserable.  All. Month. Long.

So here's a recipe for great mental health:  take one person with Season Affective Disorder, who just barely makes it through winter on the best of years, and give her an Achilles injury that equals zero physical activity all month.  Then have her start a writing class that is truly exciting, but oh-so stress inducing. (Me:  I am having a little performance anxiety about all this.  Husband:  Is this the part where I say 'no kidding'?)  Add in a little crisis at school requiring some principal-meeting and parent-teacher conferencing,  and coat it all with a thick crust of mud.

Mud everywhere.  Glommed onto shoes, coats, gloves (because oh yes, we still need our gloves!) - in people's toes, in their hair, in their ears.

So yeah.  I greet April with open arms, screaming and running headlong into it like a teenage girl reunited with her boyfriend who was like, totally away for like, a whole week.

I've got, what, eleven months to ignore March, right?

Snow, and stillness

The Worries clamored like a pack of hungry preschoolers at snack time.  I stood in the shower this morning and let myself be assaulted by every single anxious thought my brain could manufacture in the space of ten minutes and the shampoo-soap-razor routine.

Forgot to... why didn't I... need to pay... have to remember... what IS it she thinks Santa is bringing?  this bill... that list... those emails.  On and on the siege raged.

Out of the shower, drying off, I noticed the very first snowflakes of winter swirling past the window.  I peered out into my backyard, and saw the faintest dusting on the kids' swings, on the Adirondack chairs, on the picnic table.

Funny, how often it is that nature will speak to us when rational thought eludes.  Stop, Kirsten. Enough. Enough. Be still.

Once dressed, I went outside to take photos, my kids fully occupied by sweeping off the front lawn. [Bizarre, I know. They're just goal oriented, I guess.] The heavy snow-filled air demanded silence of me, and I obliged.  I watched as the white flakes covered all that remained unfinished - the abandoned toys of summer, the leaves of fall - and I was still.  I silenced my anxieties, and chose peace.

Enough. There will always be more, always be not-quite-right. But for now, especially now, I will simply be still. I will find quietude for my head, for my home, for my family.  The stillness of the snow came early enough to teach me.

And so goes November

In November, at winter's gate, the stars are brittle. The sun is a sometimes friend. And the world has tucked her children in, with a kiss on their heads, till spring.

- Cynthia Rylant, In November

If you're a lover of children's picture books, check out Cynthia Rylant's beautiful text. It is a beautifully illustrated meditation on one of the simplest months of the year.

November closes feeling exactly as it should - ominously cold, anticipatory of winter, and austere enough to be peaceful.

May we all find quiet peace in the next few weeks.

The Affair

I'm starting an affair.

You don't need to hide your shocked faces. It's ok. In the spirit of over-sharing that is the hallmark of this blog, I thought I'd just come clean and let you all know at once.



Mr NilsenLife knows about it, and is incredibly supportive, if a bit worried about how it'll play out. My kids know about it, and as with most things I decide, they figure if Mommy thinks it's smart, they'll go along with the plan. My parents know too. They think it's the right thing for my family.

So: I'm starting an affair - an affair with homeschool.

I flirted heavily with homeschool last year. In fact, I think it's safe to say that homeschool and I got to third base: I bought a full curriculum, notified the school, made lesson plans. But at the last minute, I chickened out.

I couldn't go through with it. It's risky behavior - dare I say transgressive? Maybe not so much anymore. Maybe lots of people are doing it and as usual I'm late to the swingin' party.

When I tell friends about it, the 'holy moly, I thought this girl was sane!' thought bubble pops up momentarily. Then they smile and say "I'm sure you can do it. I'm just not the kind of person who could ever do that." They're not judging; rather, they're worried about me. They're concerned that I don't know what I'm getting into. They worry about what it'll do to my family.

But the allure of homeschool... so seductive. Slow mornings in pajamas, school outside at the picnic table on nice days, allowing time in the schedule for snow storms or beautiful spring afternoons, field trips every week if we want. We will indulge a small scientist's fascination with The Way Things Work, we will examine the Walters Art Gallery at our leisure, away from the weekend crowds, and we will take a tour of the fire station.

