rumpus

I am so sad about Maurice Sendak's death. His books accompanied me through childhood and now parenthood; I don't think we ever go more than a few days without reading In the Night Kitchen, The Moon Jumpers, Where the Wild Things Are, or Higgelty Piggelty Pop. His exquisite art and attunement to the perils of childhood (of personhood, maybe) have surely influenced me more than I know.

About a year ago I stumbled upon Outside Over There at the library. One glance at the cover made me shiver. I'd forgotten about this one, which I read as a child--over and over--though it scared the daylights out of me. It's the story of a brave big sister who has to rescue her baby sister from goblins all by herself. The images are haunting (including those of her abstracted, mournful mother who does not seem aware of the trouble at hand). I got up the courage to check it out a month ago and read it to Gabriel, who told me it isn't scary at all and please read it again. And again.



A new friend, knowing how I'd feel about Sendak's passing, suggested we have a wild rumpus to mark the occasion. We weren't clear on what that might be, but made plans to meet up at a park with our kids and a few friends after school to try our hands at it. All things considered, I think it worked out pretty well.

Here's a few notes on how we had a wild rumpus, should you be interested in hosting your own.

To begin: don a cape and hurl a plastic baby doll at a tree. Invite your friends to join in.

Tear into snacks like wild animals.

Wander parking lots with nary a grown up in sight.

Carry a big stick.

Wave it around in the air.

Take a break to re-fuel and read a good book.

Dance. Or something.

Know when the rumpus is coming to an end. It's okay to feel sad.

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Here is an excerpt from the most recent interview Sendak did with Terry Gross, after the publication of Bumble-ardy in 2011. This interview (found excerpted with others here) is well worth a listen, if you haven't already heard it. I was transfixed when it broadcast, full of tears and gratitude for this man who has given us (and will continue to give us) countless hours together in the presence of his art, and who was able to speak so honestly about coming to the end of his life. 


But, you know, there's something I'm finding out as I'm aging - that I am in love with the world. And I look right now, as we speak together, out my window in my studio and I see my trees, my beautiful, beautiful maples that are hundreds of years old, they're beautiful. And you see, I can see how beautiful they are. I can take time to see how beautiful they are.

It is a blessing to get old. It is a blessing to find the time to do the things, to read the books, to listen to the music. You know, I don't think I'm rationalizing anything. I really don't, since this is all inevitable and I have no control over it. "Bumble-ardy" was a combination of the deepest pain and the wondrous feeling of coming into my own, and it took a long time.

Thank you Maurice Sendak. Thank you for your stories and pictures, and for inspiring me to sanction yelling and screaming and the waving of big sticks this afternoon. We will rumpus again in your honor; I feel sure of it.