I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders as I no longer need to write that daunting autobiography before I die. These two Facebook quizzes accurately describe everything any inquiring mind would want to know about me. The particular points I want to emphasize:
“You’re the Saturday night date of choice for Midwesterners and high school guys who want to grow up to be poets.”
“You love to win at all costs even if it means gambling a small babies [sic] life just to get your kicks.”
I found the challenge to It Begins With a Colour particularly difficult this week. For one, I haven’t had a lot of time lately to devote to picture-taking. And secondly, I find it quite difficult to have the time to stop and think about/find something in my life of contrast. In any regards, I was winnowing through some old photographs from when Poppy was brand-new and I stumbled across this one of my mother’s mother holding Poppy for the first time.
I think the contrast of old age/new age is one of the most beautiful to be found in this life. I really do. I think one of my favorite things EVER is to watch my own grandparents with Poppy. Old, wrinkled skin with soft, plump, new skin. Eyes that have seen decades worth of life and eyes that are shining new. In the measure of age, they are in complete contrast. And yet, as Emerson says, “We as for long life, but ’tis deep life, or noble moments that signify. Let the measure of time be spiritual, not mechanical.” I feel like my great-grandmother is closer to Poppy spiritually than any of us. Not mechanically, in the measure of their years, but definitely in spirit. Most definitely they are close in spirit.
During a poetry class in my Junior year of high school, I was introduced to E.E. Cummings, and have ever since had a love affair that has not waned. I am trying to convince Jacob that our first son should be named Estlin.
The first poem of Cummings’ that I read was “in Just-” and it was love at first sight. His poetry made sense to me because it flowed like thought, looked like thought on the page, and welcomed hours of happy mind-dancing to fully comprehend even the simplest of word-images. Plus, his quirky use of capitalization and punctuation is just plain fun. A lot of his work is political, and driven by a very witty and cynical look at society. His words are still relevant today.
A couple of years ago in a bookstore, I stumbled across a 1959 edition of his 100 Selected Poems and snatched it up right away. Every so often I grab it from the shelf and re-read all my favorites. No. 13 feels like a new discovery to me, and I’ve read it to Poppy several times in hopes of giving her a lifetime of love for this poet, his words, his ideas. We’ll see.
No 13
who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky-filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where
always
it’s
Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
On Saturday, we took a break from our spring-cleaning-lock-down of a weekend to walk to the West Side Market in downtown Ohio City. We tasted the flavors of some world breads, sipped on some local coffee, and of course, stopped at the candy booth for a little treat. We also stumbled upon a great surprise in the neighborhood – Open Air in Market Square. Dozens of colorful booths, friendly vendors and live music filled the main intersection across from the market. The three of us had a blast browsing and bartering. I scored a beautiful Greco-Roman espresso/tea set for Poppy’s future play dates. I think we left with but a few quarters in our pocket. A Saturday well spent, I’d say.
Now back to the lock-down…
It was when Poppy was mere seconds old, and I was holding her warm, slimy body tight against my chest for the first time, that I noticed her eyes like dark glass beads. She looked up at me with eyes so blue and deep. It was more than I could handle.
Blue eyes don’t run in either mine or Jacob’s immediate families. One of each of our grandparents has them, but that’s it. Jacob’s eyes are green and mine are a dismal gray. I had been told that most Caucasian babies are born with blue eyes, and not to worry, she would grow into her own color with time. Well, I love blue eyes, I told Poppy in the hospital, so you can keep them if you like.
I love my baby’s big blues. They are so playful and so expressive. Their shade of blue is beyond description, even a picture can’t do it justice. Poppy’s eyes are wise, foxy and cool all at the same time.
They are the sea, and the sky. Her eyes look so delicately formed like the shape of a glass blower’s vase.
In sixteen thirty years when a little punk shows up at our door and I ask why he wants to take Poppy out to the movies, he’ll say “Because her eyes move me to tears.”
I think it’s amazing that she has neither Jacob’s nor my eyes, in either shape or color. They are completely and uniquely HERS. (Jacob has since checked the color of the postman’s, the delivery man’s, and the next door neighbor’s eyes, to be certain. All checked out fine) She’s a new being in the world, with her own set of eyes to see. She’s going to see things in ways we never will. That is amazing.
I love you, Little Blue Eyes.
Tears are streaming down my face as I jot down nine special dreams that I hope and pray can all be crossed off of the list in this lifetime.
