Wind

Days of eiderdown clouds packed into the hollow of the lake, soaking up fish and hydrofoil to shower down upon us. Is this a fish Ferris Wheel: up, down, up, down? Do they swim in line to ride?

"'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good." The wind blows here at gusts up to 50 mph. It was to end at 5:30 a.m., but the wind didn't get word. Last year we lost power for up to a week because of winds nearly twice as strong. This wind seems so kind in comparison. It spurred me to chop and haul wood and check the flashlight and lantern batteries, to think about what we need to prepare for the winter winds. This wind jostles hills of leaves to the ground and little boys to kick through them. Forces of nature. Forces of jubilation. Guess this wind isn't ill.

Party plans

We've decided to throw a big Halloween party, sans the super-scary and brutal. The theme is Hogwarts. With that in mind I began a while back collecting ideas on the internet for Harry Potter Parties, as well as coming up with some of my own. So far, most of the online orders for party goods or tools have come in. (There's been a mixup with my costume hat. We'll see what the Warner Brothers Shop does to remedy the situation.)

Meanwhile, the living room ceiling has been covered with strings of white lights and landscape fabric and tiny pumpkins dangling from fishing line. The pumpkins will hold electric tea lights on party night. The idea is to recreate the image of floating pumpkins and the night sky on the ceiling of the Great Hall at Halloween. The Mirror of Erised has been recreated using foam board and gold foil (the kind used to line cake boards). All that's left there is to put the words along the top and mount this frame to our hall mirror.

There's much to do... including the last coat of stain and protective coat on the bathroom door (a leftover construction project) but the process has been creative and challenging, with many lessons learned. Hopefully, I won't forget the lessons before the next time they are needed.

Bat for Lashes Plays Seattle

Sunday night, our five year old daughter had her first spend the night at a friend's house. She's had them at her aunt's before, but this was different. And it was a school night. Frank picked her up yesterday morning and took her to school. The night was a success and a BIG adventure with many tales.

The reason for this experiment was simple: parents needed a date and Bat for Lashes, the British band, was playing the Crocodile Cafe downtown. Need date + Good Music + Limited chance to see particular band + Childcare = A Done Deal. We were ready at any moment to cancel the whole thing if the spend the night didn't work out for any reason, but apparently the girls played voraciously, went to bed at bedtime without any fuss, and zonked out completely. The only possible hinderance to the evening: parents falling asleep before the late night show or on the midnight drive home. The first disappointing. The second obviously more so. We held up quite nicely for older parents. The pole we found to lean on for the performance helped tremendously, as did the performance art style of the band.

It was an all-ages show. We held up the upper end of the spectrum along with a few others who appeared a bit farther along the Bell Curve. Management divided the room in half with orange, plastic netting: alcohol/no alcohol. Or as Miss Kahn of Bat for Lashes said, the "youngies" on one side. Well, we found ourselves on the youngies' side, kind of by accident, probably by tired brains. It was less crowded, and the kids (all of whom I am old enough to have birthed at a statistically normal birthing age) were incredibly well-behaved. I felt like poking one or two to see if they were stand-ins or real young people. Where were the bad manners I remember kids my age - at that age - having? Okay, I'll be thankful for it. There was a moment when a young woman stepped on my toes because she couldn't see in the dark, and she apologized. A far cry from a Dallas New Year's Party long ago when a young woman speared my foot with a 4 inch stilleto and proceeded to laugh drunkenly in my face wondering why I'd caught her heel with my foot.

But back to the present, curiously better mannered day...

Almost as much fun as watching the band, was watching the two young men in front of me and to either side (they had such good manners, they made all conscious efforts not to block my view.) One shouted out at a lull, "Thank you for making such beautiful music," and at another time, "We love you!" Each time he was overcome with embarassment at his outburst and pulled his hat down over his eyes, only to shove it back up so it would not obscure his view of the goddess before him. The other, non-verbal young man, craned this way and that to get as close as he could to Miss Kahn without looking as if he were and came close to being the one Miss Kahn handed her tamborine to during one song. I can't help but wonder how long the glory of that moment would have lingered with him: a lifetime? 24-hours? The young woman who ended up with the tamborine-holding duties did a fine job, possibly because she wasn't fantasizing about the artist.