Everyone knows affairs have their dark side. Knowing you're flouting conventions, always wondering if you're doing the right thing: all of this will arise I'm sure. Perhaps by missing kindergarten in a classroom, my boy-child may be deprived of the experience of a lifetime. Who knows.

What I do know is that I don't enter into this without thought, without some serious prayer. I am following a mother's heart, and much of what's in my head backs my heart up. I have a little guy who isn't quite ready to sit in circle time and listen. A bright boy who is incredibly curious, incredibly thoughtful, and convinced it is not his right to demand any attention. A small boy, born with a full head of hair and a serious expression - both make him seem more grown up than he is. A boy who's learned to disappear in the noise and stress of a houseful of people - a boy who deserves his moments in the sun with Mom.



He will make his way in the world. He will do beautifully in school when he gets there. But for one short beautiful season in his life, he will be allowed to be just Lars.

I'm getting involved in this thing for my boy.

Summer. And then not.

I only just caught it, out of the corner of my eye.

The air was still - stiller than still, and heavy with mid-July humidity.  The cicadas hummed and clicked their summer song, children around me splashed and burbled in the deep water, and as I caught the hurtling toddler in my arms, I looked up over the lip of the pool's edge.  I saw a little boy staring up into the sky, past the pool fence, transfixed.

I followed his gaze up, past the top of the tall oak trees,  into the cloudy greyish skies of a 90-degree day.

I watched the single yellow leaf twirl down amidst the lush greenery of the woods - the little boy and I watched the one yellow leaf make its way to the earth.

It was the single moment - the moment in which you know the end is coming, that the season is making its shift. It brought to mind the same quote I shared back in November:

It is in the nature of things to change.  Nothing can last beyond its given time.  And I think that instinctively we know what that time is.  What is it that makes us know when the summer turns?  The smallest shift in the light? The slightest hint of chill in the morning air?  A certain rustling of the leaves of the birches?  That is how it is -  suddenly, in the midst of the summer heat, you are overcome by a tightening of your heart.  The realization that it will all come to an end.  And that brings a new intensity to everything:  the colors, the smells, the feeling of sunshine on your arm.  [p. 72, Astrid & Veronika, Linda Olsson]

What?! I hear you cry.  The summer's barely started!  True.  It's barely started, and it's begun its end.  

But don't you see?? Now we can focus on the "new intensity": now that the single leaf has been spotted, we can love even more the antiseptic smell of the chlorinated water, or the briny brackish smell of the sea.  The scream of a child shooting off the end of a slide.  The croak of frogs and hum of crickets in the summer night.  The white-hot glare of the midday sun.  The green earthen smell of fresh-picked tomatoes. The dripdripdrip of watermelon juice from your chin.

I watched the single yellow leaf fall, knew instantly what it meant.  But I love the millions of green leaves that remain.  It is in the nature of things to change, and it is in the best nature of humans to embrace the changes.

****

This post is linked to Bridget Chumbley's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival on, you guessed it, Summer.  Go check out what the rest of 'em have to say about this intense season.

Magic - It Isn't Complicated

the viscous slip of suntan lotion sliding into that space between armpit and ribcage (the spot I always miss)

the shock of cold water against humid skin as you dive with abandon

the thrill in your kid's eye as she plunges into the deep end for the first time this year

the brain freeze that comes with the first huge bite of shaved ice with syrup

the scent of chlorine, suntan lotion and hot sun filling your laundry room afterwards like a warm smile

the inky acrid smell of real charcoal and lighter fluid snaking into your nose

photo by Dave K Cooper

the first corn cob of the season popping its kernels between your teeth

the first firefly of the summer blinking in your front yard

the aural hip shake of bossa nova on the stereo making your shoulders shimmy, just a little

the quiet non-sounds marking a late May night - two people on their porch, rocking & humming & writing

here's where summer begins.  this magic - it's not complicated.