how we all dance.

Waders. And a wool blanket.

We love the rain, all of us. We truly do. I am very much at home under the overcast skies and I welcome the sound of the pelting raindrops against the house. HOWEVER, I was hoping to have at least a tiny bit of hot (or warm, I will accept warm) this summer.

We had rain within every single 24-hour period in June, for the 2nd rainiest June on record. The sun peeked out twice, but it was that weak, wan sun that doesn’t really warm anything up. May was nearly as rainy and cold. April, not so great. And July, so far…. well, it’s been in the 50’s with promises of more downpours and thunder storms on the way. I’ve got on my worn-out cords and sheepskin Bean slippers. I wasn’t kidding about the wool blanket: I’ve been dragging one around the house. The kids are still wearing their winter pj’s and they snuggle under piles of blankets on their beds. Windows usually stay closed, or just barely cracked for a little air flow.

I don’t think I generally complain about weather. I love crazy weather. I’m just looking for a teeny bit of balance here. This seems three times worse than last summer, and last summer nearly killed me.

Just a change here, or maybe a bit of a throw-back.

This is a description of two buildings near to each other; one is a bit of a copycat of the other, on purpose. But according to the author of the book, the new building is missing something. His opinion is that most newer buildings suffer the same lack - dynamic vs. static; living vs. containing.

“One evening in 1992, I watched [Robert] Venturi and Scott Brown present their design for the new Sainsbury Wing of England’s National Gallery of Art to a packed hall at Harvard. The rooms of the new wing copy John Soane’s Dulwich Gallery of 1811, which still stands, a few miles away. Sainsbury uses the same system of monitor windows above inward-sloping ceilings; nearly identical archways connect the rooms. But Dulwich is ebullient, a building one loves at first sight, while Sainsbury is static.

(Dulwich Gallery on left; Sainsbury Wing on right)

“At Dulwich, Soane takes big chances. The arches are too wide, they come too close to the break between wall and ceiling, and the break is not defined by the expected molding. The little arches in the sloped ceiling are too small, and the monitor windows cantilever too far in, making the structure look unstable. And it all works, the whole room dances. Soane’s rooms play at the edge of discord and disintegration. In a dance you almost fly and you almost fall.” [emph. mine]

From The Old Way of Seeing by Jonathan Hale, architect

** I really don’t want to give this one back to the library AND maybe it’s time to get new passports.

This one’s just for fun.

It all started way back…
such a long, long time back…
Way back in the days when the grass was still green
and the pond was still wet
and the clouds were still clean,
and the song of the Swomee-Swans rang out in space…

Oops, wrong story. Although it did start that way, I swear.

Persephone was a baby, almost a year old, and we were living in San Francisco. I know most people love that city, but I found it to be a pretty harsh environment. I really missed the seasons in New England, and I never did adjust to the lack of trees. Sure, there were city trees perfectly spaced along the sidewalks, but that spacing hurt my sensibilities, and anyway none of the trees reached the tops of the buildings; there was no rustling in the wind. (Yeah yeah, I see you SF-lovers shaking your heads at me - whatever. Go eat a burrito and walk your dogs.)

I managed to find a couple of good escapes from the concrete and traffic. When I didn’t mind a long bus ride, I took Persephone (and 5 cloth diapers and 12 vegetarian snacks) out to Ocean Beach; if the day called for less bus and more hiking, we’d make it to the Arboretum in Golden Gate Park. And that is where I spotted a couple of kindred spirits: baby-wearing, cloth-diapering, young mothers. Lisa was really sweet, and Karla always had the coolest shoes. We got to chatting for a bit but I noticed right away that Persephone and Karla’s daughter Lucy, who was just a few weeks younger, looked a lot alike. Really a lot alike.

Over the next few years we hung out a bunch - as young alterna-moms, we had to band together in a tight group. When all the other kids started preschool, we asked, “You want me to hand over my child because why?” and so we formed our own Tuesday/Thursday thing with a handful of similarly-minded friends.

