The Country Bunny

Check out this bunny's sweet golden boots (they give her super powers.)

Yesterday, we celebrated Easter, and all the growth and fresh life it brings.  Following the festivities, while readying the yard for spring, I uncovered a nest full of baby bunnies.  Clark was playing with the neighbor girls across the street, so I called them over to show them.  Big mistake.  Half of the tiny bunnies scattered every which way; it was pandemonium.  The youngest girl, Brianna, put her hands to her cheeks and declared official disaster.  Before a traumatic childhood memory could ensue and make a bad situation worse, I gathered my wits and said firmly, "Everybody, stop," at which point, everybody stopped.  I scanned the yard and saw four baby bunnies hopping, each in their own direction.

"Clark, sit on the swing.  Girls, I'm going to send each of you after a rabbit.  Don't go til I give the word... Brianna!... I know you're excited, but you have stay calm.  Walk slowly, and only speak in a low voice if you must, we don't want to frighten them.  Lydia will get the one by the stairs; Laura, there's one next to the basement window; Brianna... Brianna, where are you going?  Brianna, there's one at the base of those daffodils.  Do you all see where your bunnies are?"

"Lydia goes first, scoop the bunny up from underneath using both hands," I said, demonstrating as I retrieved the first one from under the freestanding porch-swing in our back yard, "and once you have him, hold him gently between your two hands without squeezing.  That's good, Lydia, show your sisters how you're holding him.  Now Laura... good!  And Brianna.... slowly now... good. Come sit on the porch swing with me for a minute, and we'll rock them to sleep so we can get them back into the nest without everyone scattering again."

The four of us sat on my porch swing, and Lydia told me about her Baptism the previous Friday.  We talked about the traditional Indian dinner we had had at our neighbor's for their daughter's fourth birthday the night before, and how delicious it had been.  I told them everything I knew about baby bunnies, and that I had raised three that wandered from their nest, and gotten lost when I had been Lydia's age (about 11).  The girls were fascinated as I told them about getting up in the middle of the night to feed them kitten formula with an eyedropper, and how I brought Mars, Snickers, and Butterfinger to school every day so I could stay in from recess and feed them. They thought it was sad that the bunnies' mommy was only with them for five minutes a day, until I told them it was so predators couldn't find them.  

Before long, each child held a tiny, sleeping baby bunny.  I gently prodded the clover in front of the nest then situated myself next to it.  I opened the woven straw and rabbit fur that served as a lid, and gestured to keep silent as I waved each of the children over in turn, gently returning the sleeping babies to their home, letting Clark carry over the last.  As I tucked the precious new ones in, to await their mother's return, I realized how we had all grown, and exceeded what we thought ourselves and each other capable of.

Reflections of a Student/Housewife

I thought it would make for an interesting project to narrate some of my Grandfather's writings.  I've transcribed a few pieces for various purposes, and was always struck by the connection I felt to him as I did, though he passed away before I was born.  The same can be said for speaking his words.  It was weird to speak my grandfather's words, and thoughts, out loud and measure the words by my own ruler.  I too enjoy some of his favorite nasty habits, and feel just as obliged to hide them, though the desire to kiss pretty girls abated after my first go at college...Though our areas of study are not the same, I found many of the misgivings he had about becoming a minister are the same issues I drag my feet over as a wife and mother.

It occurred to me that becoming a minister (at least in the 1930's, when 'Reflections of a Student Minister' was written) was the surest way for a man to subject himself to the same level of moral scrutiny that "honest" women face every day.  I don't even want to imagine what it was like for my grandmother, thought I know from later writings that his musings about this did present some challenges for the two of them in their marriage.  I have often felt, as he did that I don't want the "...life sucked like an empty orange of its sense of joy because of the presence of ... categorical imperative[s] which make duties of what might and should be spontaneous joys."  It really bothers me when a gesture of kindness is taken for granted, but how can it not if that's what one "should" do?  I came from a place where spoken gratitude sufficed in response to a gesture of kindness.  But I recall as I write this being shamed for not promptly writing a thank you note for some books on parenting I received from someone.  At the time, I'd been moving, and had just had Clark, but the indignation of the gift-giver reminded me that the time and place I had come to be in came with a different set of expectations, fair or not.

I do not want to "...shed [my] human personality in order to become an emblem..." for my family.  And sometimes, as he didn't want to be a minister, I don't want to be a housewife/mother.  I think the surest way to making good decisions about morality is to know, and accept yourself.  The more one is shamed, and feels shame, the harder it is to overcome the shortcomings that brought the condemnation in the first place.  I want to be an example of sincerity and authenticity for my son.  That means, if I feel like making homemade cookies for the bake sale, I'll do it; but if I don't, I reserve the right to bring a bag full of cookies from Subway.  It's comforting to know that I come from a line of people who resent intense scrutiny of their moral character, and it's one legacy I'm inclined to preserve.