1. To rehab, and live in, a Tennessee farmhouse
2. To work on-staff as a magazine editor
3. To choreograph a one-act ballet
4. To write a novel
5. To live in San Francisco
6. To re-honeymoon in Ireland
7. To take my shirt off at a festival
8. To see my children’s children grow up
9. To experience the ripples of a single act of kindness that I have set in motion
Photo credits: 1. Tennessee Farm House, 2. Innocent Magazine – Letters to the Editor, 3. Enter stage, 4. I Wrote This Novel…, 5. San Francisco Houses, 6. Dublin, Ireland, 7. Hippy Hippy Shake°, 8. Three Generations of Nauerth-Curriden-Haynes Family, 9. Ripples
Jump, said She
How high? said He
The sky, said She
That’s alright with me
Up, said the Girl
To the top of the world
You can look up at me
That’s okay, said He
I’m not trying to be anything for you these days.
The sweetness that stings.
The organic bon ton. Crafting to glory.
The kind, hip soul. Harmonious rocker chic.
I’m not giving off what I’m not taking in.
Just letting it all hang out. And in.
I can be soft spoken, in a crass sort of way.
Common and yokelish.
I’d rather admit defeat and ride the tonic crests as they come.
In the end, you can win.
A few weeks ago I thoroughly embarrassed my daughter by displaying her lack of jumper skills. I hope her stellar performance here makes up for it.
On the eve of my first Mother’s Day, I am filled with many, many feelings.
I am remembering back to last year’s Mother’s Day – Jacob and I were still mourning the loss of our first pregnancy. I think that was also the weekend we moved into our new house. I remember feeling sad that I didn’t have a baby to celebrate that day, but also feeling hopeful that we had a fresh start in our lives and new enthusiasm for making a baby. (Insert gagging brother who reads CrunchyCursive.com) Actually, Poppy was conceived sometime during that week after Mother’s Day. I have little blue stars on my calendar to prove it.
Today, I am also thinking about my own mom and the journey we have shared. I am thinking about how our relationship is changed, and refined, by the birth of a third generation. I’m thinking about all the things I have learned from my mom and all the things she did for me that I was completely ungrateful for and unaware of growing up. And how I want to do these same things for Poppy.
Tomorrow is a very bittersweet day for me. As I rocked Poppy Anne to sleep tonight, I held her close and cried warm tears on her cheeks. Those yummy, yummy cheeks. And I thought about the friends in my life who don’t have babies of their own to hold tomorrow. The day before Poppy was born, another little baby girl, Stephanie, was supposed to be delivered into this world. Instead, she went to heaven. She would have been three months and three days old today, but she is not here and I cannot imagine how her mother is torn apart with grief and anger. I cannot imagine. And I cannot understand. As I squeezed Poppy tight tonight, I thought of our dear friends who have 22 months of reasons to cry out in pain. I thought of the utter despair of a mother and father who cannot conceive a child.
I thought about Poppy’s destiny and the circumstances of her birth. What does her life mean in the wake of the sorrow and pain of our friends? Poppy flowers represent eternity and the remembrance of death. The name Anne is in remembrance of my aunt’s baby daughter who never got a chance at life to the fullest. Perhaps Poppy has a destiny on her tiny life that is more than I can imagine.
Tonight, I thought about being a mother. I though about the change in my life over the last year. I thought about Poppy’s little heartbeat, now beating outside my body and growing stronger everyday. I thought about my future children – the ones waiting for me. I thought about the mothers who are going to carry our adopted children. I am already grieved by their pain and rejoicing in their strength.
It is a strange feeling being between complete joy and complete sorrow. Something I wrote about a long time ago, but still feels very true today. I feel like I am on a wall between two gardens. Tomorrow I will be celebrating the wonderful and beautiful life of my new daughter and my journey into motherhood – an experience I could have never imagined and can never explain in words. But also tomorrow, I will be thinking of lost babies, broken mothers, shattered hearts. Utter grief finds its match only in utter beauty. Life and death are so far apart that they actually become close again. The same with joy and pain.
So Happy Mother’s Day? Well, I can at least toast to the celebration of grace and mercy and beauty in the midst of pain. I can celebrate my bright Poppy flower for her smile and laughter and trusting spirit. She is a light for the world – bright and beautiful.
Our daughter has big, floppy ears and I love, love, love them!
Dear readers,
I promise never to
[1] take a picture of my kid unknowingly holding an empty beer can
[2] share toddler quips that really aren’t that funny
[3] or condone this in any way, shape or form.
Just for the record.
I’ve been working on this little video for a while. It celebrates our journey to parenthood and the most abundant three months of our entire lives.
