Meditating, Knot by Knot

It was late at night. Usually I would have been reading a book. But, that wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be alone with myself, not immersed in a world with other characters. I needed to be fully present to my thoughts and feelings, not escape them.

I had some thinking to do. I decided to knit.

I’ve been wondering what the purpose of my knitting might be. Years ago, it would simply have been a thrifty skill to have. I would have knit sweaters, scarves, blankets, hats, and gloves for my family and friends. I could even rip the stitches out of one piece after it’s usefulness was gone – say, after a child had outgrown it – and make it into something new. Talk about resourcefulness!

But, that’s not what I do. Nor is it what any knitter I know does. Knitters these days mostly knit as a hobby. They do it to express their crafty sides. For the satisfaction – and novelty – of making something with their own fingers instead of buying it in a store. Generations ago, it would have been unremarkable. Possibly, it would even have been embarrassing to wear hand-knit clothing. Now, it’s a practice that’s been adopted by hipsters. Women with comfortable lives and time on their hands. Women, I guess, like me.

There are lots of other things I could be doing with my time. I could cook – that’s very useful, and it’s also truly thrifty. I could be writing, which is something that I love and it’s also a way for me to earn some money. I could be reading, napping, catching up with friends, or any number of other errands that are on my list.

So, why am I knitting?

The answer (or, one of them) came to me that night as I lay on the couch in the middle of a quiet night. My fingers automatically completed the repetitious movements, my eyes saw the yarn but also looked past it. It felt a little like a meditation, like what I imagine a rosary might be like, if I ever did a rosary. I had some troubling thoughts, working out what I felt about big changes that are coming down the road in my life. As I knit, I was reminded – by row after row of purposeful knots – that sometimes we must allow for, even create, knots in order to make sense of our lives. In other words, sometimes things have to get pretty messy before we can clean them up.

In fact, knitting is a little like writing this blog. I’ve been questioning why I’m sending these little projects out into the hinterland of the Internet, out where few people will ever come across them. I’m realizing that, even if no one reads these meditations of mine, they are still useful, if only for me. I write to know what I think.*

Which, I suppose, is the same reason I knit.

*I’d love to accept credit for this sentiment. But, it was Auden who said something like this and many writers whom I admire have echoed and paraphrased it.

Time, Bye-Bye

Immersed as I am in the world of books for young children, I’m interested to see which books hold Winnie’s attention just as much as I remember them holding my own. Even more, I’m interested to see which books I enjoyed as a child that I can now enjoy on deeper levels as an adult.

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein is one such book. This book has been a favorite of Winnie’s for some time now. Before she could say the full title she used to call it “Money,” because she loves the scene in which the boy asks the tree for money and goes away with arms full of apples to sell. Now, she asks for it by name and sets it on her lap, reading it to herself, to me, to her animals, to the ever-patient Mystery dog. Admittedly, Win’s version is much abridged but it retains some of the essence of the original. It goes something like this: “Once, tree. Boy come! Eat apples. Tree happy. Time, bye-bye. Boy older. Come boy! Tree sad. Come boy! Boy sad. The end.”

Is this a book about two friends growing apart? About unrequited love? How tragic a character is this tree, who seems to exist in a world without any others of her kind (although she does say, “the forest is my house,” which suggests that, somewhere, there are other trees – why can’t she keep company with them?), and who is in love with a boy, or with the idea of the boy used to be. She gives away every part of herself, gaining nothing except the possibility that her giving nature might bring the boy back to her someday. How sad must she be when she thinks that she has nothing left, that the boy would have no reason to come to her again.

Can’t she understand that people must grow and change? Does she expect the boy to remain a child forever? She does. She calls him “boy,” even when he’s so old that his teeth are gone. She doesn’t see him, only her memories of him, only who she wants him to be. Ah, love.

And how sad this boy, whose expanding horizons at first seem exciting. Going to the city, wanting things…. money, a house, then, finally, a boat to escape all the things he has wanted and obtained. His life becomes more complex and less bearable, until, finally, he is so weary from it all that he finds himself content again to just sit with his old friend.

