Love You As You Are

Geneva has a Grand Idea that I would like to share with you. She calls it the Love You As You Are Club. Feel free to pass it on!

My Village

I struggle to find a healthy balance in my internet usage. I want it to be a tool that allows me to connect with my loved ones and share the small beauty of my own sweet family with the larger world. Instead, most of the time it becomes a way for me to spend far too much time reading "47 Amazing Facts You Never Knew About Harry Potter" in a kind of post-bedtime daze. Wanting to be the boss in my relationship with Ye Olde Internet, I have substantially cut down on my computer time recently, and mostly this is a good thing. Mostly. What I miss are the ways that social networking-- facebook, blogging, etc.-- kept me close to my friends. Through these media we have planned parties, rallied to the aid of families in need, exchanged photos from events mutually attended, arranged childcare, and generally checked in with each other to make sure all is well. I miss this. I really miss this. 

I found out last week just how deeply rooted I am in my community of friends here, and how heavily I rely on their support when what has been heaped on my family's plate seems vastly more than we can handle alone. Early last week Ari was sick with a low fever and what appeared to be a mild cold. As the days passed I noticed that his breathing seemed excessively rapid and shallow, and that he was listless and tired. I scheduled an appointment with his doctor on Thursday, and by the time Thursday morning rolled around his fever had climbed and he was clearly quite sick. At the clinic he was working hard to breathe, and when he did not respond to an aerosolized albuterol treatment there I bundled him into the car and floored it to the emergency room. There Ari was diagnosed with pneumonia, and the rest is a blur. The nurses tried seven times to start an IV on his tiny arms, feet, and hands. He had at least six wires and tubes running from his body to various whooshing and beeping pieces of machinery. He cried and I cried and no one at the hospital was legally allowed to tell me that my son would be all right. Someone said the phrase "really aggressive cases of pneumonia this year." Specialists came into the room to administer various treatments, telling me that kids usually responded after an hour or so, then would come back hours later to frown at Ari's unchanging numbers. I was so. so. scared.

But our friends were there, from the minute we walked through those hospital doors. Margie, grandmother of Geneva's school friend Isis, looked after the girls on Thursday and even took them to the flight museum to keep their minds occupied. My friend Jen brought dinner that night, and arranged for us to have dinner provided for the entirety of Ari's hospital stay. She and my friend Sanna watched the girls on Saturday so that Avery could come and be with his son, which provided me a rare opportunity to shower. Stephanie visited me three times, bringing sushi and cookies and hugs. Jessica visited, too, calming my nerves and making me an impromptu "pie" out of peanut butter and a banana. Roman and Cristina, Patrick and Allison, Yalisha, Tara, Megan, and Margie all brought meals, and Margie also brought books and games for the girls to play with during their visits. Aunt Karen, cousin Ryker, and cousin Allison tore themselves away from their newborn nephew and grandchild to visit, bringing books for Ari and magazines for me. Jen's husband Jeff, who is a cardiac nurse, stopped by to see if I had any questions about Ari's condition and to provide moral support. Kay delivered a load of groceries. And countless others, near and far, sent us messages of hope and healing so that my phone seemed to chime continually. I truly cannot imagine how we could have made it through those five long, agonizing days without our community. Our village.

We did make it through, though. By Saturday Ari was showing significant improvement, and on Sunday the doctors and nurses began to wean him off of his support. He slept without supplemental oxygen on Sunday night, and on Monday afternoon we were home. It was a simple enough story-- child gets sick, child gets treatment, child gets well-- but in the midst of it all it seemed anything but simple. I wonder how families manage when they have a child who is sick for weeks, or months, or years, or always. I have a new appreciation for the village that must surround those families and hold them together, saying the comforting words the doctors cannot say and keeping things from falling through the cracks. We always planned to leave Yakima someday, but now I wonder, how? How can we leave the people who, the way I see it, saved my baby's life? And now that I know just how solidly, fundamentally I am rooted here, how can I abandon the village that will someday need me? 

I've stayed offline to focus on my family, but the truth is that my family is a large and wonderful thing-- larger than the walls of this house by far. If the internet is a tool I can use to spread my love and gratitude to the dear friends I am lucky enough to call mine, then it is a tool worth using after all.

Nurse, Rock, Breathe

This afternoon after a long day of running holiday-related errands, Lavender had had about enough of that nonsense and was ready to call it quits. She wanted to be away from the people and the noise. She wanted to cuddle. She wanted to nurse. She wanted time with just me.

