Once upon a time, in a post written just over four years ago, a future mama and a future pomo were waiting to learn if their third attempt at conception had been successful. And that future mama vowed that despite her instinctive resistance to hope – despite her clung-to-like-a-security-blanket conviction that it was better not to get too attached to something until you knew you really had it – she was going to just believe in that baby. Heart on the line. The whole thing.
And of course there was no baby. And when a baby started to grow the next month, that future mama and that future pomo just believed in her. Hearts on the line. The whole thing. And when that tiny still being came, they learned some things about hope.
We are not the humans we were four years ago, when I first sat down and wrote this post as an invitation to a new way of living. For one thing – despite naming the blog – I only grasped the “blossom” piece back then. The “breaking” part took time to learn about. And I know a lot more about those ponies now. And the peaches. I know how momentary that light breeze is, and how important it is to have breathed in so you can remember the smell when it’s gone. At least remember.
My feelings about hope are trickier now. It makes me queasy. It brings up ghosts. I still believe in the value of the vulnerability it demands. The honesty of the fall. Its centrality to real-live life. But believing in and inviting are whole oceans apart from one another.
All of which is to say that we’re waiting for news on a job that could make a real difference to us. Not a baby this time, but another kind of new way of life. We have been waiting for about three weeks. And the waiting is hard. And so – instead of deciding to feel one way or another about it – I thought I’d reach out a little so the waiting could be less lonely. And I thought I’d write a small love list so that the waiting doesn’t appear more powerful than even it is.
So: Waiting In Love. September 2014. Happy four years to Breaking Into Blossom, by the way. Thanks for helping to make this space safe for both the breaking parts and the blossoming. What gifts: this space and these years.
1. That right now our Bluebird (who is cutting his first two teeth and cannot, therefore, be put even momentarily down, and is, therefore, sleeping on my chest, justifying my writing of this blog post when there are quizzes to grade) is wearing the corduroy bib overalls that my dad bought Bram when he was just a tiny Bug. They are softer with wear. And my dad once held them.
2. That Bram sees everything now. Every Little Thing: numbers, letters, engineering concerns, narratives, rhymes and stories and rhythms. He has memorized all the words to Ages and Ages “Divisionary,” and he sings them (including “diligently” and “irrelevant” with more heart than can possibly even fit in that kid body of his. He is approaching Three and Awake and So Present with a speed that is as dizzying as it is sweet. I could listen and watch forever.
3. That my mom came this week, comes most weeks, bought us a new steamer because our old one (which she bought) stopped steaming and we spend a lot of time on our otherwise dirty ole’ floor.
4. That there’s a new pizza place in town that is almost – if you squint your eyes and open your heart – as good as my beloved Charleston EVO. And that this one has GF crust and vegan cheese. And that consequently, B ate his first not.made.by.us pizza today. With olives and pineapple (to my basil and more basil and fresh-pulled mozzarella and J’s All The Ingredients).
5. That three of our overgrown flower beds are now weed-free and Creeping Myrtle-full. Creeping Myrtle, which I’m told would take something atomic to kill. Yes ma’am; that’s my kind of ground cover.
6. That the air smells like autumn and the sweaters are out.
7. That the boys’ Aunt Laura is coming for a visit next Saturday. Will have lunch with us. Will probably read a nap-time story to her nephews. Will make us feel even better about life.
8. That dearest friends sent us Isa Does It by the brilliant vegan Isa Chandra Moskowitz, and that I’ve made some twenty-five things already and am in love with nearly all of them (and her writing, and her photographs, and the divinity of her cooking, and her lack of fear of salt).
9. That other friends are due any week now with their first son, and that, if I ever finish it, that baby’s non-gestation mama will get the kind of letter and care package I would have loved to receive as I grappled with my fears before Bram slipped into my hands.
10. That I am here. Living this. All of this. Even when hope is equal parts feathers and razor blades.