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Whining for Christmas

Posted on by Kelly (and the Buck)

I wonder what Mary had to say to God.

I think about her son. Reluctant to help out at a large family gathering, even with the smallest of miracles, distracted by his own purpose, like my boys.

Kelly (and the Buck)'s avatarKelly & Lila

Kelly Salasin, 2013, all rights reserved Kelly Salasin, 2013, all rights reserved

“I can’t wait for Christmas!” my 15 year old says.  “How about you, Mom?”

I pause to consider.

“I can wait,” I say. “Christmas is as much the preparations for me.”

Then I laugh at myself. If this is true, why do I agonize over the preparations, and take joy on Christmas Day?

Labor and birth come to mind, and pregnancy. Perhaps suffering the preparation, even if its treasured, isn’t so absurd.

How then might I be gentler with myself in this knowing? (And how about others, do they deserve less of my griping too?)

My mind flashes to a classic birth scene–a screaming woman, a tightly gripped hand, the accusation: “You did this to me!”

I wonder what Mary had to say to God.

I think about her son. Reluctant to help out at a large family gathering, even with the smallest of…

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in the garden

Posted on by Kelly (and the Buck)

The fear of leaving my children motherless…
Did you have it too?

Kelly (and the Buck)'s avatarKelly & Lila

I found these words scribbled on the front of a magazine from 1999.
I was a new mother. Full of fear. In the garden. With the rain.

Poetry Notes, 1999 Poetry Notes, 1999

Sunday evening
When the sky was still filled with light,
And the rain had softened to a mist,
I went out to the garden to weed.

At first tentative,
With spade and trowel,
Bending and squatting:
There was the garden–And
there was Me.

But through the hours
Of sweat and fatigue, and the fear
Of leaving children motherless,
I entered the Garden.

I knelt in the soil,
Cupped dirt with my hands,
Shaped mounds
Around each
New plant.

The puddles, christened
Me, with mud, until
I surrendered
My separation.

Dirty
I became the Dirt
And the dirt became Me
And in this Homecoming,
the fear of death drained from my bones.

I was the joy of the Universe
Expanding, Alive

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Posted in College, Fragile Life, Insight, Mid-Life Mama, Milestone Moments, Teens, Uncategorized, What's Next? (18 & beyond)

Turnstile

Posted on by Kelly (and the Buck)

revolving-door-1
We sent our very independent and surly 18 year old off to college last August, and he returned this past May, thrilled to be home.

We were taken aback by this deep appreciation for our small world given his desperation to escape it a year earlier, and we mistook this as a leap in maturity rather than a deep disappointment in his experience at college and in himself there.

His new plan is to take a semester’s leave and to volunteer in his field (International and Community Development) to help bring the excrutiating static classroom experience to life; and to shed light on how to move through with passion and meaning and integrity.

With this aim, he has been working with a non-profit organization in Central America to find a good fit. They have decided on a women’s artisan cooperative in Costa Rica in the same town that he visited with his Junior High class in what seems like another lifetime ago.

He leaves in two weeks.
He leaves.
He.

As parents, we’re not sure about our role; which has been increasingly true for a least a couple of years now.

I’m beginning to understanding that parenting, all of it, is not so much a nest as it is a reverse toll booth or a turnstile or one of those revolving doors through which others move from the outside to the inside to the outside again.

In this analogy, I find it important to distinguish the role from myself. This distinction seems to have growing relevance as our children become adults.

I want to communicate support and encouragement without robbing initiative and autonomy, and that is a tall order.

Breath has become one of my greatest tools. And silence. And listening.

(But just in case, click here for his upcoming trip. Pass it a long if you’re so inclined.
Just don’t tell him that I asked.)