We left SF when the girls were just over 4, and though we kept in touch loosely, we haven’t seen each other in all these years. I caught up with Dan (Lucy’s dad) on MySpace about a year ago and looked through all his family photos. But when I saw this one, I couldn’t look away again.

Everything about this picture shouted “Persephone!” to me, from the hairstyle, through the clever impish look on her face, to the colors in the sweater. (She doesn’t have one green eye, something’s just weird in the photo.) I showed the picture to everyone in the family, and a few friends. They all reacted similarly:
“Is.. that.. Persephone?”
“What’s P. doing in that photo?”
“Wow… ”
and most memorably, Bret’s “ohmigod” after an sharp intake of breath.

Lucy and Persephone still have some common interests. They are both into drama, both have great singing voices, and in the fall of 2006, they both cut off their long hair and donated it.

Persephone and Lucy in garland, always finding ways to decorate themselves:

I love this shot of Lucy; it reminds me I can do a lot better taking pictures of my own kids.

Here’s a little eye candy: Karla posing as a pin-up. They are expecting baby #3 and this time they’ll do it at home. Really, now, if this were my wife, I think she’d be pregnant all the time. They eventually moved out of the city too, did a little homeschooling and then got on board with Waldorf; chickens run in their yard. I love seeing that we’re all still pretty much on the same page despite the time and distance. Good people, they add up in a person’s life.

Things have been rough lately for Sky Baby. She’s been on a bit of a bender.

The recycling bin has always been a good source for props and raw materials, but this is embarrassing.

Something simple now, for balance. An old mill building, rehabbed, and now housing multiple art and dance studios, a mega-gym, a dojo, some professional offices…

Long. One part of three. The mill jogged a couple of times alongside the river so it goes far beyond this view.

Peek.

Four stacked storeys, very high.

Door, which for some reason I would like to have for myself. But I thought it was green. I was wrong.

DNA Part II, in which I realize after “only” ten years that I have a son.

He read this post and has given me permission to hit “publish.”
—————

I’ve been struggling with this one for weeks and weeks. I have notebooks scattered throughout the house with snips of content and splatters of muddle. There are random words jotted down, words like, “biochemistry” and “failure to adjust to life” and “parenting is like a smack-down.”

It’s such a challenge to try to figure out what to put in a public space like this… there are writers who hold back nothing, and though I appreciate that, you have to wonder how that affects their friends and family? I want to protect the privacy of my kids… in fact one of my friends just decided to make her blog invitation-only. At the same time I want to edify other parents: a friend said to me the other day, “I need to know that other people have a kid who is really hard.” I can tell you that I have a kid who is really hard, but without sharing all the evidence, will you believe me?

When Persephone was born, she looked just like she was “supposed” to, essentially, just like us. Then Matthias came along and he didn’t make sense at all. He was definitely more fair, and over the first year he became more and more of a blue-eyed blonde. I completely couldn’t wrap my brain around that, except that Bret’s brother had similar coloring, so I figured that Matthias was a holding tank for all our recessive genes, and Bret’s dominated. I conveniently forgot about my two fair-haired and three light-eyed grandparents.

When Matthias was about 18 months old, he turned into a constant and regular Monster. The short version is that, after about 5 years of watching unexplainable and frequent episodes of true incoherent rage (lasting for hours, proving it wasn’t just bad behavior), I figured out that he was having a reaction to wheat. You wouldn’t think a common food could do that to a person, but it does, and Rivendell also turned Monster at 18 months in solidarity with her brother. Thankfully in her case we knew the solution right off and she’s been back to her pleasant self for almost two years.

The new diet made a difference for Matthias in 24 hours (no kidding), and he was no longer Monster. He got a clean break. And yet there was still always something else troubling him just under the surface, and I assumed it had to be tied to a personality trait coming from Bret’s father’s side of the family, because he seems to take after them so completely. I never gave up looking for solutions, or at least for salves for his anguish, but I did always expect one day that Bret would be the one to uncover that mysterious key which would hopefully unlock the constant unrest, either because of shared genealogy or just because they’re both guys.