Come to think of it, perhaps this is a story about parenting.

I think of this now, as I rock Win to sleep for her nap. Sometimes, Winnie changes so much, so fast, that my mind can not keep up. I feel foolish calling her “baby” when I see my little girl running through the park, pointing out that the trees are naked.

Accepting these changes in her would be more difficult if I didn’t feel hopeful that I could grow right along with her, that our relationship could change as it needs to. I am not rooted in one place, always pining for what used to be. I am glad, now, that she can run and talk. We can communicate, make jokes, even argue. This morning, she took her book and sat in the grass amongst the leaves. After reading for a few minutes, she looked up and saw me watching. “Mommy, sit right here,” she said, patting the ground next to her. Inviting me to do something with her, I thought. This is new. Next thing, she’ll be calling me up and suggesting that we meet for a drink.

This relationship we have is always shifting, and changing. It feels both as solid as the earth itself, and as changing as seasons. I’ll long, surely, for what has been. I’ll want to hold her in my lap far after she has any interest. One day, I will be lonely for her, as the tree is for the boy. One day, I will hope that what I have to offer her is enough to keep her returning to me.

I wonder if I’ll be able to enjoy our relationship, always, in all its present and future forms. I think I will, assuming enjoyment can live with lots of other emotions, such as wonder, longing, sadness, and pride. I want her to grow into the person she will be, and I know she can’t do that without leaving behind some of who she is, some of who we are together.

As Win said, paraphrasing Shel, “Time, bye-bye.”

Fall Leaves and Trapper Keepers

In autumn, the leaves change color in much the same way that my hair grays – in large, startling swatches that bloom overnight. Last week, I came across a tree that was vibrant summer green, all except one large bough that popped bright yellow, as if caught with one arm stuck through the sleeve of a bright sweater.

Autumn means industriousness. The trees are the first to get to work. They’ve been taking it easy all summer, soaking up the sun, and now the show-offs demonstrate their abilities in a final, brilliant performance.  Many years on the academic calendar – as a student and, later, as a teacher – have thoroughly conditioned my mind to equate the autumn with a different sort of colorful spectacle – new pens, folders, and binders (remember Trapper Keepers?) of every hue.  As the trees turn and the weather cools, my fingers itch for school supplies, my mind thinks, “Well, time to get back to work.”  Then, in the uncomfortable silence that follows, quietly wonders, “Doing what…?”

Since the birth of my daughter a year and a half ago, I have not returned to my work in the classroom. I miss the new pens, and that feeling of getting organized. (Perhaps that’s why I’ve spent the last weeks shopping for bins from IKEA, the thirty-something’s version of the Trapper Keeper.) I miss feeling both excited and anxious about welcoming meeting a new group of students, knowing that each school year holds in wait countless wonderful moments of learning and friendship, countless challenges to be met. I miss the change, too, the sense that one part of the year is coming to an end, and a new one is beginning. The school year gave a comforting and predictable rhythm to my life.

Mostly, though, I miss having a neat answer to the ubiquitous question, “What do you do?”  These days, when someone asks me what I do, my mouth opens, but none of the words that come out seem to fit. “I am a mother,” is the obvious answer. But that doesn’t describe me, not even close. The world of parenting – playdates, music classes, and playgrounds – is too small for me, too local. I long for a way to affect people outside my immediate circle, as I did when I was in the classroom, or when I led workshops for teachers.

I could answer the question with an attempt to describe the evolving truth, which is that in too-short bites of time while the baby sleeps or plays with a babysitter, I am editing books for teachers, I am preparing to teach workshops for GLI, I am reading books and writing about them, while also putting my own stories – both imagined and real – to paper. But, I usually don’t get that far. That answer is longer and more complex than most people care to hear. Plus, it seems too nebulous to be real – aren’t most mothers in Brooklyn also “writers?” It feels pretentious and unrealistic to describe myself as such before I’ve been published.  Well, Shannon, I ask, what’s so wrong with being “pretentious and unrealistic?”  Isn’t that just another way of saying “ambitious?”  I’m in uncharted territory here, and the truth is that I’m scared of looking foolish.  Scared that people might – God forbid – laugh.  At me.