As we sat in the peace of our own home at last, nursing in the glow of Christmas lights, I gazed down at my blissful child and realized suddenly, painfully, that a day is coming soon when this will not be enough to make her happy. She will need more than what I am and what I can give, which is as it should be. Still, the impermanence of our quiet moment together was almost heartbreaking. She will grow, and I will have to count on others to be gentle with her heart and to nurture her sweet spirit. She will want to be apart from me, to go out into the big, uncertain world with desires that neither I, nor perhaps anyone, can fulfill. And I will let her go. How can I do that? How can I not?

Little Lavender, today you are happy just to be held. You only need what I can offer, and so your contentment is whole and complete. Here in our quiet house, nursing and rocking and breathing together, you are not thinking of anything more. You don't know that this will change. Someday you will not drink my milk. You will not want to pet my skin. You will pull away, and consciously you will forget ever having wanted those things. It is a loss-- an aching loss-- that only I will feel.

It will have to be enough, then, for me to remember days like today when you are big and far away. You will be so strong and independent that it will be hard to imagine that you ever fit in my arms, but still I will know that today was real. It happened, and nothing can erase it. You will not always feel the whole, complete contentment you feel now, but it will be there just the same. It will be a part of how you grew, of how you came to know the world. It is a memory I will never let go. And a part of us will forever be nursing, rocking and breathing.

I Wrote a Poem

In my closet is a small jumble of old purses that are now much too tiny to carry my requisite daily load of wallet, keys, sunglasses, broken crayons, toys, diapers, wipes, snacks, and changes of clothing for four children. Basically, they are purses that I haven't used even once since I had kids. In this way they serve as an interesting time capsule because-- and this will come as a huge duh to anyone who knows me-- I did not empty them out before they were relegated to the closet. Today I dislodged one of these tiny purses from its resting place and a piece of paper slipped out. A poem was written on it. I read words--my own words-- that I had not read in almost four years, and went whooshing back in time.

Four years ago I was just beginning a new job in Sunnyside. I was teaching English to elementary school students, and although I loved the work it was a very challenging experience. I was assigned to a portable, isolated from the rest of the faculty, and did not share a planning period with any of the grade-level groups. I ate lunch alone a lot. The culture shock was pretty significant, too, as I had just moved from Seattle, where I had been living and working in very diverse but safe neighborhoods. Sunnyside really only had two ethnic groups to speak of: the white middle class minority, and the impoverished Latino majority. Gang violence was always looming, either as a threat (lockdowns, being unable to wear my favorite red headband) or as an actual presence (teachers gossiping about the dead body found in someone's yard, students missing school for funerals). In some ways I had never been as frightened as I was when I started that job. Not that I feared for my safety; I was terrified of letting my students down when they already had the deck so heavily stacked against them.  But it was a wonderful time in my life, too. I had just become pregnant with Geneva, I was making new friends, and Avery and I were living cozily in the back room of his aunt and uncle's beautiful empty farmhouse on the Yakama Reservation. I was happy, but I was exhausted. I worked long hours, and when I did come home at seven or eight at night I brought all of my work anxiety with me.  I needed some sort of outlet, so one day before I left my classroom I sat down, grabbed a sheet of notebook paper, and just started writing.

That sheet of paper is what slipped out of my old purse today. I decided to share it, not because I think it's a great work of poetry (it's really not) or because it shows what an amazing teacher I was (I really wasn't). It is just a very specific and very true snapshot of where I was four years ago, after my whole life had just changed and before it changed again.


One young boy's tongue sticks and stops.
His face burns red as he shakes the English words
out of his head.
One morning,
numbers tumble from his fingertips
like seeds
and sprout.
I see him clearly for the first time,
Geometry our Lingua Franca.

Glowering girl straddles her chair,
scrawls hearts upon my wall,
mouths pendejo in the air,
carves bitch into the bathroom stall.
She's learning her lesson well
that no one ever cares for grades the way they do
for love and hate.

A curious boy with a pen-and-ink voice
takes my joys and troubles home,
names them
like stray dogs.
Dear Mrs. Zoglman,
How old are you?
What makes you happy?
When is your baby due?
I know the kids in class make you mad,
but Mrs. Z, don't feel bad.
Sometimes I get angry, too.

It hurts to remember
an empty-chair day,
though she never spent much time in her chair anyway.
Her brother was shot
dead.

Too-big child, a head above the rest,
moves underwater slowly,
forming perfect empty letters.
Not language; art.
Her voice caresses every foreign syllable.
Not speaking; part of a song
she's been singing for two years
without knowing the words.

