Seeing Spring, Again.

Today I was a rodeo horse, a catapult, a trampoline, a lifeguard, a cook, a librarian, and a merry maid. 

Spring is here. It is impossible to look out the window or drive down the road or heaven forbid embrace the pollen and actually sit on the deck without feeling hopeful and maybe even smiling a little. It is time to open the windows and encourage the kids to discover things; it is time to allow dirt under nails and in hair, to look the other way when they run with sticks and water daddy's flowers with a 2 liter squirt gun.

This time of year always brings me back to the art of seeing. This is a topic that has been exhausted by writers and artists since the beginning of time. For me, I first really became aware of seeing when I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard in college. She devotes an entire essay to the art of seeing—and if you didn't know I am a big Annie Dillard fan, now you do.

I have noticed that my ability to see things changes with my surroundings, my circumstances, and the way the wind is blowing on any given day. When I was studying writing, I was constantly on the lookout for writing material. I needed fresh ideas to fulfill assignments and I saw everything through the lens of a writer. In grad school I found myself suddenly in paradise—taking only art classes: painting, drawing, printmaking. My focus shifted to the endless possibilities of art projects all around me in nature, people, everything. I remember being very aware of colors. I was constantly looking at shadows as much as light; I was on the lookout for light sources and I would squint my eyes to frame in every potential masterpiece.

I was thinking about those days recently and realizing how little time I have to be aware of shadows and light sources, but I'm very aware of the dirt on my baseboards and the old rice grains crusted to the tile on my kitchen floor. Mommy eyes have temporarily replaced these lenses, and it is a wonderful thing. However, I wonder if I incorporated a little more artist into my vision, would we all benefit?

We all know how kids see the world. Their vision is pretty selfish, but at the same time completely uninhibited and spontaneous. They begin the day hopeful and excited to see what adventures they can discover, not drowning themselves in coffee and bothered by having to come up with yet another meal that will please three picky little mouths.

It is easy to be hopeful in the Spring. When the purple irises and the white daffodils are blooming I know that it has happened again; we made it through winter after all and the green and blue is back in full force. The faithful return of blooms helps me combine mommy eyes with artist eyes; it is easier to give suggestions on how to build a better tree fort and push higher in swings and ignore the sand that is tracked in from the sand box.

Tonight as I was brushing my teeth I glanced in the mirror. I saw my sun burnt shoulders and my pink nose. But as I looked more closely I saw lines and dots scattered across the pink—pale white skin dots, a map across my arms and face. I laughed because they are the familiar markings of a mother who has applied sunscreen to multiple kids. A fingerprint on my cheek, a stray streak down the length of my arm. Is this the way it goes? Hopefully I can keep the vision of fresh Spring blooms, crisp and sweet, and let my eyes be more worshipful and loving and perhaps a little less exhaustingly practical.

"But there is another kind of seeing that involves letting go. When I see this way I sway transfixed and emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the difference between walking with and without a camera. When I walk with a camera, I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment's light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this second way I am above all an unscrupulous observer."

~Annie Dillard's essay on Seeing from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Van Surfing = Redneck Pruning

Image of the day:

Visualize me driving the van "slowly" across our back yard this afternoon while Steve used his 8 ft. Stihl pruner to trim the tops off our gigantic bushes. Is it safe to surf on a moving vehicle? Is it safe to surf on a moving vehicle with an 8 ft. moving blade? Probably not. It's a good thing most of our neighbors have goats and there is no such thing as H.O.A. in this "neighborhood." 
We are a match made in redneck heaven.

A Strong Prescription for Sitting Tight, and a Fantastic Mud Soup Recipe.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon swinging the baby beneath a tree, watching the kids make splashy mud soup with grass seasoning and rock sprinkles.

Last week I learned a lot about waiting. Half of our little family spent last weekend sick and coughing. The baby had been on antibiotics since Friday but was still lethargic, feverish and just not right. Something was wrong but the Doctor couldn't get us in for an appointment until Tuesday afternoon. My parents had arrived for a spring break visit and were helping us dose out cough syrup, Vick's Vapor rub and hugs on the couch.

