Connect and Listen

We wrote, we watercolored, we walked, we stretched, we danced under the full moon’s light (and maybe let out a howl or two), we jumped into the frigid Rio Grande, we waded into hot springs, we wandered the Taos Pueblo and the streets of Taos, we ate (boy did we eat), and then we wrote some more.

Before dinner on Valentine's Day, realizing he'd done nothing with hearts or red construction paper at school to express his love for the family, my middle son sat down and feverishly began cutting, gluing and drawing on a piece of paper he'd snuck from the printer. When we were just about to eat, he shyly nudged his card toward the center of the table and looked around to make sure we'd noticed.

I’m happy to announce, that I’ve started something! And it's launching next month!

Out of nowhere, I start to cry. Which is strange, because I am not a cryer. A sentimental sap at sad movies? Yes. A sucker for a sweet laundry soap ad? Sure. But otherwise, I tend to keep a pretty tight lid on my tears. Which is also strange given that part of what I love most is helping other people find and express their own feelings.

But holding it together is what I do best. Keeping the family on track, the calendar organized, the meals coming, one after another, day after day is part of my survival mechanism.

I’m decidedly NOT beginning with the end in mind this year.

So one morning, I’m running and I realize I miss what Brené just said in the podcast about the gifts of imperfection. I am thinking instead. Wondering about a writing prompt I’d just been given: Rewind.

I bought myself a Tibetan singing bowl a few weeks ago. I’ve wanted one for a long time and it was cemented when I participated in a Zoom series early on in this quarantine that started each session with the gentle ringing of a bowl. The sound was so meditative. The tone so calming. The vibration so inviting.

But how to find a singing bowl in a pandemic? It doesn’t really seem the sort of thing one should buy from Amazon, though surely I could have. So I found a shop that sold them in town and when I was certain there were no more than three customers, I went inside, #doublemasked, of course.

Oh to be free to read joyfully again. Of course I’ll still follow the news, but oh to follow the news at a regular hour, perhaps with a coffee … instead of late into the night, blue light emanating from the covers on my side of the bed … worried about the nightmares that might await, not in my dreams, but the morning.

I really meant to stick with that 4 present rule this year. Something they want, something they need, something to wear and something to read. Even that, I am fully aware, is more than enough. But the marketers got me. All they had to do was slap STEM on the box and I was sold.

"Why do you paint your face?" my son matter-of-factly asked this boy who dyed his hair pink and lined his eyes and lips with kohl.