I can smell the buses leaving from my classroom.
I sit at the smallest desk
for hours
so still that the lights
automatically shut off.

That Old Cliche

"Life has just been so crazy."

That's what I keep feeling like I ought to write here as some feeble explanation as to why I haven't posted anything in months. I haven't written to celebrate my baby girl's first birthday, first words, or first steps. I haven't put up pictures of our vacation to Florida, which, by the way, took place in May. I haven't said a single word about learning to play the banjo or camping at Kalaloch or taking Geneva on her first ever Ferris Wheel ride. Did you know we bought a new car? Well, we did. Geneva has already barfed in it, earning it the nickname Vomit Comet. I'm taking care of four kids during the day now, a topic which could be fodder for several new blog posts in and of itself. Oh, and my wonderful brother and his darling fiancée had their wedding this June, an event so quirky and charming and perfectly them that it almost defies description. So yes, "life has just been so crazy" about sums it up.

But oh, my skin almost crawls at that old cliche! Life is always crazy. Whose isn't? It is full of comings and goings, of changing seasons and the changing activities that go with them. Life without this so-called craziness would be boring. Hollow. Empty. And if we're smart and self-aware, the craziness we put into our lives is really just a happy jumble of things we choose to do, with some unavoidable obligations thrown in. I haven't mowed the lawn in about a month now, but the truth is I could have if I'd decided it was important enough to me. The same goes for making jam, or keeping up on this blog for that matter. Saying "life has just been so crazy" feels like apologizing for the choices I make. I know I can't do every activity that piques my interest, or spend endless hours with the people I love, or maintain a perfect home while simultaneously being a completely engaged and involved parent. Every moment that I choose to devote to one thing comes at the expense of the thousand other things I could be doing, and so I strike the best balance I can. It's the best anyone can do, really.

Now, after a brief hiatus, my crazy happy balancing act includes blogging again. It's a choice I'm really excited about! A jam-packed life is worth recording, and worth remembering.

My Dear Daughter

Three years ago I gave birth to a daughter, my first ever very own child. I had the surreal experience, on that Tuesday morning, of seeing a face I had never laid eyes on before and knowing it instantly and intimately. From the funny little crease over her nose to the shape of her bottom lip, I recognized her as easily as I recognized my own reflection. She was my girl, more precious to me than thought or heartbeat or breath, and this letter is for her.

Geneva, you have been a self-described "big girl" ever since you could hold up three fingers by pinching your pinkie under your thumb. Sometimes I forget just how young, just how new you still are, because of the challenges you constantly seek for yourself. You are three years old and you put on your own clothes, make your own sandwiches, buckle yourself into your carseat (sometimes), wash your own spills and even post your own mail. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

Your flair for self-expression is a source of constant joy and amusement to me-- and I hope it is for you, too. I delight in your complicated stories about the mice you rescue from oncoming trains or the wolves who decide to give up being big and bad. You employ such words and phrases as "parasaurolophus," "conveyor belt," and "moderate your voice." Once you informed me that your doll was real, and that she was made of bones and magic. If you don't know the word for something, it's no trouble for you to simply describe it or give an analogue. I clearly remember that when you didn't have a word for tupperware, you referred to it as "like a tank, or a jam pot." You soak up language wherever you find it, and then transform it into something beautiful and inimitable as you tell us your thoughts on life, the world, and everything. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

Although you are certainly an extroverted, outgoing child whom I remind every day-- or possibly every minute-- to slow down and be gentle, you are truly a kind and compassionate person. Beyond your good habits of saying "please" and "thank you," you express unprompted, genuine gratitude for things like interesting books, fresh food and sunny days. It is a rare day indeed that you do not tell me, in a matter-of-fact voice that makes it all the sweeter, "I love you, Mom." And as a big sister I have gotten to see you truly shine. You cheer for Lavender when she tries a new food and often give her tastes of whatever you're having-- even if I announce that she's had enough already. You sound the alarm whenever your little sister gets anywhere near the open front door or a set of stairs. It makes me catch my breath each time I see you hugging, kissing, patting and caressing her, and hear your little voice murmuring "Lavender. Lavender. Lavender." I love this about you... but it is not why I love you. 