Fantasies are lovely, no?

Bat for Lashes band members each play several traditional and non-traditional instruments: violin, keyboard, autoharp, guitar, tamborine, maraca, flute, temple bells, walking stick, electric xylophone, squeeze box, drums, and other things. They use hand claps and foot stomps in the music. On a video of them I saw one member play the saw and another a cello. So these are well-versed and creative musicians. The feminine power of the room Sunday night echoed off the walls. Seeing, hearing, and feeling vibrant, talented women play music and perform with such raw power and passion bursts the dams in your heart and downs the fences of your daring. My hands itched for my own violin and keyboard, my own guitar... Songs ranged through my head all day following the performance. I saw my daughter on that stage. I saw that drive and creative force that I see in her. I felt it.

It liberates and empowers to see women excell at their craft. How liberating to be old enough not to be jealous, but grateful and happy for and encouraged. Reinvigorated.

Time to sand and stain a door. Then finish hanging the night sky on the living room ceiling. Creativity takes many forms. Some quite practical. Others not a bit. Thank heaven for that.

Life As We Know It

On Thursday, our 5 year old daughter discovered she had the courage to undergo a CT Scan without anaesthesia.

We woke early that morning so she could eat breakfast before the "no food" cut-off time. Later we headed to Childrens Hospital. After a strange little Abbott and Costello routine of winding the corridors with the nurse/tech trying to find Frank (my husband) who was trying to find us, we settled into a room -- all of us. We answered questions. We answered more questions. We asked questions. And our daughter drank the contrast liquid. The head nurse came in and questioned us again. They felt Little Bear could handle the Scan without sedation. We agreed, but our daughter had the final say. She decided to try it, and we were sent off to play in their play area.

If you have to be a sick child, and hopefully you do not, Childrens is a pretty cool place. They have an outdoor play area, including a lowered basketball hoop, walking trails, and many imagination play structures (for lack of a better word). I lost "HORSE" again, but only by one letter. This may be more to Frank's nerves than my improvement. And in any case is painfully pitiful on both our parts considering the height of the goal. Childrens also has an indoor play area, including a library of books, art tables, an air hockey game, and so on. Both areas were filled with enticing activities. We even ran into an older girl from our daughter's school. Considering the size of Seattle, this seemed more than a coincidence. That girl was at Childrens for her little brother. The two girls played air hockey together and bonded in school spirit.

When it came time for the test, Frank read us a children's book while the nurse put the IV straw into our little girl's hand. I held her, careful not to squeeze her back into my womb. She jumped at the initial Pffflllt and painful pop of the injector, but allowed the nurse to insert the rest of the mechanism without any struggle. She stared at the hand as if it had suddenly and spontaneously emerged from the end of her arm. It now sported a tube with a dangle on the end like a built-in cat toy.

There's an experience of maternal care that feels primal and predatory. You hear your own wolf's howl inside your head and feel the need to pace in front of the den to fend off whatever lurks in the darkness. The howl woke me that morning. It rose again in my throat when they inserted the IV line into my child. I bit it back with 2 inch fangs and pressed my lips together. I did not bite the technician.

We walked to "The Doughnut" as a family, as a pack. The tech showed us what the machine did: up - down - in - out. We told our daughter it goes up and down like the dentist's chair (which she enjoys) or Miss Kay's chair (our hairdresser - whom she adores). She didn't seem as fearful but still balked at getting on the table. She didn't want to disappoint, but she was scared, and said so. So Frank hopped up on it, and the tech put him in the machine and told us what the machine would do. She popped him back out and asked our girl what kind of filling she liked in her doughnuts. She couldn't think of one, so I suggested Lemon, and asked her if she wanted to be the lemon filling in the doughnut. She lit up. She hopped up on the table and said she was going to be the lemon filling in the doughnut.

She had the tell-tale tautness of worry in her face and the accusing look of faith in her eyes as she looked to us for reassurance. She had accepted her fate and called up the reserve of invincibility that dwells in the young.

Another experience of maternal care: breathlessness. When your child displays raw courage, faith, grace, humor in the face of fear... your heartbeat thrums in the silence of your lungs' collapse.