But Matthias is ten now, and time seemed to be running out. We only get 18 years, or even less, to help each kid figure “it” out. And we were failing. It seemed like every time I turned around I saw this face…

…which was meant to shock and stir, to evoke feelings of fury and desperate vengeance. Why was that face in my house every day? Why was it on my child?

There can be troubling things in the interior life, that much has been proven. I’ve been at this game nearly 36 years and I haven’t solved it yet. It’s infuriating to know I never will… and yet, I know it’s not for solving, not in this human state, anyway.

For some people, that’s okay. They barely think about it.

For others, it roils about under the surface, burning from the inside out, sometimes all the way to the very end. I know that now. The human state can be incredibly painful. That’s because it’s temporary, this isn’t who we really are. There’s something else, and if we know that, we can spend our whole lives chomping at the bit, eyes flicking about wildly, anxious for that unbridled, disembodied gallop.

(Okay, if anyone is starting to get a little worried, don’t. I’ve been like this since age seven, maybe younger… it’s okay. See my nice shiny, stable exterior? I manage mighty fine most of the time.)

Last winter I slumped into my own particular brand of depression, brought on by too many Maine winters compounding upon each other. The summers here are short and cool and they don’t quite bring the balance needed to counteract the dark part of the year. I finally remembered, though, that a significant component of my mental health depends on regular heart-pounding exercise. By heart-pounding, I do not mean things like yoga or tai-chi. These sorts of peaceful, meditative activities are often suggested to help us tightly-wound Westerners relax, prescribed especially for Type A personalities so they won’t self-destruct. Well let me tell you, the only thing that kind of practice does is cause my aggression levels to go up. WAY up.

Some people, some bodies, need an almost violent release of energy, work that is so hard that you have to have a constant argument within yourself to make it happen. I don’t know if it’s a physical thing or a mental thing, but it definitely ends up being a spiritual one for me. My “self” is always trying to spiral away from this world really fast, to propel itself away from the friction inherent in this reality, and frequently the only thing that tames that is exhausting the body completely so that the mind is quieted too. Then the body can exert sovereignty over the mind, at least for a short time, and knit the soul back into its life on earth, recombining the pieces that are trying to heave apart. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve found myself in such a state of agitation that the only way to manage it is to throw myself down for another round of pushups, or anything else that will finally push my muscles and consequently my brain to the failure point.

Now…. some of you reading this might be starting to panic. You can’t imagine that people really live this way. But there are others of you who know exactly what I’m talking about, and right now I’m grateful to have you as friends. The rest of you…. just be thankful that most of us agitated folks know how to handle ourselves most of the time. Don’t worry. We’re not coming to get you. But we could be of use the next time you need help moving heavy furniture; in the meantime we’re signing up for tri-athalons. (Not me, I hate getting wet.)

Well, back to Matthias. I always noticed that he was a more uplifted individual during soccer season, but I honestly thought it was because we were so busy all the time. He’s a really social kid, and in the fall we’re often over-committed to the point of having several activities in one day. I tried to keep it that way when soccer was finished, but it didn’t matter. He was in a slump again pretty quickly. Then I picked up on this skiing phenomenon: every Tuesday he spent the whole day on the slopes, and he always came back looking like burnt toast, but contented burnt toast. That mood seemed to last about 36 hours, and then there would be an inevitable slumping action from him again.

One day, after a few days without skiing, I came upon my son. He was in a heap, a miserable heap, steeping in a miasma of his own self-nothingness, about to drown in his own unhappy stew of strange metaphysics. I recognized it immediately. Because I was finally out of it myself, I could see clearly that he was in it deep. This all comes from me. There’s no question about it. And I had the key all along.

So, I got it.

And, I told him I got it.

And I said, summarily,

“I know this.”
“This is not real.”
“Your brain is glitching.”
“This is why your brain is glitching.”
“I know how to fix this.”
“I am going to help you.”

I’ve seen so many troubled individuals in my life. I’ve walked away from some of them with a great sense of relief. But what do you do when it’s your own child? You can’t just leave them. If there’s any way you can help them, you are duty-bound to the task. And anyway… I don’t want some poor 17-year-old girl to have to deal with this in a few years if I can fix it sooner, and with more experience and wisdom.