You are smart. You are frighteningly smart. You know that bubbles rise in water because they are made of air, that sharks hunt using their sense of smell, that the Earth is part of a solar system of planets, that mixing blue and yellow makes green, and that m-a-p-s spells maps. I think your intelligence shows even more, however, in the things you do not yet know. You want to know why the bad guys in your stories make such poor choices. If I tell you that the metal silver is used in telephones, you want to know what else it is used in. I've all but given up on sugarcoating things for your benefit; you see through the euphemism and circumlocution, then tell me what I should have said: "Oh, so it didn't die because it was old. Someone killed it. That's what happened, Mom." So far in your life, there is nothing so frightening or uncomfortable that you'd rather remain ignorant on the subject. Your curiosity is so natural, and your mind so quick, that I stand in awe of you. You will be much, much smarter than I am by the time you are in your teens and I regard this knowledge with a mixture of terror and pride. I love this about you... but it is not why I love you.

I love you because you are my daughter. 

From the moment you were born and I held you in my arms-- you screaming and pooping, me weeping and grinning-- I have adored you beyond condition. There is not anything that could keep me from loving you, because I cherish you without reason or ration. You are exactly who you are meant to be, and you are mine. And every day since your birth I have found new things to love about you, the girl I have always loved just because.

Camping

I'm covered in goosebumps as I type this in our chilly basement, which is one indicator of many that camping season, at least for the Zoglmans, is over. I didn't anticipate getting to do a lot of camping this year, what with the pregnancy/birth/newborn thing we've been doing, but we did manage to squeeze in two very distinct trips: a three-night backpacking trip on the Olympic Peninsula, and a two-night car camping trip at Lake Kachess.

The beach trip was a rather ill-fated endeavor. Besides making a 350 mile car trip with a potty training two-year-old, we ended up hiking down to the beach at dusk in torrential rain and howling wind. I realized about a quarter of a mile into our hike that the camera batteries had died and threw a medium-sized fit, complete with tears. After hiking further on we discovered that the creek which can usually be crossed on stepping stones was knee-high and freezing. Amazingly, Geneva carried her own backpack the entire way (just ask her-- she still brags about it) and Lavender stayed dry under my coat in her wrap, but by the time we got to the beach we were all about ready to fall apart. Avery and I pitched the tent, then the girls and I crawled inside to keep it from blowing away while Avery staked it out using rocks and rope.

We were all fantastic troopers during this adventure, honestly. Unfortunately I think we used up all of our patience and endurance during that first night, because we were never able to really relax and unwind afterward. Geneva was aggravated by our rules about not bringing huge amounts of sand in the tent, and toddler aggravation does not play out well in a tent environment. I was stressed out trying to keep Geneva out of trouble, Avery was tired from taking care of basically everything else while I wrangled the girls, and Lavender-- actually, she didn't seem at all perturbed. But you get the idea. There were lovely moments, of course: watching little towheaded Geneva prance down the beach, following a sparkling trail of fish scales... laughing hysterically at the antics of Mooch, the local chipmunk... nursing baby Lavender and watching the tide roll in... skinny dipping in the creek on a sunny afternoon... It was wonderful. Occasionally.

The trip wasn't a disaster, but we felt out-of-balance the whole time, like things were constantly on the verge of going to hell in a handbasket. I spent a lot of time trying to convince Geneva that what we were doing was fun-- in fact, I reminded myself of Calvin's dad, assuring his son that every discomfort and inconvenience was "building character." Geneva kept asking to go home, and we were pretty much out of dry clothes, so we left a day early. I think Avery felt a little sad and disappointed; I know I did. Our beach trip is almost always the highlight of my summer. It is quite literally my Happy Place. This year was just one of those life lessons in acceptance-- you know, a reminder that not every trip can be the best trip ever. It also convinced us that next time instead of backpacking we really ought to try...

...car camping! About a month later we threw together some last-minute plans to camp at Lake Kachess for a couple of nights with Kristen and Tommy. I packed for the entire trip on a Friday afternoon while Avery was at work, and by some miracle I didn't forget anything vitally important. It was already dark when we arrived at the campground, but we found a site, pitched the tent under a nearly-full moon, and woke up to gorgeous sunshine that stuck around for the entire trip. As is usually the case with car camping we brought way more food than was strictly necessary, so we spent the weekend snacking and sitting around (in chairs! with backs!) watching Tommy and Geneva play in the dirt. It wasn't really all that rustic or primitive, it certainly wasn't isolated from other humans, and it wasn't hard work, which are all things that I have come to expect and enjoy about camping. But you know what it was? Relaxing. Low-key. Fun!

