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.

Look for it

A couple of days ago, while tending to the household chores I nearly jumped out of my skin when my husband gently placed his hand on my shoulder.  I removed my ear buds to address the look of concern on his face. 

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, totally… this audiobook is awesome.  Why do you ask?”

“You keep sighing—your “about-to-sob” sigh.”

“Oh.  That makes sense.  About two-thirds of these have me on the edge of tears, but they’re like, inspirational tears, not sad ones.  Thanks for asking though, hun.”

I was listening to “This I Believe,” a collection of essays about the personal philosophies of people with varying levels of fame and anonymity.  These essays were written for a radio program, which originally aired in the 1950’s on National Public Radio, and was revived in the early 2000’s.  Each essay is narrated by the author, which enhances the intimacy of someone sharing their beliefs, making it seem as if they’re speaking directly to you.  The voices (literary, actual, and the powerful cocktail of the combination) that come through each narration are particularly well-suited for the audio-format, because each essay was written to be listened to in this way.  The essay I keep coming back to—that I’ve played for my husband, and listened to on my own several times over the course of the weekend—is “The Mountain Disappears” by famed conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Leonard Bernstein.  Bernstein believes in people, and their ability to change the world we live in by connecting with one another through art.

“I believe in man’s unconscious mind, the deep spring from which comes his power to communicate and to love.  For me, all art is a combination of these powers; for if love is the way we have of communicating personally in the deepest way, then what art can do is to extend this communication, magnify it, and carry it to vastly greater numbers of people. Therefore art is valid for the warmth and love it carries within it, even if it be the lightest entertainment, or the bitterest satire, or the most shattering tragedy.”

Last semester, I experienced the deep communication through art that Bernstein refers to.  I was working as a peer literacy consultant in the writing center of the Illinois Central College, where I am also a student.  A man about my age (30) came in for an appointment with me, and through our work together I have come to better understand myself, and the profound growth we can experience when we connect with others through artistic expression and collaboration.

On the surface, our age appeared to be one similarity in stark contrast to the more obvious differences between us.  His skin is as dark as mine is lily white.  For all the advantages my race and social-status have indiscriminately handed me, he has had to fight for everything he has ever gotten. I can’t help but admire that I’ve found he nurtures no resentment, only a desire to be a good man, husband, and father of his own accord. Where I am an intensely vulnerable person, he is as strong, and tall, and sure-footed as a majestic old tree.  But in order to be heard, he was willing to subject himself and his work to the intense scrutiny of letting me proofread and edit his work, written in tiny, scrawling sentences across multiple composition notebooks.

A combat-veteran of the Iraq war, he’d filled these notebooks with a story he’d come up with to occupy himself, and his fellow soldiers during the long hours of nothingness that fell between the more stimulating, though for most, less desirable moments in war.  He translated his experiences from that war into a science-fiction novel that examined the exchanges he had with comrade and enemy alike with extraordinary nuance.  It occurred to me at one point his large stature is a necessary container for his tremendous sense of morality.

Through my interpretation, direction, and arrangement of his words in the revision process of the novel, he felt understood.  Through his patient, listening ears, and never less than outstanding advice, I too felt understood.  We found more similarities to one another than we did differences, which turned up the volume on one anothers' voices, allowing them to reach more ears.  An intense, loving friendship developed—rather unexpectedly, since I don’t believe either of us actively pursue relationships with people of the opposite sex in order to ensure our loyalties remain where they should—but there it was.  So, we reached out to our respective families, and found companionship I hope will be life-long, because I know no other couples willing to come over on a moment’s notice to build a snow fort with me.  And yes, it was the three adults building a snow fort together; the kids were total wimps and petered out on the cold within a few minutes.

If my new friend hadn’t had the courage to ask someone to look at a piece of his soul, or I hadn’t had the courage to bring someone in to my home that looked different than me, I would have missed out on so many moments of happiness and growth.  I would have missed out on seeing the joy in his face when he unburdened his mind of powerfully shitty memories by revisiting them on another planet.  I would have missed out on the companionship he and his family have provided us with, a life buoy during a dark and challenging period for all of us. 

Though face-to-face interactions like this aren’t the norm, the satisfaction and fulfillment we achieve by honest expression coming from a place of love, and the need to share and be loved, is easier to come by.  Look for it.  Look for it in the movements of others, there is an art to everything; look for it in the places you would least expect to find it (look in the obvious places too); look for it inside yourself, and when you find it, share it any way you can.

I want to be Eaten by Worms

When I die, I want to be eaten by worms.  I don’t want to be boxed up, secluded and compartmentalized from the earth that sustained me throughout my life.  Plant what remains of me under a willow tree, put a plaque with my name on it and a scathingly brilliant quote if you want, but let me nourish something after I’ve gone.  Or, if you’d like, plant a tree that produces, like an apple tree or something.  That way, I can reach some secondary consumers as well.  There’s nothing wrong with expanding your opportunities to branch out, and greet other people.  I just don’t want to be alone; I’d rather be forgotten than alone.  Oooh, a grape vine would be great!  I could be fermented and provide merriment!  Yes, a grape vine would be wonderful.  But a tree is so much more permanent…  Let’s stick with the tree.

A tree will probably stand for longer, because people will fear violating the sacred by cutting it down.  Not that my decomposing beneath it makes the tree sacred--the tree would be sacred with or without me—but then they’ll know it.  Why doesn’t everybody do this?  I like the idea of what I leave behind being caressed and cradled by the ever-expanding roots of the tree.  When the people who loved me visit, they can touch the tree, and know they’re touching something that holds me and that I’ve helped grow.  Hopefully, if I’ve lived my life right, I will have helped them grow too.  Because that’s all we can leave behind, really.

I don’t mean to be morbid, and I certainly hope this is all a long way off, but this is what’s on my mind at the moment.  Thinking about this doesn’t make me sad, fearful, or even dark.  It just gives of sense of resolute peacefulness to me.  When my friend, Andrea (who was 39, and left behind a husband and three young children) passed away suddenly of complications from the chemotherapy treatments meant to kill the cancer in her breast—not her—I remember feeling like the only part of her that was still alive were the reverberations of the things she had said, done, made.  I thought this when I saw the bag of fresh, green peppers from her garden a couple of days after she’d gone.  I thought this when I looked at her children, living echoes of both her values and dna.  I thought this when I looked at the calendar on her refrigerator, meticulously filled out in her neat, curling hand-writing.  Each day was full of plans, activities that would go on without her.  She was so good, and so loved, and all those plans and activities she had been able to participate in touched the lives of so many other people, and nobody was worse for it.

What will I leave behind?  My words?  Where will my voice echo?  Surely it will touch the lips of my family members, but will it stretch any farther?  Will people hear my voice, or read it?  I hope they do.  I hope I nourish something after I’ve gone other than the tree, and its fruit.  I hope I nourish people’s minds and souls.  I want my words to give comfort and guidance to those that come after me, like a map… or a calendar.  Words are what I will leave behind, and I hope they are as tangled up in, and lovingly held, as my body is by the roots of my tree.  My tree, growing upward and stretching outward with every branch it builds and sustains.

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Here's what I'm reading right now, and I just had to narrate it, even though it's technically a dude's voice.  I think the feelings behind the words are universal, so I went for it.  It's about a young man scattering his mother's ashes in Lake Michigan, years after her passing.  Heads up, if you're reading, or about to read Dave Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" the following excerpt is from the end.  I wouldn't call it a spoiler, but you might want to savor the experience or something, instead of listening to my super high-quality, recorded in a kids play-tent narration.  

Just thought I'd let you know.  Enjoy. :)