It seems that I, too, am caught with one arm through a sleeve. What is this new identity that I am pulling over my head? What do I want it to be? Being undefined doesn’t feel entirely comfortable, but it feels very true. I am beginning to see the positive aspects of my situation; I have the power to set the terms and the goals, and the power to change them. It’s no easy task, stripping down to the essential parts of my life so I can figure out how to present myself anew. Just ask any tree. I hope and trust, however, in the potential to be brilliant.

 
This post will also appear on Girls Leadership Institute’s new blog Woosh!
 

Photo credit goes to: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aunto/

Eat, Pray, Love… Myself

An update on my reading of Eat, Pray, Love. I’m only 2/3 of the way through the book. I’m still interested in Gilbert’s journey, so I won’t put it aside, but I will say that it has become sort of a slow read for me. The first third of the book, in which the author recounts her time in Italy, is very entertaining. Food, adorable characters, food, Italian language, food, soccer, and more food. Loved it!

The book slows way down in the second third, which is about the author’s months at an ashram in India. The pace, I think, reflects the difficult content more than it does the author’s talents. Gilbert tries to describe her inner journey of healing, her struggles with meditation, and her communications with God. However, as her experience becomes more about inward reflection, it also becomes more difficult to articulate.

For all my ambivalence about the book, it has inspired me to do something that I haven’t done in some time: mark up the pages. At first it felt strange to do, but there were some passages that were either too beautiful, too funny, or too thought-provoking to leave unmarked, with no way for me to find them again. I knew I would want and need to return to some of them. So, if you see my copy of the book, you’ll see my trail of breadcrumbs – dog-eared pages, flags hanging of the edge, and, even, stars in the margins. There is one part in particular that keeps rattling around in my brain, and I don’t quite know what to make of it (neither what to make of the passage itself, nor what to make of its apparent significance to me).

Liz is talking to her mother in this scene, and telling her mother how she struggles with her boyfriend David’s tendency to pull away from her. She says that David is like her father in that way, but she herself is “not as tough as you, Mom. There’s a constant level of closeness that I really need from the person I love. I wish I could be more like you, then I could have this love story with David. But it just destroys me to not be able to count on that affection when I need it.” Her mother – who, according to Gilbert, is in a stable, happy marriage – surprises her daughter by saying, “All those things that you want from your relationship, Liz? I have always wanted those things, too… You have to understand how little I was raised to expect that I deserved in life, honey. Remember – I come from a different time and place than you do. … And you have to understand how much I love your father.” (pg. 83)

And each time I read it I trip over the word “deserve.” What do any of us deserve from anyone else? Gilbert’s description of her mother paints an image of a self-reliant, capable person who reaches inward for her feelings of fulfillment and joy, while sharing a rich life with her husband. I have only admiration for that attitude. For myself, I tend to feel incomplete without an ever-present accomplice, or at least a witness. I’m like a kid on the edge of the pool, longing to dive in but, instead, futiley calling “Mom, watch me! Watch me! Watch me, okay?!”

And I am trying, trying so hard, to cultivate an inner strength, an inner witness. Life is good, but not because there is someone there to vouch for the fact that you are living it, to pat you on the back for a job well done. But, doesn’t having a partner for your life enrich the experience? I tend to think it does. Perhaps not for everyone. But for me, yes.

I’m wondering: does the notion of what one deserves even enter into the equation? When we fall in love, and are fortunate enough to have our love returned, are we then obligated to provide a quota of support and affirmation to each other? Keep it coming, and don’t go away, because I deserve this, buster.