So here's what I learned: I love backpacking because it simplifies life, if only for a few days. The only things you have are the things you carry with you. For the most part, the only people you really talk to are the people you chose to hike with. You spend your time in solitude and silence that can't be found in places that are more easily accessible. It is hard work. It hurts. It clears your head. But... backpacking with children is anything but simple. Kids can't set aside the routine comforts of life as they know it and find that experience invigorating. Mostly they find it unnerving. And while adults consciously or unconsciously change their habits while camping, kids just keep playing however they usually do without considering that in their new surroundings there are new limits-- limited food, limited water, limited clothing, and potentially dangerous terrain. Now, none of this rules out backpacking with young kids. Obviously we've done it before, and will probably be foolhardy enough to do it again. Backpacking with kids is possible, but it is not simple.

My goal for the next few years is to find a new way to experience simplicity, one that means I can spend days at a time in the great outdoors without driving my children crazy, or vice versa. If I had to guess, I'd say it will involve a cooler... and chairs. With backs.

Two Years Ago: a love letter

On June 9th, 2009, Geneva Lynn was born.

Two years ago I didn't know I could nurse while walking. Two years ago I had never had someone else's poop under my fingernails. Two years ago I'd never attempted to make pink horsey pancakes. Two years ago I did not routinely sing or narrate my actions at the grocery store. Two years ago if someone vomited I did not lunge to catch it. Two years ago I said "cocoa" and "milk" instead of "tocoa" and "milkies." Two years ago I could not have understood how much my parents love me, simply because I had never experienced it firsthand.

I get it now. I know what it is to be so fascinated with another human being that you can hardly bear to blink. I know how to love someone in such a weird, fanatical way that even her farts seem precious. I know that there is something fierce living within me now, something that would rise up and make me strong, even terrifying, if my child were ever threatened. I will forever be a better person for having been a mother, and that knowledge makes me adore her all the more.

And how could I not? Even if that primitive part of my brain weren't screaming at me to nourish and protect my offspring, I would still be head over heels for her. I love that she makes jokes by quoting Beatrix Potter at opportune moments. I love how enthusiastic she is about gardening. I love that she voluntarily runs through the sprinkler in fifty degree weather. I am proud of her every day for being such a perceptive, articulate person, and for the kindness she is already learning to show others. No daughter I could have imagined would have turned out half as good as the one I got.

Happy birthday, sweetest Geneva Lynn. Welcome to being two. I love you more than you can ever know... unless you have a daughter of your own someday.

June 9th, 2009

June 9th, 2010

June 9th, 2011

That's What It's All About!

You put your foot in,

You put your foot out,

You put your foot in,

And you shake it all about.

You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around,

That's what it's all about!

Fin.

Today, Geneva and Goya decided to stage a performance of The Hokey Pokey on the patio of our chicken coop. Remarkably, the performance lasted for several minutes without anyone falling off of the small platform. Even more remarkable was the fact that the girls sang the words and executed the dance moves all by themselves. I almost cried. Seriously. Was it the toddler choreography? I think it was probably the fact that these girls were sharing something entirely theirs, and we as parents were simply being allowed a glimpse. I was having flash-forwards of homemade costumes, handwritten scripts and of course the inevitable disputes regarding casting decisions. You know, the things I did when I was a kid.

In the meantime, The Hokey Pokey is perfect. And after all, what is a friend if not someone to whom you can say "Ah, so we're going to be silly? And in this specific way? Excellent! Count me in." My lucky, lucky daughter has just such a friend already.

And that's what it's all about!

Cameraless

About a month ago my camera battery decided it had had enough. We had been charging it with a knock-off brand charger-- gasp!-- ever since leaving the original Nikon charger in our honeymoon suite. Apparently five years of sub-optimal charging made our battery bitter, because it decided to give us the finger by expiring the day before our family left for a week-long trip to Tacoma followed by a photography class. And while I have really fantastic notes from that photography lecture, I have no photographs from our trip. In fact, I have no photographs for the month of April. To give you some perspective, my monthly photo folders usually contain between two hundred and three hundred files. Last July we happened to go on two camping trips and attended a birthday party, and that folder contains nine hundred files. It's wonderful and it's a pain, because while I end up with some really great pictures of some really special moments, I do tend to spend a lot of time with a camera jammed in front of my face. Then I creep down to the basement and sit hunched over the computer for hours, sorting and editing and usually getting so tired that I never actually post the fruits of my labor here, for the world to see. So for the last month I've been, in a sense, free. I have experienced every moment without the filter of a lens, and I haven't had to worry about adding to the immense backlog of pictures yet to be edited. I've been reminded again and again that if I want to capture a moment then I'd better just try really hard not to forget it. I wouldn't say it's been nice, but it's been... healthy.