That night at dinner, I gave him a list of high-intensity sports to get him through spring and summer, and said it like this:

“This is what you need to do. You can do this, or this, or this, or this. Pick one. NOW.”

And for once he didn’t call my bluff. It’s not like I hadn’t suggested a variety of sports for him over the years, but he never acquiesced. Maybe this time he finally understood, having hit rock bottom, that he couldn’t argue about anything anymore. I don’t know. But he chose karate, and after the first couple of classes, I saw a new person emerge. He’s here still. And I really like him.

He’s going to class twice, or sometimes three times, a week; now that the weather is nice, he wants to get himself there on his bike. Initiative, score!

All the way down, all the way up, with good form. Definitely my kid. Do I get just a sec to brag that only three kids in the class of 25 can do sit-ups without bailing onto their elbows, or giving up entirely? We (okay, I) usually make the kids balance their computer time with exercise. I’m just trying to create my own small Spartan military, nothing unusual in that, I don’t think. Anyway I’m sure they like it. And they look forward to cauliflower. My team wins.

Next Saturday is “Bring your mom to class day.” Oooooh yeeeaaahh. You can take bets now on how this is all going to end.

I’m not saying everything is going to be perfect now. I’m not saying this is a 100% solution. But I think now he has one of the tools that will get him through his life more smoothly.

And maybe he’ll have a few less cracks in his own mirror.

For anyone who has nothing better to do right this second than to see if there is anything here…. I don’t know, is this something? I often stand at this photo, trying to figure something out. Maybe it’s trying to figure itself out. There’s an ironic juxtaposition about it, it gets me still after so many years. Maybe it’s just knowing that if I were a few feet in either direction at the time, it never would have existed.

I’m working on Part II of my DNA sequence (is that even a pun? Now I’m confused…) but it’s taking a bit of thought. In the interim, here are a few more three-year-old quotes. Unfortunately, I’m sure these are going to stop any day now.

“When you guys were kids, were you slaves?”

“When I get older, will I be able to smoke?” (What? NOOO! Why do you think Dad quit, like, 8 years before you existed?)

About DKM tunes:
“I. Need. It. LOUDER.” (Ah, that’s my Little.)

“Hmm. Dad’s not disgusting. Other dads are disgusting if they’re not your real dad, though.”

“You’re the better dad, that’s why I chose you.”
(And was there another choice we didn’t know about?)
“Well, there are lots of other dads out there to look at, but you’re the better one.”
“Oh, and I like you better than mom, too.” (Of course.)

Here’s a picture of her dancing with her “balancing broom.” Wow, I wish I thought of that myself. I took out the kitchen table so I would have more room to put in the bar rail - or, you know, to make room for a mosh pit. Just in case. Hey, don’t dash my fantasies, okay?

“Faster, faster, like a whirling dervish spinning round
Faster, faster, until the centre cannot hold” (NMA, who else?)
Life can be pretty good when you’re three.

February keeps circling around, haunting us. Fire is good, it takes the chill out of the air. I’m still convinced that rebuilding the hearth has been the best project we’ve done in this place so far, making winter (and fall, and spring) bearable.

Don’t be fooled by the sleeping child, it’s only because she’s sick. She, like her siblings, cold-turkeyed the nap at a sadistically young age. I’m only keeping her because she likes Flogging Molly.

That is one of the sweetest things about life, reminiscing about the simple things, the shared memories you have with a friend, neighbor, sibling, roommate. I have been dying, dying to take down the shed - not because I don’t like it, but because it is the easiest thing to remove in order to gain space and improve the flow of the back yard. And yet…..

The roof of the shed has become the favored perch, the first place the kids go once the snow has begun to disappear each spring.

Everyone needs super-cool places to hang. Everyone benefits from a special sitting spot, away from grownups and above it all.

I don’t know.. maybe we will be taking that shed down very soon. But I hate to think we could be taking away a unique “Remember when we used to…?”