They sent me into the hall to watch from a window (to protect my body from radiation in case I were pregnant.) Frank donned the lead jacket and stayed by her side. Radiation. They were going to irradiate my child. We were all protected from it, and she was going to take it into her body. She and she alone. She had to do this herself. Tie my hands, lash on a boulder, and toss me into the river. She had done it all herself. We were there, but the strength to complete this task had to come from her.

Paul McCartney's song "My Brave Face" rang in my head. She was the brave face. I stood apart, watching, not hearing, my waning eyesight eagle sharp, my cross pendant in my fingers, prayers and songs on my lips.

Recently, I read a study about how the old teaching technique of memorization added nothing to the brain's functioning. Maybe so. But it adds immensely to your whole functioning. Having been immersed in scripture like Holy Water as a child, verses always come back to me in times of need, great or small. They wash me in comfort. Psalm 23. Psalm 56:3. John 10. Matthew 6:25-34. Pslam 139.

The tech injected the medicine that would make our daughter hot ("like the sun," she said). The tech pushed the button that sent her in and out of the machine, her hands over her head, her breath held, her body still. And then it was over. We went to lunch. We ate like ravenous wolves.

That night we slept.

Friday morning, I called our doctor for the results. The person who answered said she hadn't seen anything come in on the fax, but that they'd call when the results came in. It was 10 a.m. I asked her to please call Childrens and get the results, as we had waited and worried for two weeks and needed to know. "Oh," she said. "Okay." There are times when you have to advocate clearly because sometimes folks don't understand what you need. "We'll call when it comes in" isn't sufficient when you've hung in limbo with your child's life a question.

An hour later, the doctor called with the news: our daughter's belly was normal. The test showed no pathology.

I wanted the doctor to repeat the words over and over, as if that would engrave the message in stone or write it in permanent marker.

Writing this now my breath still catches. Do I continue to hold it? How long will I?

We drove to Frank's work and took him to lunch. We had hamburgers, possibly the modern day equivalent of animal sacrifice, the fatted calf. Our little girl was alive and well. Gratitude isn't enough.

We prayed for those families who would not receive the happy news we did, for the children we saw strapped to IV poles at the hospital, for the families parking in the Whale parking lot and following the inset fish along the floor to Check-In and then to the Glass Octopus of Radiology Reception and beyond. All the paint, glass, bright colors, toys, fish tanks, and tile in the world can't make that trek any shorter, and they surely can't make the return trek any easier when the news is not as joyous as ours. But I am grateful for the staff of Childrens, for a facility made with the sole care of children's needs in mind, for the kindness, gentleness, thoughtfulness, and sweetness we encountered along the way. There can be no way to make the serious sickness of a child easier for a parent, but they do their best to build a soft cocoon in which to take the blows. Thank you, Childrens. And thank you, dear God, for holding us every moment, for never letting us go.

Weights and Measures

Lord have mercy, did a cold ever descend like a glacial waterfall over my body yesterday!

Have you ever lived where the weather occassionally whips up a Blue Northern? A blue-black wall of sky moves across the horizon plunging temperatures by decades instead of degrees. You can stand in one spot and feel it hit with its incongruously inevitable suddenness. When I was a younger woman, I thought my father (a Native Texan) had made up Blue Northerns. He is a teller of tall tales after all. Why should I believe his stories of how sudden and how cold? Then one day during my freshman year of college (in Texas), I walked to class wearing shorts and saw that blue-black sky. An hour later, I emerged from class and sprinted to the dorm for warm pants and a sweater.

This is how the cold hit yesterday. Like a mixed metaphor? Probably. Waterfall, Blue Northern. Pick one. It hit. It descended. It moved swiftly, inevitably, and with purpose. In the morning, I felt fine. I went places and saw people. Somewhere during the 20 minute journey home, I felt a tickling in the throat. I drank hot tea and figured to knock it out before it took hold. Within a few hours, I was laid out in bed feeling as if someone had moved the house on top of me with a vague wish that someone had. I emerged a while later and slid a foreign language film into the DVD player of my laptop. Who needs English with a head full of wool? It turned out to be a perversely satisfying experience (the film + brain malfunctioning sickness). Of course, it didn't last long. I was out again in short order.

