Horrible thoughts I have in response to an innocuous but disturbingly frequent stranger-observation

"YOU HAVE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER!!"

• "Thanks. She's smart, too! Quick, Syd, 9 x 6."
• "Thank you! She's funny, too. Syd, tell 'em the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the goat."
• "Yes, she is, but not as beautiful as her sister, who we keep in an oxygen-rich tank and feed only blueberries and sheep's milk. Really, you should see the other one."
• "Wow, thank you so much! She was genetically engineered for optimum bone structure and flesh tone--we did a good job, huh?"
• "You should see her routine with the scarves and flaming batons--it's really something."
• "Yeah, but she's a real dud in the personality department. Oh well, guess you can't have it all."

3 Poems by Mary Oliver

Empty Branch in the Orchard
To have loved
is everything.
I loved, once

a hummingbird
who came every afternoon--
the freedom-loving male--

who flew by himself
to sample
the sweets of the garden,

to sit
on a high, leafless branch
with his red throat gleaming.

And then, he came no more.
And I'm still waiting for him,
ten years later,

to come back,
and he will, or he will not.
There is a certain commitment

that each of us is given,
that has to do
with another world,

if there is one.
I remember you, hummingbird.
I think of you every day

even as I am still here,
soaked in color, waiting
year after honey-rich year.

Summer Morning

Heart,
I implore you,
it's time to come back
from the dark,
it's morning,
the hills are pink
and the roses
whatever they felt
in the valley of night
are opening now
their soft dresses,
their leaves
are shining.
Why are you laggard?
Sure you have seen this
a thousand times,
which isn't half enough.
Let the world
have it's way with you
luminous as it is
with mystery
And pain--
graced as it is
with the ordinary.

To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

4.
Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe my soul needs.

And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.

5.
We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we
change.
Congratulations, if
you have changed.

6.
Let me ask you this.
Do you think that beauty exists for some
Fabulous reason?

And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--
your life--
what would do for you?

To Evan, On Your 3rd Birthday

My sweet boy,

You are 3 years old today. Right now I'm sitting in the dining room of Aunt Kate's house, writing this letter and listening to you play Legos with Ethan and Archer. Uncle Ryan is playing his guitar and every once in a while you stop what you're doing to dance around the room. You are so full of joy, sometimes it's hard to sit back and watch you play without reaching down to kiss and hug and squeeze you. In fact, I'm going to have to take a break from writing this letter to do exactly that. Be right back.

Okay, done.

Evan, you are an amazing little boy. Last year I wrote about your gregarious nature, how self-possessed you are, how focused you are on anything that catches your attention, how passionate you are about the things you love. This year I've watched all of these qualities grow and expand; you are so fiercely loving--a quality you share with your mama--and it's incredibly exciting to watch you share that passion with the people in your life.

Your best friend is J. You've been knowing him since the two of you slept in adjoining cribs in the infant room at Abeona House. I wrote in an earlier post about your love for each other and my fears about whether and when the world would try to rob you of that love. So far it hasn't happened; though you are very very boy, through and through, whenever anyone mentions J. you are very quick to tell them that "J is my best friend. We love each other and give each other kisses and hugs."

During parent-teacher conferences a couple of months ago, your teacher, Ms. Aliza, and I discussed your natural tendency to lead (you do share a birthday with our current President) and she told me about a classroom management technique she'd recently developed that involved first telling you about the task at hand, then sitting back as you instructed the rest of the class and shepherded their compliance. She'd recognized your natural ability to lead and came up with a clever and creative way to channel it. I still get a kick out of watching you boss around kids who are twice your size. The funniest thing is, they always listen.

And speaking of size, you are very tiny. This only adds to your charm and makes it super easy to constantly cuddle you. Daddy and I are looking into some bonsai cultivation techniques.

You are absolutely obsessed with Legos. The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is climb out of your crib and head for the Lego table in your room, or downstairs to root through your Lego buckets. You go to sleep each night with two or three Lego guys (who must always carry some kind of weapon or tool). You entertain yourself for hours and hours, building minifigs and spaceships and castles and boats and various means of entrapment for "bad guys." Your favorite movie is "Lego: The Adventures of Clutch Powers" and we've watched it so many times that our entire family can quote large sections of the dialogue ("Rock monsters?! Why does it always have to be rock monsters?!") So strong is your passion for this particular toy, as well as your devotion to a certain football team, that for Halloween last year Daddy crafted a fabulous costume for you...

...Saints Lego Guy!

You have a keen interest in sports, particularly baseball and football, and you have fabulous hand/eye coordination. Your fine motor skills are freakishly strong and you are very affectionate. You love for me to hold you and luckily, you are still small enough for me to do so pretty much constantly (okay, okay, so the human bonsai thing is actually a pretty nasty business but can you blame me? You are just so unbelievably adorable).