Here are some things I've committed to memory rather than film, and a few things that would have been impossible to photograph anyway:

* During our trip to Tacoma, Geneva and I visited the Point Defiance Zoo and happened to stumble across six different animal feedings! It was amazing, and cemented both the shark and the walrus firmly in Geneva's top ten favorite animals. Even now, based solely on that trip, Geneva can (and often does) quickly name four different animals that eat fish. After all, she's seen it firsthand!

* One afternoon Geneva awoke from her nap asking for Maya, who was also just waking up. I took Geneva in to peek at Maya and they both beamed sleepily at each other. They then spent the next ten minutes rolling around on the bed, petting and cuddling one another with such fondness that I wonder if Geneva will think of the baby as being a different sort of relative than Maya, or if in her mind she already has a sister.

* My next door neighbor Cristina is within a week of her due date, and it has been such a blessing to have someone with whom to celebrate and commiserate the ups and downs of pregnancy. With both of my babies I have had at least one good friend who was pregnant at the same time as me, and I just wouldn't want to do it any other way (not that it's my choice). Seeing Cristina preparing for the birth of her new little girl is getting me even more excited to meet mine, and there's something about sharing that weird, alienesque third trimester experience with another person that makes it easier to laugh about. It has been wonderful... and all I'm missing is a picture of the two of us together in our gestational glory!

* Little G continues to be a fountain of words. I gave up many months ago on keeping a list of her vocabulary, and at any rate it changes so quickly that I would hardly know how to document what she's doing and saying these days. Some of her cute kid phrases are already obsolete (for instance, when someone sneezes she now says "bless you" instead of "mushrooms") and others are just appearing (when it's warm out she now asks for a "pocketsicle"). My favorite Geneva phrases are her (overly?) candid observations about the world. She once summarized the benefits of wipes over toilet paper as "moist butt." She declares, after tasting ANY food, whether that bite was sweet, sour, or nice. She started calling the neighbor cat's bottom his "button," and then announced one day "Sunny's button is warm." Shudder. She's very specific about body parts in general, making sure to tell us that she intends to play with a toy with her hands or eat a snack with her mouth. When she feels like joshing around with someone she'll say "oh, __________, go take a bath!" (sort of like "go fly a kite" I suppose). And the girl loves a good pun; she enjoys faking us out by saying the first part of a word, pausing dramatically, and then laying the rest of the word on us, as in "Mommy, I like pepper...... oni!" And yet, for all this linguistic prowess, I'm still the only one that can understand her half of the time. I chalk it up to language immersion, as my brain is constantly awash in her little voice. It does make me think of all the kids her age who are in day-care situations, where no one person is around all of the time to learn that "elpey" means "elephant." I wonder if those kids are saying a lot more actual words than anyone knows. I don't think those kids are necessarily suffering because people understand less of what they say, but I do feel grateful yet again that I can be home with Geneva and learn to speak her language as she learns to speak mine.

* Twice in the last few months we've been out to Harrah to visit Auntie Jen and the boys, and twice it has been knock-your-socks-off gorgeous outside. I'm thinking the next time I need some sun I'll just ask if Jen doesn't mind having us over and see if our luck holds! Regardless of the weather, those visits were fabulous and reminded me of how important it is, every so often, to just sit all day and do nothing in the company of a good friend. It has been a real treat to see how kind and patient Owen-- and the other older cousins, too-- are with Geneva. I think they're teaching her something very important about what it means to be in a position of responsibility, and if she learns anything from their examples she's going to be a really fantastic big sister.

* This year, for the first time, Geneva and Maya were able to grasp the concept of Easter egg hunting. Seeing them totter around Nana's yard and watching them light up and change trajectory every time they spied a new egg just about made me cry happy tears. I think it's because they're old enough now to participate in traditions, and Easter egg hunting just happened to be the first one that they "got." I love the idea of Geneva being involved in something that is community-wide and generations-deep; that's what it means to be a part of a culture, after all. Yesterday we hung May Day baskets on the doorknobs of our neighbors. I can only imagine how amazing this Christmas will be.



Okay world, I've learned my lesson. I'd like my camera back now please. In the meantime, here's a look back at March....

Geneva and Thomas

The moms and the kids on our way to the zoo!

"Owl Truck," as it came to be known. This vehicle is famous at our house.

Thomas, Avery and Geneva viewing the otters.

That afternoon we found Charlie Kitty stuffed in the back of the car. He had been missing for some time. It was a joyful reunion!