What if Gilbert’s mother had decided, at some point in her marriage, that she deserved more? That she deserved the constant stream of affection that she would have preferred? She might have left her marriage, might have found another, perhaps could have found a partner who gave her what she wanted…. but she would have paid a dear price. She would not have known the sweetness of a long, shared history with her dear friend and partner, and the fruits of the life that they had created together – the friends, the home, the children, the grandchildren. Nor would she have been forced to develop her own inner resources, would not have known the satisfaction of digging deep into her heart and spirit to become a woman who could be her own witness in order to find joy in the life she had chosen.

I’m trying to be like that, myself. Trying to be the girl who can plunge right in, and enjoy the dive for itself instead of for the round of applause that I expect afterward.

I’m up to something

A blog.

I have shied away from the idea for some time. Alternatively inspired, intimidated, embarrassed, and excited by the concept of putting my thoughts and opinion on The Web for Anyone to read.

But, the idea keeps coming back, and I’ve decided it’s time to stop batting it away. So here I am. The big question, though, is what’s it about? I don’t want to be a “mommy blogger,” though there are many talented ladies who do this kind of writing with skill and humor. I am a mommy and a blogger, and I won’t ever promise not to blog about the mommy business, but part of my goal here is to carve out something for and from myself. And when I say “myself” I mean the part that thinks about more than coloring with crayons and what to make for dinner. You know, that Shannon person who loves to write and read and watch movies and listen to music and drink beer and talk to friends. I suspect she is having a pout and maybe a good cry in a corner somewhere, convinced that she’s been forgotten and abandoned. So I’m trying to find her, maybe take her out for a steak and get to know her again.

Well that’s nice and all, but it still doesn’t answer the question: What am I on about with this blogging business? Allow me to get specific. (Fingers hover over keys, frozen in a blind panic at the mere mention of the word – No! Not SPECIFICITY!! Now, now. I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that. Just take a deep breath and go for it. And, anyway, no one’s reading so you can always take it back.)

First of all, I’m going to blog about books. Books are my escape, my joy, my comfort. I’ll blog about books that I’m reading. Mostly novels, but some children’s books, a smattering of nonfiction, and the occasional sprinkle of poetry . I’ll eventually get around to making lists of my favorite books, but that might come much later, once I figure out how to coax the chaos of my thoughts into categories.

Second of all, and here I’ll allow some vagueness to exist alongside all that scary structure and specificity, I will write about some Other Things. It’s hard to say exactly what those things will be. At the moment, it suffices to say that I’ll explore thoughts about my life – the criss-crossed chords of parenting, of writing, of striving to be true to myself, and of choosing – always there is all this choosing to do – where and how to live. I won’t write every day, but I must put some kind of goal down in black and white to keep myself honest. I’m going to start by trying to post every week. Are Mondays good for you? Okay, then.

A note here about the sub-title, “sometimes it takes a while.” You see, the “it” mainly refers to the “thinking” of the title. And, for me, thinking does often take a while, seeing as it happens between trips to the playground and the shopping and the laundry and the cooking and the bathing and so on. But it’s not just being a parent that poses a hurdle for me. Ask anyone who knows me and she’ll tell you, I’m slow. Always have been. Not slow as in, That Shannon, she’s a bit SLOW. Slow as in, That Shannon, she takes FOREVER. I blame it on my being a Libra. If you’ve never read any Linda Goodman (and you should), I’ll just briefly explain that Libras, while beautiful, social, and charming, can’t make a decision if their lives depend upon it.

Don’t make that face at me.

I’m not young anymore. I’m not old, either. But the fact is that I am all grown up, with responsibilities and everything, and I’m finally trying to be the person that I’ve secretly wanted to be. I’ve been afraid to even talk about my desires, too embarrassed and far too easily daunted. I am trying, only just now, to be a writer. More importantly, I am trying to be me. Nothing against the me I have been all along, but perhaps I could achieve a less muddled vision of myself. I’m hoping that, with a little agitation, I can separate myself away from the people and influences that surround and embrace and nurture me, much like the yolk will finally be convinced to go a separate way from that clingy white.

I wish I’d tried all this some time ago, when I was younger and a little more resilient. But.

Sometimes it takes a while.