Though I don't ascribe that much relevance to astrology, I have found that certain astrological traits seem to apply in many cases; I have always felt firmly Saggitarian, and your Dad is definitely a Taurus. Sydney is Libra through and through and you, my sweet, fierce boy, are so, so Leo. And in astrological circles, Leo and Saggitarius are reputed to have an unparalleled chemistry. Your fire, your ferocity, your boundless enthusiasm and your magneticism just fascinate me; I really cannot wait to see what you become.

You have brought so much joy into our lives that sometimes I feel I can't hold it all. Luckily, there are so many people in your life who love you and the joy is theirs to share, you give it readily and fully to everyone around you. You are the sun and moon, my dear: light and warmth, cool and calm. I could never have predicted how boundless my love could be, how inadequate words can be, until you came along at 5:42 pm on August 4th, 2008, and changed everything. Thank you for choosing us, I promise we won't let you down.

Now put down those Legos and give your mama a hug.

All Good People

In late childhood I went through a phase wherein I was obsessed with JFK; at some point I had found an old copy of Life magazine that was dedicated to the Camelot era and I poured through that volume until the pages were smudged and torn. My walls were peppered with photos of the late President and of Jackie O., whose sense of style eluded me (I was, and to this day remain, generally oblivious to style and fashion), and I cried regularly over photos of the graves of their son Patrick, who died in infancy. I read about policy and the crises of his presidency; I studied photographs of the assassination and when I closed my eyes at night, I tried to imagine I was Jackie O, standing aboard Airforce One in a blood-soaked dress, watching the new President take a dreadful oath. I was enthralled by the pageantry but in retrospect I think it was the lack of cynicism that I was most attracted to--their goodness seemed palpable, indisputable. All you had to do was study the looks on the faces of the mourners who were photographed in the hours and days after the assassination to know, with certainty, that JFK was a good President, a good husband and father, a good man.

Of course I had read the nonsense about his philandering. I can't remember if it didn't seem important at the time, or if I didn't understand it, or if I chose to ignore it so as not to disturb the fantasy, but for whatever reason, these trespasses did not disrupt my fantasy. From a young age I'd always been comfortable with moral ambiguity. I remember a bedtime conversation with my mother about someone who'd hurt my feelings at school; I distinctly remember saying something along the lines of "I don't think there is such a thing as a bad person, only people who do bad things."

I still believe this to be true, though distinctions tend to gain importance as we age, don't they? As children we're permitted a non-judgmental stance; as adults we're expected to have opinions, to take stands and sides and positions. Those of us who are more comfortable in the grey area are thought of as wishy-washy. There's a line in a song I love: I see that there is evil/And I know that there is good/But the in-betweens I've never understood. The lyrics are catchy but the sensibility is opposite my own; the in-betweens have always made more sense to me than the poles.

But here's the rub: I'm surrounded by good people. Not just good enough, as in never killed or maimed anyone, but straight up amazing, off-the-charts awesome. My husband's grandmother died a few weeks ago, just shy of her 93rd birthday, and at her funeral we heard stories about the clothes and costumes she sewed for her children and their friends, the wedding cakes she made (in her spare time), the ferris wheel my husband's grandfather built for the 4 kids in the backyard of their home in Luling. Another funeral I attended back in the Spring, for a man who died way too early of a rare degenerative disease, left me reeling for days, contemplating the astounding integrity of this man's life. And it made me think of Tom Sawyer spying on his own funeral, and how every kid who read that chapter must have been fascinated by this scene--not just the fact of our mortality but the prospect of so much focused attention, of so many people observing our last appearance, celebrating our life. And it begs the question: what will people say at the end of yourlife? Will they spew platitudes and sing a couple of songs and go back to the house and eat cheese and crackers, or will it be a standing-room-only, tears-at-the-podium, we-all-learned-so-much-from-this-life sort of affair?

I had a dream in college after listening to the Beatles for hours on end and watching too many episodes of Twin Peaks with my roommate. In the dream, it was raining and everyone was searching for the body of Penny Lane; the banker, who wasn't wearing a Mac, was running through the drenched streets with blood dripping down his arms screaming "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes!" and I sat in the barber's chair, horrified, contemplating the scene, and the barber leaned over and whispered in my ear "It's not enough to be a good person."

It's not enough to be a good person. Now what is that supposed to mean? As parents we comment on our children's behavior, not their character; we talk to them about making good choices and we (hopefully) encourage a non-judgmental approach to interpreting others' bad behaviors. But how many of us really think about the accumulation of our behaviors and choices? How often do we let ourselves slide because we believe in our own intent, in our goodness? How often do we recuse ourselves?