Geneva and Maya turn a large stomach into art.

Rocking out to Jesus Christ Superstar over lunch.

...still rocking out...

Okay, that's too much rocking out!

Play dough-- or, as Geneva calls it, roll it and pat it and mark it with a B and throw it in the oven for baby and me.

The sculptors.

Maya chose this accessory herself.

My little artist.

Sharing Cap'n Crunch at Franklin Park.

Peeking in.

They like each other.

Maya, in a thoughtful moment.

This was the day we discovered that the play structure had been torn down. Geneva improvised a slide using a hill, some leaves, and a lot of wiggling.

Maya Rose

Enjoying the textures.

Sharing with Mommy.

My Top Ten

The year 2010 has ended, and as I was pondering this I was seized by yet another ruminative mood. I sat with my notepad, staring out the window and wondering what I had to say about this year, this decade, this life. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to write, but what I ended up with was a kind of letter to myself ten years ago, or maybe a letter to anyone who is still entangled in adolescence as I was then. It's the top ten things life has taught me so far-- my top ten from 2010, to be corny. And yes, most of what I found I had to say is a little cheesy, but I didn't let that stop me. These are the things I have found to be undeniably true.

I hope it's not narcissistic of me to put this on my blog... or at least, that it's no more narcissistic than the average blog post. And who knows, maybe you are all feeling ruminative, too.



My Top Ten (in no particular order)

• Sometimes being right doesn't matter. Sometimes it doesn't give you the moral high ground. Sometimes it hurts others. Sometimes there is no right, but simply what works and what doesn't.

• Of all the dumb ways I've spent my time and energy, being jealous of others seems in retrospect to be the dumbest of all. It also seems cowardly: it was a way for me to as questions about the happiness of others instead of my own. 

• Possessions accumulate. Eventually an increasing number of possessions becomes a burden, a hassle. Things must be cleaned and stored and organized. Experiences, on the other hand, never pile up or collect dust. Doing is a much better investment than getting.

• Faith and doubt can, and perhaps even should, keep company. Questioning your beliefs-- by which I mean subjecting them to logical and moral scrutiny-- is one of the most responsible things you can do as a growing human being. When you have rigorously examined what it is you believe, why you believe it, what the implications are for how you conduct your life, and have integrated your doubts and misgivings, then your faith truly becomes your own. Until then it is simply borrowed from someone else.

• I find I am infinitely happier when I choose forgiveness. Do not forgive someone based on whether or not he or she deserves it, but based on whether or not you can offer it. Yes, some things cannot be forgiven, but the vast majority can, and you may not be able to tell the difference right away. Keep trying. It is a kindness you do for yourself.

• Relationships between people cannot be fully understood by an outside party, even a close one. This should be the enormous caveat to every judgment a person makes about the relationships of others. In some cases it ought to shut them up entirely.

• Forget about doing work that you think you should and instead just do whatever it is that makes you feel whole. An immigrant youth case worker is no more noble, no more admirable than a fashion designer if they both live generously and compassionately within their communities. Basically, do what you love and let being a good person flow from there.

• For a long time I had the concept of patience all wrong: it is not a character trait that some are born with and others are not, nor is it a byproduct of loving every second of your life no matter what. It is simply the skill of seeing the big picture when you are overwhelmed by the details, and it is a skill that must be continually practiced. Sometimes exercising patience is downright unpleasant. Fortunately, grudging patience still  counts, and fortunately it is always worth the effort.

• In the WWF smackdown between John Lennon's "All You Need is Love" and Aretha Franklin's "Respect," Aretha wins every time. Love without respect is a disaster.

• There are things for which our society leaves us ill-prepared: Letting go. Waiting indefinitely. Failing graciously. Saying nothing. Not knowing. Understanding when and how to do or accept these things is what I imagine wisdom will be like, should I ever acquire it.

On Tolerance

For this post, I will be deviating from the usual format of updates and family pictures. I should also mention that "the views and opinions expressed in this post are the author's alone and do not reflect the views of the entire family," or something like that. Oh yeah, and I'll be writing on a very personal and sensitive topic, and absolutely do not want to offend anyone. Basically, if you feel like skipping over this one, or leaving me a comment that disagrees 100% with what I have to say, I won't mind. I'm really just writing this for myself... I had some thoughts that were demanding to be let out.



