Windy Tales and Mindful Wandering

This morning I was listening to a favorite song, “When the Roses Bloom Again”– an old ballad sort of song about a solider going off to war. He promises to return to his sweetheart when the roses bloom again, but is killed. As he’s dying, he requests/promises/ wishes to be with her again someday. I have a penchant for sad story put to song. The poignancy of simple stories and stringed instruments cut to something elemental and familiar in me.

I appreciate that torn  rawness that that sort of story can call forth. I think of my grandfather, who so easily cried when he heard music, and I nod to some yet unknown gene that connects us, even in his absence, this way.

Perhaps I am simply drawn to these sad things. I am reading a book by Studs Terkel called May the Circle be Unbroken. It is oral history– short transcriptions of conversations with people talking about what death is to them. It is organized by chapters: medical workers (doctors, ER workers, nurses), mothers and sons,  military/soldiers, religious  leaders. It is captivating and touches that same space that music and ballad does.

Last night I read a chapter by a man who donated part of his liver to a man he didn’t know–to a local newspaper writer.  And then before too long that writer, despite the new liver, died. It was captivating: this man’s giving of an organ we possess which can remake itself. This man’s belief around what he is here for, and then the painful experience of his good will, his literal suffering, still not saving this man. Another man speaking of his experience with stage 3 cancer told of laughing hysterically with a friend when his spleen was hurting him from cancer. He said “my spleen is killing me.” And then recounts that he and his friend laughed hysterically for a long time because they looked at one another and realized that literally, his spleen, filled with cancer, was killing him. And yet, he doesn’t die of the cancer– he’s recounting the story 20 or 30 years later.

As I listen to “When the Roses Bloom Again,”  I see black and white images of my grandparents before the war. Stories from Terkel’s book by soldiers who have come home from war and who describe the loss and death in war, flash in my mind too. I am amazed that I exist. What strange force protected my grandfather in that time in the Pacific that he could return and continue this family? Or my other grandfather in Korea?  How easy it would have been for this song to be the story that either of their lives told,  rather than their stories continuing in the lives of their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren?

Earlier in the week a friend and I talked about the challenge of living outside of organized religion: who is there to hold you in loss? What can you turn to when you face death and tragedy? Her husband, she said, thinks that religious belief/god is magical thinking. And I wonder, what is magic, and what is the opposite of magic? I can’t say that I have a good answer for that.

As I read the short stories people tell about death in Terkel’s book, I find myself feeling something that is not rational in each person’s narrative, something that nods to large-ness, or larger than this-ness. It is vague and won’t be tied down, which is what I love about the book. It is simply people’s experiences, as they face loss of loved ones, or death, and how they learn to navigate existence afterwards. There are no answers, just stories. One women in her 80s no longer believes in the catholic god as she once did. But finds herself haunted by worry suddenly after years of confidence in her decision: ‘what if ?’she asks.

Perhaps that is the unavoidable “magic” or “not magic” we all face: what if, what then? The unknown.

Perhaps we answer this with science, religion, logic, magic, fantasy, but in the end all we know is that we don’t really know.

I think this is what makes ballad touch me so: that they do not try to explain the why of it all. They simple tell a story: there was a man who went to war, and he wanted to return. He didn’t, but even as he was dying, he wished and hoped that he would somehow, reconnect to the one he loved.

Children accept this differently that we do. Still  developing rational thinking, they cannot explain the things around them as we might. *

Last week as I was finishing reading my 4 year old a good night story– his ankles crossed over one another in tie dyed socks he had made, two toes sticking out of one of them– I stopped and looked at him. “I love you Jonas,” I said, “you and Papi, and Elias.” (His dad and brother.)

He said: “Mom, when I die you will be not so sad because Elias will still be here.”

I don’ t know where this came from. He looked at me so matter of factually. “Well, Jonas,” I said, “usually children live longer than their parents.”  “I know” he said, “but Elias will help you.” (Very short pause). “Let’s be slow cats now, ” he says, headed to the base of our staircase, where, every night after we read, we crawl slowly up the steps– him under me– meowing until we reach the top of the steps, where we stand up again, returning to ourselves.

“Good night Jonas” I say, taking Elias, freshly bathed, from his dad to rock him to sleep. On this particular night, I found myself humming “When the roses bloom again” as the rocker squeaked and he nursed, which is what led me to play the song today.

