On This Miraculous Planet, On Real Food, On Union with all that is
Dearest Bean,
I was closing up the kitchen before heading down to brush my teeth and corral you and your brother into bed. Bending over the couch to turn off a light, I hear your voice from the kitchen.
“Mom, what is porno?”
What the FUCK?!
“Where did you learn that word?”
“It is right here - in the table of contents of your book.”
Read MoreDearest Dragon,
What a shining day it was! Making a hand drum with Mark Ressl of The Giving Trees in Rosendale has to be possibly one of the most true experiences of my 49 years on this planet. True as in killing chickens, eating a porcupine, giving birth, my God immersion experience, and sitting with Baba’s body after he passed - that level of true.
Really, Mom, you are saying this about a drum making workshop?
Yup, my dearest, I am.
Life comes from death. Which, in turn, makes more life. It is one big circle. It is all the same thing - just different forms.
The life of a drum comes from the death of an animal. Our life comes from the death of vegetables and animals that feed us. One day, in turn, our lives will nourish worms and plants. This is truth.
Read More“Why don’t you wear your sister’s pink rain jacket until we get you a new one.”
“Mom! Nooo! I will bring my other too small one to school.”
Sigh. Is this because it is pink? Or because your sister has cooties?
“Okay.”
No reason to delve. He has to figure out this himself. Just be grateful for all of those years you were dressing him in whatever gave you pleasure.
Read MoreMy beloved children,
As you know, I grew up in Washington DC. Our nation’s capital, an epicenter of Global North power, and the accompanied jostling endemic to such power. There was a ubiquitous question in the cocktail party circuit. A refrain peeling out from many perfunctory conversations over square cheese bites.
“So, what do you do?”
You are really asking where I can be categorized in the ladder of capitalism. I see you.
Read MoreDuring the last snowday, teetering on the roof of the wood shelter, Bean was stricken with indecision. “Should I jump?”
From the ground Dragon called up to Bean, , “Get ready! Get read-y!!”
“Dragon, stop!”
“The worllld is coming to an end!”
We all started laughing.
Thank you Thurber.
Read MoreRecently, you two played very quiet indoor soccer. On the other end of the building your mother had this internal conversation.
Corinna, raise your hand. You will be mad at yourself if you ignore this nudge to speak.
I am going to ask this question in front of all of these fellow soccer parents - out myself as a crunchy hippy environmentalist - even though I know the answer is capitalism and no, there is no wiggle room.
Yup. Be the Lorax.
Read MoreDragon perched on his pillows, his legs pulled tight against him.
“Did you go to the bathroom?”
“Ummmm.” The slight shrug of his shoulders and his sheepish look spoke volumes.
“I will wait.”
Two minutes later he was back on the pillows, poised and ready to uncurl his legs.
Read More“Momma, why do you have big Xs in your book?” Looking up from her morning granola, Bean’s gesticulated with her spoon toward my open calendar book.
“Ah ha, those are my favorite days. Those are the days where I am not allowed to schedule anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I want time and space to focus and work on my own projects it is really difficult for me to do that if the day is carved into appointments all day long. It is really easy for your mother to fill my day with doings if I didn’t write big Xs in my book.” I flipped back to a week before school started. “See how this week, every day is filled with doings? Party, doctor appointment, friend call, another doctor appointment…”
“But why a big X?”
“That way, I have to think twice before putting something in that day because I know I am sacrificing a day of Corinna creativity… it better be worth it!”
Read MoreMy dearest beloveds,
I have gone back and forth about this missive several times. It is a poem (see below*) and now a whole lot more.
To summarize, on the last full day of our magical vacation I felt so confronted by the situation I self-medicated with two White Russians, an Aperol Spritz, and a Mojito. Not surprisingly, I passed out on the beach after lunch.
What situation? I hear you both ask. You sailed everyday, ate passionfruit and mango, gazed at the ocean while doing yoga, and swung on a trapeze for the first time in your life.
Yes, that is all true, it was truly divine.
AND every morning BIPOC bodies of former European colonies collected cigarette butts, empty champagne glasses, errant volleyballs, straightened beach chairs, and prepared food for 98% White European bodies.
Read MoreDearest Beloveds,
Courtesy of cleaning chores Bean does weekly at school she now notices areas where cleaning can happen in our house (hooray the invisible/implicit becoming visible/explicit!). In addition to organizing her own room, the family has received her good energy wiping out crumb filled drawers, polishing copper pots, and sweeping pet hair off stairs.
One recent winter dark Saturday evening, your father and I sat and read on the couch by the fire.
Full of energy post dessert brownies, Bean decided she wanted to polish silver.
Dragon piped up, “I want to polish too!”
“There is plenty for both of you, just put on an apron to protect your clothing.”
Read MoreDearest Beloveds,
I almost guarantee this poem is not one you might encounter in your academic career. If not, I salute your teacher. If so, well, you chose to come down and join this family with me as your Momma, so you’re welcome - you get to read it twice. (I can feel the future adolescent eye rolls.)
Courtesy of The Emerald’s June 23 2020 podcast entitled Space Hex: The Curse of Restlessness in Worldviews of Perpetual Escape, I have been exposed to Gil Scott-Heron's "Whitey on the Moon" released in 1970. Here is the full text (and you can hear Scott-Heron performing it below*:
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
With whitey on the moon
Her face and arms began to swell
And whitey's on the moon
I can't pay no doctor bills
But whitey's on the moon
Ten years from now I'll be paying still
While whitey's on the moon
Strewn on the concrete floor of the mudroom are summertime hats. A variety of baseball hats, wide brimmed floppy sun hats, Polly Hill Arboretum monogrammed bucket hats, disintegrating straw sun hats, my husband’s sturdy sun hat purchased at a cricket match, the visor from my childhood with my name emblazoned on it, the yellow rainproof fishing hat from my parents, and several neck gaitors from our visit to the tropics.
I wiped the drawer with a damp rag. Then I turned to the closet and dumped out all of the wintertime hats onto the floor.
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My life vision is to love, be curious, identify my Cranky Monster, and be brave enough to speak from and for The Good.
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