I can't help but wonder how our world has managed to become so religiously intolerant. I do mean that in two ways: first, that many people are intolerant of differing religions, and second, that some seem to have made a religion out of intolerance, defining their faith in terms of who they are not like and who they do not agree with. They believe that only themselves and a relatively small group of others who think exactly as they do are in God's good graces, and that the rest of the rabble are misguided at best, evil-hearted at worst, and ultimately doomed in either event. Now, as an anthropologist I get it. I understand how cultures arrive at this point, but I struggle to understand why.

Every person in this world who has ever lived, or will ever someday live, has a path to walk from birth to death. There are no exceptions, and in this truth we are all united, every last human being. And yet with all these billions upon billions of eyes looking out at the world, no two pairs have seen the exact same thing. In this truth we are utterly unique. These are the forces that pull people together and drive them apart: that we are simultaneously identical and disparate. Talk about powerful stuff.

As individuals, we are all blessed with a mind that is entirely our own. No two people will envision divinity in exactly the same way, just as every thought a person conceives has the stamp of his or her own unique brain on it. This holds true whether the two people are absolute strangers living on different continents, or whether they have been married for decades and sit beside one another in church each week. And what does it matter, when the God each one of us sees when we close our eyes is really just a human construct? Here's what I mean: the words we say about that which is divine, the images we create, the voice we give it-- these things are not divinity itself. Divinity is something outside the possible experience of a single person, so to even discuss the concept we have to start framing the divine in our own mundane terms. Suddenly this abstraction, this beautiful gut feeling about life and the world we live in is assigned a name, a gender, a language, a form. This is not only understandable, but necessary. How else can we relate to something so all-encompassing as God itself? The problem arises when time passes and we forget that the framework of religion is only a tool for talking about something greater.

Many people, myself included, find some sort of meaning in the path of life. We see it all around us-- our fellow human beings struggling through life's ups and downs just as we do-- and we feel it deep within us. We seek to understand this sense of meaning, and we seek to share it with others, undaunted by the fact that, whatever idea of the divine we hold in our hearts, it is completely original. Out of this desire to share comes religion, an organized system in which a myriad of different perceptions of God can be blended, united, and called "one." But out of the desire to understand the meaning we feel comes faith, and that is personal. That is what we take with us on our solitary journey.

So the God in my thoughts looks different from the one in yours. Is that so frightening? Does degree of difference really matter when, as it turns out, we're all a little different anyway? Symmachus, a Roman senator from the Fourth Century, put it this way: It is reasonable to assume that whatever each of us worships can be considered one and the same. We look up at the same stars, the same sky is above us all, and the same universe encompasses us. What difference does it make which system each of us uses to find the truth? It is not by just one route that man can arrive at so great a mystery. I believe tolerance stems from the knowledge that no single person, no single religion, can fully understand divinity. It's simply too huge, too abstract. But we can gather our understanding in pieces, bit by bit, person by person. There is unity in that. Together, we are whole.

You Are Here

The woods are calling me back. I think it's safe to say that our camping season is coming to an end, with the nights cooling off and the yardwork piling up, but I don't feel done. I love sleeping and waking with the light, hearing the tiny sounds that are usually drowned out by the buzzing of lights and appliances, and knowing which way is north not by the directionality of the streets but by which side of me feels warm. I know that many people are put off by the discomforts that accompany outdoor living, but somehow that just adds to the allure for me. Feeling the cold and the wind, climbing up slopes and wading through rivers... these things are a constant reminder of where I am and what I'm doing. Every so often when I'm inside a building somewhere it hits me that I could be anywhere in the world and would have no way of knowing by looking at my surroundings; malls are especially creepy that way. In the woods you know exactly where you are. You know the season by the weather, the flowers and berries, the angle of the sun, the constellations. You know your elevation by the temperature and the texture of the air. You know what is growing around you by sight and smell.

More than just where you are, though, I think you see who you are. You learn which things are the things that matter when you're carrying them on your back. After all, if it's not important you won't bother to haul it up a mountain. Sometimes I surprise myself with what I deem worthwhile to carry. Obviously food and shelter make the list, but I routinely pack things like books, musical instruments, sketch pads, even a kite. Once I packed out a very large rock just for the sheer beauty of it. As for Geneva, bringing toys is a complete waste of energy, which warms my hear to its core. The girl loves sticks, stones, flowers and water. I would love to think that I'm teaching her something important by bringing her with me into my beloved woods, but I think all I'm really doing is not un-teaching her what she already knows: she is a part of this world on a fundamental level. She belongs. She is here.

Mt. Rainier, June 2010

The Zoglmans and the Ledesmas

Spider Meadows, July 2010

The Zoglmans and Nita Morris