On top of all the blah sickly-ness, I had chosen to plead a traffic ticket in court on Tuesday morning in hopes of lowering my $130 fine. I didn't know what I had gotten myself into, but thankfully my dad chose to keep me company and we arrived at our tiny local municipal courtroom ten minutes before 9 a.m.  The courtroom was filled with ragamuffins of all shapes and sizes and varying levels of appropriate courtroom attire. I was thankful for my stuffy nose and my ever-present bottle of hand sanitizer. The courtroom quickly filled with 50 other criminals and traffic-violators, and when I attempted to avoid the wait and pay the clerk to return home to my sick baby they said it was too late. I was told to sit and wait my turn, and thus the week began.

It was obvious after several minutes of “How do you plead?” and “Yes Your honor!” that I would not be quickly leaving after 10-15 minutes as I had hoped. As the dronings of shop-lifters and trespassers echoed around me and the accusations by Officer Lovely (yes, Officer Lovely!) flew, minutes slowly turned to hours. My feet fell asleep and tingled and by the time I spent 90 seconds in front of the judge, the courtroom was almost empty and morning was over. I debated whether or not my time in a courtroom was worth the $50 fine reduction as we hurried home to check on the poor baby.

Mason was very sick. He was pale, feverish and had mostly slept all morning. I held him as we waited to leave for our appointment with the doctor. I held him in the waiting room and I held him as they administered several ineffective breathing treatments. I watched as Oxygen numbers didn't go up enough and as nurses murmured about bad skin coloring and a baby gasping for air. I held him when the doctor eventually told me Mason was being admitted to Children's Hospital and I held him while we waited for our paperwork and further instructions.

Steve joined us and we drove to the hospital where we held the limp baby and filled out more paperwork. We waited together in another sterile-smelling room with people in wheelchairs and more people who didn't smell the greatest and other people who gave us encouraging smiles. It was 5pm and I'd spent most of the day in strange rooms with complete strangers and we held Mason and waited for his room to be ready.

When we finally walked down the hall and took the elevator to the 5^th floor and ended up in a depressing little room with a metal hospital bed shaped more like a cage than a crib we braced ourselves for more waiting. 

And the limp baby couldn't lift up his head anymore; we waited for nurses who were sorting through instructions and paperwork and the Oxygen levels plummeted again. In a short time the baby's 21 pound body was pierced with needles until the IV was in place, blood was drawn, sweet Oxygen was flowing into his nose and beeping monitors were ready to alert us when he needed help. Mason's Xrays came back and they were clear and we finally had dinner at 8:30 while the baby wheezed in a deep sleep.

For the next three days I did not leave the hospital. I didn't go home and I rarely left the tiny room with the cage-crib and monitors. Mason would have a good hour and two bad hours; he slept and I held him in the chair and I quickly got tired of watching commercials on the tiny hospital TV. My sleepy eyes burned and when the kind visitors left I found myself sitting alone, usually holding the baby and waiting. My other kids were home safely. Steve was in Chicago for work until Sunday. I was alone with Mason and I was too tired to do anything but sit in a chair and wait.

I am normally trying to do ten things at once in half the time allotted. When I had nothing better to do than sit and hold my sick baby, when I had no other place to be than a sterile room alone with my heavy thoughts, I inevitably did some sluggish soul-searching.

As I have said before, I am not a patient person, and I know these hurdles are intentional. C.S. Lewis wrote, “I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless that is good for us to wait.” As I stared at a sleeping baby with Oxygen tubes in his nose, while I listened to the suffering of babies crying two doors down, I was again reminded that the truly important things had once again slipped off my radar.

~~

Mason began to improve on Thursday and by Friday we knew we would be going home. It was time to head back to the simple demands of life that always add up so quickly until I allow them to become smotheringly overwhelming. The noise of errands and cooking and cleaning and washing food out of my hair and wearing something other than flannel pajama pants until noon.

The baby was ready and we buckled into the car—exhausted but also rested. Once again I'd been scooped up by the collar and shaken a few times until the meaningless things fell out. I wonder how long it will take me to convince myself I need them all back, tucked deep into my many, many pockets?

Once again it was a Saturday morning and after a week of cold, dreary rain the sun had finally decided to come out. Mason had slept peacefully at home—he was weak, but smiling and glad to be home. My sweet baby was used to me holding him, and I think I will enjoy it while it lasts and just hold him. The other stuff can wait. 

We sat on the swing for an hour on Saturday afternoon in our pajamas and watched the kids make soup. They were so careful—placing ingredients so gently into buckets and stirring with broken pink bubble wands. We waved to them and stared at the spring blooms and breathed deeply with freshly healed lungs.