Invisible

A brief moment at the kitchen counter, shoulder to shoulder, cheese and apple slices by their elbows. I poured coffee and watched silently, as if invisible. They consulted on snacks and temperatures, assembled backpacks and lunchboxes, chatted in peace, and were out the door, walking in step down the block. I gasped quietly.

Was I not just maneuvering a bulky red double stroller down the block, toddlers with sippy cups bouncing along walking their sister to Kindergarten, first and second grades? Weren’t a small boy and girl just flipping their coats from the floor, putting small shoes on the sometimes right feet and wrestling with backpacks that hit the backs of their knees? Weren’t they just carrying lunch boxes bigger than their tiny heads? Fighting about walking together, heading off in different directions to meet friends? Was it yesterday that I picked out outfits and backpacks contained small stuffed animals, predecessors of Airpods, calculators and other signs of growing teens?

How many times did we walk down the block, hand-in-hand, side by side? How many skipping steps and anxieties hit the pavement? How many Pinocchio-nose seed pods stuck on our noses? How many times did I stand outside the schoolyard fence, urged to stay but be invisible, my eyes focused on children to give silent backup comfort while these two, the smallest bodies of their classes, navigated lines and social dynamics? How many times was I asked to stay ‘til the bell rang?

Today they are out the door to the last weeks of middle school, shoulders tall, cautious anticipation and masks on their faces. A different first day after a different year. The permissions and bans have changed. A kiss on the head or hug?! Instead I kiss my hand and unsuccessfully reach out to touch heads nearly at my height. After countless school days lollygagging in the kitchen and at the dining room table, the two descend the porch steps with determination, calling “No!” to the the requisite first-day picture. “Tomorrow,” I am assured. But with no guarantees of capricious teen will, I catch the moment, two backs moving down the block in stride, not caring that loud consequences will result from a photograph taken. I waited and watched for this day of return, I know I did. But now…be still my heart.

 

At the shore of the sea

At the shore of the sea long ago what did they really think?

I sit at my closest sea up the street and wonder, 

watching rare white water, ocean-like waves,

and note that even Michigan is invisible.

How did they do it — 

imagining the guts it took to walk into that water 

without seeing across.

New beginnings are like that,

limited vision, water up to our necks, 

and the need to drop fear to the bottom

so that we can lift our feet to get across.

And wasn’t Miriam exhausted on the other side?!

Yet she had the bandwidth to gather and dance.

Soaring freedom doesn’t come without challenge. 

Easier said than done after a zoomed-out year.

The sea is splitting, I’m sure of it,

but we’re not yet across.

Oh, is it time to get there, already!

(27 March 2021, Erev Pesach)

Walk your block

I watched the red tail lights move down the block until they turned East at the end of our street. The dark was that of night, but the traffic was less at 5.40 am. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple walking down the middle of my street, following in the path of those lights. “What a peaceful time to walk,” I thought, and then remembered the hour. Continue reading

Five minutes?

I sit on the beach, enveloped in a giant towel, a cool warm breeze wafting over me. Glistening waves come in and go out, my mind follows. I hear teachers: Be an innkeeper – greet thoughts, let them in, let them go. I tell myself: Do not get stuck. Do not problem solve. I am determined: Sit, breathe, focus on the breath. I will do this. I try and try to sit still and focus, to be still, to meditate for even five minutes. Continue reading

Putting my shoes on

I put my shoes on, and walk — from the doorway to the desk. It’s five feet, if that, and really does not require shoes. But I’ve just come downstairs, wearing a black turtleneck & jeans, makeup and wet hair, wet with the hope that maybe it will be less wild and look less grey in these days of no haircuts. Sliding into shoes next is just what happens next. Continue reading