“I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
I used to think there was such a thing as an adult.
At first, the adults were my parents and my teachers. They gave me answers in absolutes; this is the right thing and that is the wrong thing. That made me feel safe, and also freed me from my own opinions. If mine didn’t match theirs, it must be wrong. They were older and smarter and more experienced.
Then I got older and met more adults, and some of them seemed even more expert than my parents and teachers had been. Some were as sure of themselves as my former “adults” had been. It was terribly confusing to learn that the things I’d taken for gospel were, in fact, debatable. Some of these adults were gentle in sharing their wisdom, offering it alongside the wisdom I’d held before, calling it not the choice but a choice. That made me feel unsteady; how could I choose the adultiest adults, the rightest choices, the smartest smart people? If they all disagreed, did that make my original parents and teachers right? wrong? neither? WHO WERE THE REAL ADULTS?
It wasn’t until my youngest daughter got sick that I realized that there is no such thing as an adult. Continue Reading…
Every year, spring shows up like a surprise party. I spend the winter in a midwest funk of grey on grey on dirty brown, trudging through alley slush and tensing my muscles against hidden ice, head down, every slog a sigh.
And then one morning, I wake up and see the sun sliver its light through the curtain, and I go downstairs to find my children are in short sleeves, their bare arms the same beautiful smooth gift I treasured each spring when they were tiny. Now they’re sparkling teenagers, up before me, deep into videos and social media before I can stumble down the stairs each morning — but I still treasure those bare arms, the pieces of them I forgot over the long winter, more skin to marvel over.
They used to live inside me, those arms.
Outside, sun shines brightly, and a check of the weather forecast tells me those short sleeves are audacious choices still, but not so audacious as they would have been last week. And maybe, just maybe, today is the day for my first non-treadmill run of the year. Continue Reading…
In 2005, there was no Facebook.
In 2005, there were no smart phones or tablets or ways to send audio and video to anyone.
In 2005, if you were like me: alone with your preschooler and your baby and your empty house and almost no friends with children, the only way to connect to parenting wisdom, camaraderie, and a stolen moment of sanity several times a day was Mothering Magazine’s online forums. They were called the “Mothering Dot Commune,” and, for me, they served the purpose that smart phones and social media and texting serve now. They were, in a lonely world, a lifeline of support and connection. I relied on them for everything from pregnancy support (August 2005 Due Date Club!) to toilet training ideas to vegetarian recipes. I was steeped in gratitude during my pregnancy with my second daughter, but never more so than after she was born, when a regular user of the site who I’ll call Shanti helped set the course of my parenting in a way I’ll never forget. Continue Reading…