love

I was looking at this series of pictures tonight, and I thought of a passage in a Zadie Smith novel that has always stayed with me. 

It's from On Beauty.

“People talk about the happy quiet that can exist between two loves, but this, too, was great; sitting between his sister and his brother, saying nothing, eating. Before the world existed, before it was populated, and before there were wars and jobs and colleges and movies and clothes and opinions and foreign travel -- before all of these things there had been only one person, Zora, and only one place: a tent in the living room made from chairs and bed-sheets. After a few years, Levi arrived; space was made for him; it was as if he had always been. Looking at them both now, Jerome found himself in their finger joints and neat conch ears, in their long legs and wild curls. He heard himself in their partial lisps caused by puffy tongues vibrating against slightly noticeable buckteeth. He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away.” 

off the charts

A day or two before I started my new job, a tiny plastic envelope filled with powdery white grains arrived in our mailbox. I had ordered kefir grains the week before. When one is on the cusp of major life transitions, everyone knows that a jar of fermenting dairy resting on the kitchen counter is a must.

Well, maybe. I think it says a lot about me that I decided to take on a mildly smelly and delicate fermenting process just before the baby started with a child care provider, the boy started kindergarten, and I started working four days a week. Dear World, could I please control one little slippery thing? One little thing that will make terrific after-school smoothies and promises to fill our bellies with microscopic, smelly (did I already mention smelly?) health-promoting bugs? Because back in August when the grains arrived and all of these changes were fast-approaching - and the baby was cutting four teeth at once and began waking every two hours at night - my body forgot how to fall asleep.

That is exactly how it seemed to me. With few exceptions, I had been doing something every night for thirty-six years in a row without having reason to notice or think about how exactly I accomplished it. I just did it. And then I forgot. I was underslept and overwhelmed, and sleep eluded me.

The worst of the insomnia really only lasted for a few nights; once we all began our new endeavors it subsided. But dudes, it totally freaked me out. It was a powerful sign that taking care of myself (as I join with students during the day to, ahem, help them learn positive ways to take care of themselves) will be essential this year.

So what do I do to promote peace within? Make kefir. Revisit cookbooks. Think about new twists on breakfast. There is something so reassuring to me about the mere possibility of making a terrific meal and sharing it with the people I love. Just thinking about cooking lately brings me back to earth, back to my body, back to the comforts of nourishing myself and others. Feeding and eating. Breastfeeding too! The pleasures of this overflowing life.

It's why I sent a favorite cookbook to a friend expecting a baby this fall. Transitions, you say? Read this! Cook something new! Feed yourself and your growing babe and surely all will be well. It's why I take extra pleasure in offering Beatrice new foods. The pears this morning? Not so much. But she went wild for pureed quinoa, and it made my heart sing watching her grab for the spoon. At her six month check up this week, I learned she is off the charts for length. She is growing like a weed in sunny September! And every Monday I get to be home, all by myself, with this sweet dandelion. This past Monday I made granola, did a little laundry, did a little yoga, and spent a lot of time rubbing my nose into her soft belly and making her laugh. Talk about off the charts.

p.s. So, um, did any of you notice how this was really a look-how-cute-my-kid is kind of thing, disguised as a proper post? I warned you...

p.p.s. If anyone has experience making kefir, let's talk. Really. Why does it separate so quickly into curds and whey? Why do I keep missing that thickened, yogurty sweet spot?

now is now

I just finished reading Little House in the Big Woods to Gabriel. That makes three times reading the book aloud as a parent, and at least once or twice silently as a child. And every time the last chapter takes me and holds me completely in its quiet grasp, so hushed and reverent is its tone. Pa tells the girls why there is no fresh meat today: he had been unable to shoot the animals he went out to hunt the night before. They were too wild and free and beautiful in the moonlight to kill. Then he puts the girls to bed and takes out his fiddle. He sings Auld Lang Syne, and explains to sleepy Laura that the days of auld lang syne are the days of long ago.

Frances just loaded pictures from the hand-me-down camera she's been using over the past months into the computer. I love to see the images my kids capture. A hundred pictures of Grandma's dog. Mama in the kitchen. Intimate shots of stuffed animals and beloved pieces of jewelry. Gabriel loves to take close-ups of eyes on my phone. He does fabulous portraits of adult mid-sections.

Frances took a video, unbeknownst to me, of the mother of one of Gabriel's friends telling me about a family trip, while I nursed Beatrice and nodded and made sympathetic noises. It was so strange to see the exchange through her eyes. What are the nows - the experiences, the images, the feelings - that will lodge inside my children and live always there? My soft middle in a hug? The feel of each others' legs flopped over one another in summertime? The heat and smell of Beatrice's milky breath?

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench by the hearth, the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.

She thought to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.