As I reflect on the song now, I am struck by the line:  “And their hearts were filled with sorrow, For their thoughts were of tomorrow.” Tomorrow isn’t yet really a solid concept for a 4 year old– who needn’t be paralyzed by the thought that any of us might die, because right now, we’re not dead, we’re just here.  He doesn’t need magic– things seem to be just what they are for him, for now.  We can talk about dieing and then crawl up the steps pretending to be cats.

My husband and I had a poem read at our wedding, by Erich Fried, in which Love is personified, and to each rebuttal given, answers: “it is what it is says love.” I think so. Which is why story is so powerful– they simply are what they are: people’s stories/experiences in living. Individual stories are somehow, in their small-ness, so much larger than all the other things that they make up (logic, rationality, science, religion, belief, history).

Yesterday I peeled a bushel of apples. I made apple butter in the crock pot, apple coffee cake, savory apple turnovers. The house smelled of caramelized onions, apples, cinnamon and allspice. The air from outside, as my husband and almost 4 year old came in and out smelled of cooler air that somehow carries less of the heavy chemical city air  that the summer holds. The day before we had traveled 40 miles to NJ to Moon’s Farm with friends. We took a hayride, had apple cider donuts, cider, and bought apples and pumpkins to bring home.

Standing in the middle of the farm stand, breathing in the sweet tart of apple as my eyes scanned the names– Pink Lady, Cortland, Red Delicious, I could see my grandfather’s hands in my mind’s eye. I could picture him pulling himself out of his suburban in east Tennessee, to head into a farm stand, his hand as it reached for a bushel of apples, a jar of pickles. “Get what you want Trace” he would say.

“Mom, mom, I can’t wait, can I have a donut?” Jonas asked, the smell of the freshly made donuts making my own mouth water.  “Yes, yes– get your dad– I’ll have one too.” I say.

With my grandparents, it was vegetables, fruit– food– that was given, more than toys. I hadn’t thought it that way before, but it is true.  I watch Jonas bit his donut. I wonder if his hands will be like Pop’s. “I want to be a farmer” he had told me recently. “That’s a nice idea” I said.

When I was on those road trips with Pop, I’d occasionally drift off to imaginings of me in the future– farm savvy and ready to meet the world the way he did. With an innate sense of the rhythm of things grown and growing. And then, my grandmother, always in tow. The one to prepare all of the goods he purchased and grew . The first time I took my husband to meet my grandparents, long before we were married, we sat on the porch of their home in Shady Valley for hours and broke green beans, the quiet barely audible sound of them dropping on top of one another mixing with the sound of my grandparents’ voices for hours. There was a meditative quality to the time it took to break a whole season’s worth of forerunners.

We recently finished our last jar of green beans  from my grandparent’s  garden, the last jar of Pop’s honey , and the final one of grandmother’s apple butter. The passing of this season of my life– when I was fed by the literal fruits of my family’s garden, is passing. And I wonder: what of these arts can I pass on? How can I bring that magic to my children, as a city dweller ?

Not these words, but the essence and spirit of them filled me yesterday as I made my own, my first, batch of apple butter. Jonas commenting on how yummy it smelled each time he came in or out of the house. As the day progressed, I dove more deeply into the quest to make things. As though in the art and act of preparing these things I was able to connect to that space and time, to those people no longer with me. I found myself very driven, as though, somehow, something critical depended on the tasks at hand: to preserve the season’s harvest for another time.

As I swayed Elias to sleep in the afternoon, laundry spread all over the floor, my eyes scanned the room. For a moment I saw the space not as I sometimes do: a place to clean, straighten, windows to repair. But as a home. My home; my children’s. I had the desire to make photographs of each section of the room— with all of its clutter and disarray. To then spread those photos out on the floor and start to name each thing I saw– to sketch out the poetry in each item, placed or misplaced as it was. The small line of yellow on the window frame, a mark left from the window crayons Jonas used for a week after his brother was born, to paint pictures, write his name, and pass the strange time of adjustment he had in becoming a big brother.

The long thin tube shaped grey piece of foam discarded in the corner, a left over piece of insulation we tried to use last year to block the draft under our front door. Since, it has been a scarf, a telephone, a weapon, and many other things in dramatic play.

In the living room, the plastic pumpkin lights flash where they hang on the mirror. Last year my parents brought them to Jonas as a gift. This year, a magic experience for my son: finding somewhere to hang them and turning them on. He sat watching them for at least 5 minutes of rapture. “They are beautiful” he said.