My Favorite Audience

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine had his heart broken, following several days of moderately intense ego-bruisers. It (his heart) had been fractured for awhile, but seemed to be holding steady, until he got the old five-finger-death-punch, dealt by someone he loves a great deal.  He came over, and as he recounted the particulars to my husband and I, he seemed somehow removed from the story, delivering it in a quiet monotone.  It didn't seem as if he was hiding from his feelings, rather that he'd been stewing in them for long enough to have reached a point of numb acceptance.  Numb acceptance can be a small relief, but it doesn't do much in the way of helping you begin you ascent from it.

As he told his story, I felt a lump rise in my throat, and before he could finish his next thought, I'd thrown my arms around him.  I don't know what it is about physical contact with someone who cares when you're on the brink, but it always seems to open the floodgates.  He buried his face in my shoulder and let the hurt come rolling out.  I didn't tell him everything was going to be okay, I didn't say "this too shall pass," or any of the other trite, if true, comfort phrases.  Everything will be okay, and time will pass, and eventually his heart will mend.  But nobody's heart every breaks over someone or something that brought them no joy, and when one is grieving the loss of that joy, telling them they'll feel better when the happiness they once had has become a more distant memory is not always such a comfort.

So our small group of devoted, loving friends just listened, asked a few questions, and put some good food in his tummy.  Our crestfallen friend started to resemble himself a little bit more.  He was still sad, but seemed stronger, and more equipped to begin his uphill climb by seeing himself more as we saw him; and less as how he'd come to see himself as understood by someone that couldn't reflect similar love and admiration.  When it came to be  bedtime for the little ones (who had done a fabulous job playing with my record player downstairs while the grown ups discussed the injustices of love), we all went up to my son's room for story time.  I guess it's a little unusual, but ever since Clark was a baby, when we have friends over, they are always close enough to be included in our family's favorite time of day.  The book I read was simple, and to the point, and said more or less everything a person who'd had a really rotten week needed to hear.  Here's the video of story time that night:

Reflections in Post

There is a far more obvious choice for story-telling in audio format than audio books.  Music is maybe the most effective way to communicate our deeper, more nuanced truths.  I would guess this has been true for as long as we have, as a species, been able to speak (or at least since someone figured out how to bang two rocks together.)  I feel like musicians are given far more poetic license than novelists, and I think this might be because the music often says what the lyrics alone cannot.  But a really fantastic song, the real gems, have lyrics that work as hard as the instruments, and the combination becomes so much more than the sum of its parts.

 A good song, like a good story, tells us that we're not alone; reaches out with invisible arms and embraces us through our ears.  When we don't feel so alone we can step outside of ourselves for a moment, and gain a sense of clarity that can help us know ourselves better.  It's kind of up to us what we do with our self-knowledge after that, but at least it's an opportunity for growth.

For about the first year after hearing some of Mumford and Sons' songs, I dug my heels in like a mule about them, and insisted that I had outgrown jam bands, because I was too old to subscribe to the bullshit idealism of their smelly, shoe-less fan base.  I had trudged through knee-high mud and excrement at enough music festivals to hear Dave Matthews play the same damn song over and over again, however enthusiastically. I have no idea when I actually listened to a Mumford song instead of just hearing it, but I had to rescind the blanket statements I'd made about them.  All their songs may sound like the same one, but it's a really good one.

Once, while listening to Lovers Eyes, the lyrics "I must live with my quiet rage" grabbed a hold of me, bringing to mind a strong mental image of my father's face.  When the song ended, I started it over again, and listened more carefully to the rest of the lyrics, and in doing so, realized the song seemed to tell the story of my parents' relationship.  They met young, and they were both as deeply willful as they were profoundly insecure.  Because of these insecurities, they were unable to celebrate one another's successes; they could only cut each other down to remain on equal footing.  As time passed, they could only see one another's failings and shortcomings, and only embody reflections of the expressions of them.

Curious if there was anything to the connections I drew between this song and their marriage (which has somehow managed to survive, despite the near constant barrage of petty insults)  I played the song in my car while driving with each of them, individually.  I made no comment about the connections I had made, wanting to get as authentic a response as possible,  I didn't even make a big deal about wanting them to listen to it.  On the first listen, before the song had ended, both were moved to tears.  Both expressed a desire to go back in time, and try to see the best the other had to offer.  Both wished they had loved the other my fully.  

It didn't change anything between them really.  After nearly forty-five years of marriage, their relationship is what it's going to be.  But it doesn't have to be that way for me.  I don't have to live with my quiet rage, and can choose to see the best of the people in my life, instead of being threatened by their strength, so that we all can become more than just the sum of our parts.