Sydney and I are working on our way through the first Harry Potter book and she has tons of questions about the Dursleys and at one point, the other night, I just said something along the lines of "they treat Harry like that because they are rotten people." Normally I go to great lengths to explain the nuances of human behavior, but on that particular evening exhaustion got the better of me. Sydney was quiet for a moment and I had just resumed reading when she tugged on my arm and said "Mommy? I don't think the Dursleys are bad people. They just seem a little scared to me."

Kindness

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Outward Journeys

At morning meeting the other day, the music teachers played a rendition of "Ain't That a Shame" and halfway through the song Sydney stood up and started dancing, that booty dance that we all know so well. She was the only one standing but she didn't care, she shook her money maker and just kept on going, even when all of her classmates, still sitting obediently, started to giggle. Eventually, after Mr. Hughes (the resident guitarist and kindergarten folk hero) called out to Sydney in the affirmative, a large number of her peers joined in, and I watched her enthusiasm and joy work it's way through the group.


Evan and I left after the meeting and drove to Abeona House, his school, our beloved community, our third place. His friends were on the playground and per the latest preschool custom he ran into the yard to show his buddy J. the Lego guys he'd brought to share. The boys' love for each other is so pure, so enthusiastic, that sometimes they become overwhelmed by it and end up embracing. This was one of those moments: I watched as they fell into a bear hug, then kissed on the lips.

Have you ever seen a pair of 2 1/2 year old boys kissing? It's a truly beautiful thing. This also happened at Mardi Gras, when we ran into J. and his family and the two boys had a dance party in the street, then shared a bowl of Goldfish. As they were parting they gave each other a big smooch, and I noticed several people around us sort of...shift. The woman next to us laughed and said something like, "Well, it is Mardi Gras, after all." I laughed too before feeling kind of pissed off and dismayed. What was so wrong about my boy demonstrating his love for his best friend? I know that some day the world is going to rob him of that pure expression, but for now, why diminish it with awkward jokes and laughter?


I've been thinking a lot lately about Outward Journeys--specifically the journeys my children will take, as they move out into the world and have to define and revise themselves. Abeona House was named for the Roman Goddess of Outward Journeys, and over the last 5 years I have truly come to appreciate the connection:

"Abeona's name comes from the Latin verb abeo, "to depart, go away, or go forth". She was believed to especially guard children as they took their first steps away from home to explore the world, an anxious time for parents, perhaps reflected in the fact that abeo carries the added meaning of "to die, disappear, or be changed". Abeona watched over any "first steps", whether literal or metaphoric. With Her associate Adiona, Abeona was believed to teach toddlers to walk. And when that child grew up and left home--whether due to marriage, college, or to make his or her way in the world--Abeona was there to ease the fears of the parents and guard their son or daughter." (http://www.thaliatook.com/OGOD/abeona.html)

"An anxious time for parents," indeed. I had my share of anxiety when Sydney graduated from Abeona House last May and took her first steps out into the world. The smaller kids lined up along the ramp with bouqets of wildflowers and sang "You Are My Sunshine" and Sydney giggled nervously througout and I cried like a baby on the Director's shoulder after I cleared out her cubby. My baby, my precious and outrageous little girl--what would the world do with her now? Of course, I forgot the part about Abeona being there to ease fears and protect, which our Abeona has done in every way imaginable, by helping me navigate and cope with the summer camp/kindergarten process, reassuring me that Sydney's exuberance and intense creativity were absolute gifts, and by helping form a bridge for Sydney between her old friends and teachers and her new community. Syd's teachers, and the Abeona House families we spend time with (nearly all of them), remain as connected with and attuned to her as ever; when we pick up Evan together, Syd is always quick to find Ms. Nicole's lap, or Ms. Emmy's ear, or to brag to Ms. Aliza about her latest achievement. And they are all not just attentive, but genuinely loving--and that's what sets this place apart in my mind from all the other perfectly good childcare centers out there: this love, this community, this connectedness that transcends enrollment and classrooms.


When Evan kissed his friend J. on the playground, there was no snickering, no jokes made to cover up the social taboo. Instead, his teacher smiled and made a comment about their relationship, how much they are learning from each other, and how excited she is to have the privilege to watch their relationship develop. This teacher saw my son and his friend not as two boys kissing, but as two people expressing their love and affection for each other in the most natural way we know. I'm so grateful that Evan is in a place where his incredible gregariousness and innate empathy are recognized and valued; we all know there are many places in the world, even those child-friendly places, where this sort of behavior would be cause for a teacher-parent conference. Not so at Abeona House.

I obviously love this place with every fabric of my being. Last year I wrote about my love for the place and the history of that attachment, with the same goal as this year: to convince anyone still reading this to sponsor me in the 10k race I'll be doing on behalf of the center. On Saturday, April 23rd, I'll run the Crescent City Classic with a group of Abeona House teachers, parents, and friends; we raise money by asking our friends and family to sponsor our run. Last year I raised $700, and the center raised almost $7,000--money we rely on to help keep our tiny place of such high quality. If you're so inclined, visit our website, www.abeonahouse.org, and hit the DONATE button on the top left of the homepage. Go on, it won't hurt, but it will help a lot.