Is there a moral to this tale? A lesson? No. I feel crummy and tired. That's about it.

Handsprings

Today I watched my daughter flip through the air. I saw her spread her wings and try to fly. Someone spotted her, of course, but she tossed herself backward as if she has known how to do a back handspring since birth. She trusted the spotter. And indeed the spotter helped her over every time. My daughter doesn't have the technique down yet, but she understands the trust part and the try part, and she clearly believes that she and everyone else in her class can do these feats of physical daring by showing up and trying again and again. I also saw her try to ride a unicycle. She cannot ride her bicycle without training wheels yet, but there she stood by the wall climbing onto that tiny unicycle again and again and again. She reminded me of an ant carrying some object twice its size over a stair step sixty times its size. There is no impossible. There is no nonsequitor.

I have much to learn of faith from her.

Before heading down to the school to watch, I had to call Chidlrens Hospital to make the CT Scan appointment for next week. The scheduler asked a lot of questions and gave a lot of information. My child can't eat less than six hours before the test. She has to show up in the morning for part one of the process and come back in the afternoon for the actual scan... The image of my child lying on a gurney unconscious haunts me. When it first formed in my mind, it sucked the breath out of me. My lungs shriveled flat on the nothingness of mother fear.

I had to see her fly through the air and land on her feet. I had to see her strength and determination. I had to see her vitality.

She is alive, and we are alive, and we will probably all live long, healthy lives. The CT Scan is to rule out unmentionable possibilities that statistics say are not likely. But it is still there like those ghost clouds in yesterday's storm. And when the test comes and goes, I'll go back down to the school and watch her fly through the air again and again and again.

Clouds

Joni Mitchell sings a song called 'Clouds' that I like to listen to. We've had a lot of clouds recently. Yesterday it poured rain for a while. It usually sprinkles, drizzles, or patters. But yesterday, Seattle heard a roll of thunder, saw the sky light up, and felt buckets of rain pour down for a little while. It wasn't a Southern storm. It wasn't the tail of a hurricane thrashing two hundred miles inland. But the rain called attention to itself in a town where it usually goes unnoticed in its ubiquity. At one point I sat in a window and watched and listened and went silent. The sky lay draped in a veil of white-grey, foglike clouds, a lighted backdrop for the soft grey whisps of floating ghosts. Who can speak when nature performs parables? We must listen to hear God's voice.

Clouds and Soapboxes

In the spirit of living in the moment, our family wound its way north to the Fremont neighborhood in Seattle last Saturday to join friends for the Soapbox Derby. In my never-fail underestimation of things, we lounged around the pizza place till right before the race started; then headed out to find a spot to watch, only to find that the crowd had multiplied exponentially in the time we'd eaten our slices and told tales. Every tall person in the metro area (and there are a lot) seemed to have landed a spot along the front line of the race course -- and none was giving way to children or their parents. Our daughter sat on Frank's shoulders to watch the proceedings until a space opened up at the rail. Considering that Frank and I are not tall, this put her about even with some of the folks up front. Eventually, however, with potty breaks and the sprinkling of rain, the tree people weeded out, and we all got spots at the rail for watching the proceedings.

Understand, this isn't the Boy Scouts' soapbox derby. These are costumed grown-ups in the equivalent of un-motorized mini-floats launching themselves and their vehicles down a ramp, through a fairly steep curve, and down a hill on one of Seattle's city streets for several blocks, and into a pile of hay bales where a panel of judges score them ruthlessly.

The ever-flowing (and occassionally crashing) silliness fed our souls. One team's entry didn't make it out of the first curve, so the driver RAN to the finish line. There was a giant pickle, a rhino with wiggling feet, a sushi roll, a gorilla driving a banana, a dentist in a tube of toothpaste, and thirty plus other entries. We didn't make it for the entire race. The teams went one at a time, made little speeches, did little song and dance routines, and then rolled down the hill. It took a L-O-N-G time to get to #10 (or however many we saw).

Oh, how we need these moments of creative revelry. It's lovely to know this is normal for our daughter.