All of these things around me– they make this our home. I can feel the weight of each mundane thing, and by weight, I mean power. These are things  that shape us when we are busy living our lives. These are the details that we recall later: the Halloween lights made in China, the way our grandfather exhales as he steps out of the car, the sound of his boots on the farm stand concrete, the smell of apples and peanut shells on the side of the road, the apple cider donut that we eat warm, the smell of apple butter cooking as we come in and out of the yard on a late October morning.

It makes me feel the power of this moment and it holds me accountable to living deeply as long as I can.

This morning, as most mornings, my 3.6 year old popped into my room and into my bed. After snuggling with his little brother, and tossing him enthusiastically from his belly where he had hoisted him to hug and bounce and sort of toss him around, he jumped out of bed and headed straight to work. He picked up an imaginary object that required him to reach his arms out in front and stretch them around the invisible container, which demanded a deep “umphf” to lift.

“I have to get the maple syrup from this tree” he said as he hauled the still empty container over to the maple tree growing at the foot of the bed. Some careful fine motor work tapped the tree with something very tiny, that then filled the container super fast. Then he lugged the filled container  back over to the side of the bed. “Here mom” he said, “here’s your glass of syrup– it came out really fast today.”

To meet the world with this energy and imagination!  How do we cultivate that curiosity as adults & support its longevity in our children?

The preschool I run recently received a big box of books as donations. As the school is commercial free, I pulled out the ones with commercial characters and made a stack to donate. My son discovered the stack and has latched onto a “learn to read” Curious George story.

As we read it ,I noted the message in the oft repeated phrase: George was a curious monkey who tried not to be bad. The naturally curious monkey is always in trouble, being bad, etc. Sure, he always ends up being a hero, but it’s a bit of a convoluted message. He’s naturally curious, but his curiosity gets him in trouble. And, yet, it also, often saves the day for someone.

My son and I  have read another Curious George story, also from a pile to pass on,  in which George is visiting the dentist and a woman and child are with him in the waiting room. The child is afraid of the dentist so the mother goes first. While the mother is in the dentist chair (her daughter is in the waiting room), George sneaks into the exam room and spins her around and around in the chair as he tries out all of the levers and buttons on it. Just as George is about to get in trouble, the little girl comes in from the waiting room and laughs, thus undoing her fear and , lucky for George, transforming him from a trouble maker about to get a lecture into a saving force who has shown the little girl that the dentist can be fun.

So what’s the message?  Curiosity shouldn’t cause harm to someone else? Curiosity is only of value when it serves/helps someone else?  Curiosity needs to be monitored?  What is the value of curiosity? And how do we learn to navigate the natural impulse of curiosity within a community?

It seems to me that our relationship to curiosity reveals a lot about our relationship to play.

In young children, play is the work they need to engage in to learn about the world, to process their lives and the small and large concepts they are trying to make sense of for the first time: sameness/difference; life/death, separation/community, connection/independence, cause/effect.

In effect, these are concepts we never really have a solid hold on, even as adults. There are “whys” that our children will bring to us that are easier to answer, at least with the help of a little research. Some specific examples from this week: “Why is asphalt hard?” “Why is the sidewall grey and not black like the road?” ; “Will this stick grow in the ground with real roots if we put it there?”; “Why does icecream have to melt?”

But we would be harder pressed to simply answer the questions that play sometimes tries to sort out, or that pulse underneath what seems more superficial: what does it mean to be born? What happens when we die? What is permanent? What is power and how do I use it? How can I be a member of community and still have my own thoughts/desires?

Often, as adults, we grow accustomed to living as though we know the answers to these sorts of questions. And yet, most of us, when faced with an earnest 3 year old’s questions, the loss of a friend, an experience of being ostracized from a group we thought of as family, will find that the knowing was really much less known than we thought.

It’s really as though the play of children, by embracing the  question in the present moment as they play it/act it out,  is a more honest way to live with these questions.

I know that children need to come to understand how to live in the world, to learn how to respect others, how to share, how to care for themselves. But it also seems to me that in supporting them to understand this, we overstep our own knowledge a lot. We presume to know things that cannot be known.

How can we leave space for our children to live with the unknown, even as we model for them how to engage with the known/the seen/the measured? How can we allow ourselves more time and space to cultivate curiosity about those things we really cannot know? How can we honor the power of play and make more space for it– for our children, and for ourselves?

This teacher’s blog, and this particular blog post, illustrate the power of children’s play beautifully:  Marla McLean, Atelierista.