And I will love you forever and ever.

Duty Calls

The summons came in the mail at the worst possible time: 14 clients a week, massive Spring events for my administrative job, preparation for a workshop on Ethics I'm conducting in April...throw a month of jury duty into the mix and life suddenly went from "overwhelming" to "batshit crazy."

My initial impulse was to use my children as an excuse to get out of serving - until I remembered that I'm not the type of person who uses her children as an excuse. I also remembered that I believe in the legal system, or at least I believe in the idea of the legal system, of which jury service is a fundamental component. Also, I like to watch Law & Order and figured I might see some hot prosecutor action.

So I reported for duty on the first Tuesday of March and made my way to the small room, the one without televisions, having recalled from my last experience with jury duty that the larger room quickly becomes crowded with the sounds of new best friends chatting, Judge Judy or Troy or Maleficent or whomever shouting and abusing and haranguing, people yelling into their cell phones, the Roni Deutsch commercial that runs an endless loop around the midday television shows. The small room, on the other hand, is quiet - at least in a relative sense (yes, I'm looking at you, Ms. I-Can't-Be-Bothered-To-Turn-Down-the-Volume-on-my-iPad-While-I-Play-Neverending-Games-of-Bejeweled-Blitz).

There's a digital screen at the front of the room that keeps track of how many cases are currently on the docket (like that word? I learned it watching Law & Order). Some mornings we walk in and the screen flashes the number 2 or 4 and everyone heaves a collective sigh of joy and relief; other days, like today, the number is much higher, and I watch as people slump down in their chairs, bracing themselves for the tedium. Most cases seem to plead out and every once in a while I hear delighted murmurs and look up to see that the number has shifted drastically downwards. When a case goes to trial and the judge needs a jury for voir dire, the clerk gets on the microphone to call the randomly selected and it is an incredibly Pavlovian phenomenon: after a couple of days the mere crackle of the microphone caused a visible stir in almost everyone around me.

I've been called to voir dire 3 times now. The first time, I got choked up when they swore us in; I was stunned and oddly moved by the sound of 50 strangers loudly and resolutely affirming that they solemnly swore to uphold the law. We live in a country where most folks don't know the words to the National Anthem and although I wouldn't call myself a patriot, there was pride and purpose in that room and it was hard not to get all worked up about it.

The case sucked, though: felony carnal knowledge of a juvenile. I hate to say it but I took one look at the guy and my perpetrator radar went off. There was no way I could have been impartial so when they went around the jury box and asked us each what we do for a living, I didn't feel too guilty when I told them I was a psychotherapist and they asked me if I thought I could be impartial and I hesitated for a moment. I was just being honest.

The next case was a home invasion, and my radar wasn't doing anything special. Still, when they asked me if I had any experience with home invasion I did not hesitate to give them both my own and my acquaintances' histories with that particular horror, and when they asked me if I could be impartial given those experiences, I hesitated, and for that I do feel a bit guilty. Granted, they likely wouldn't have picked me anyway, but that one was on purpose; I didn't want to get picked and I was playing the system.

The problem is really in the onerous nature of the commitment. In Orleans parish they require residents, when called, to serve jury duty for an entire month, 2 days per week. For many people that is a tremendous burden, and it manifests in the way people, or at least people like me, respond to the prospect of being detained. If I were called to jury duty for a couple of days or even a week, I imagine my willingness to give myself over to the legal system would dramatically increase; it's the prospect of an entire month of inconvenience that squelches my urge to serve. You see, even if you get picked and serve on a jury, you still have to report back for duty on your next scheduled day. At the voir dire for the home invasion trial, I sat next to a woman who had served on a jury until 10 p.m. the night before--and reported to the courthouse at 8 a.m. the next morning. I also sat in front of a man who, in the brief interlude when the judge stepped into chambers, proceeded to relate the details of his daughter's hysterectomy to the total stranger seated next to him - but that's another story.

Today, walking into the jury pool, I resolved to be less calculating, to give myself over to the system I supposedly espouse. I would NOT be calculating in my responses to voir dire inquiries; instead I would answer openly and spontaneously. I would NOT wish to be excused from the courtroom, but rather re-frame my thinking in terms of civic duty and pride of procedure. I would put my crazy commitments aside and focus on the matter at hand - that matter, of course, being justice, or the pursuit thereof. We shuffled into the courtroom and sat quietly for a few minutes while the judge fussed at the attorneys. I checked my phone for emails - I do have to work, after all - and just as the man next to me leaned over to ask if my phone was a Blueberry, the judge called a continuance and we were dismissed.

I can't say I wasn't relieved.