7: Lost in a Dangling Conversation

It's 11:37 p.m.

Just pulled from the warm coccoon of the smaller little's bed

(because I'm a good-luck charm, right --- I make bedtime less scary)

I sit here now

to slice

because it's 11:39 p.m.

and there are only clunky words 

adding to this post's bottom line

snippets of ideas

parlaying into nothing

really

but scraps of future posts

about bowties

mirrors

green eyes

or might we say, hazel

because it's 11:45 p.m.

and the quote about writing

from Joni Mitchell is

poetically lost

and is another scrap added

to the pile of future posts

It's 11:46 p.m.

He sleeps

I dream

of words smooth and strong

that run around the block tonight

like a teenage boy

Will they relent tomorrow

when I sit to write again

because it's 11:47 p.m.

and all I have to offer you is

this "dangling conversation and superficial sighs"

ala Simon and Garfunkel

Because it's 11:52 p.m.

Write on,

b

21: The collision...

This is our little fish.

I keep myself busy around the bathroom, bedroom, and closet 

every night

so he can have his space

but I can keep tabs on his aquatic activity.  

"Can you hear me?" he asks more than once.

I can.  

He says, "What you say?"

I didn't...because you can't.

I smile.

He's also our little book devourer.

And 'Pete the Cat' aficionado.

He adores the little song Pete sings in

"Rockin' in My School Shoes."

We all have this in common -- it is, after all, how we spend our days, yes?

If you're unfamiliar, click on the link below and start listening just past 1:00.

Tonight the text and the tub collide.

I organize my clothes for tomorrow, he floats.

I sort laundry into stacks, he sings.

"I'm floating in my bathtub,

I'm floating in my bathtub,

I'm floating in my bathtub."

Perfectly synchopated, perfectly in tune.

A mentor

transfers its craft

transforms our vision

and morphs ideas

into something more meaningful.

More like the soundtrack to our big, important thoughts.

And loves.

Like swimming in the tub or devouring books.

Write on,

b

There's a concert tonight | Slice 14:31

There will be a familiar guitar swimming above a familiar beat

And then, a familiar voice will intermingle

Hello, cowgirl in the sand, is this place at your command?

Old enough now to change your name, when so many love you, is it the same?

It's the woman in you that makes you want to play this game...

Another familiar voice, this time with a psychedelic organ in the background

If you smile at me, I will understand

That is something everybody everywhere does in the same language

Wooden ships on the water, very free (and easy)

Easy, you know the way it's supposed to be

And another...sweeter, more contemplative voice 

accompanied by the grand piano's simple chords

I'll light the fire, you place the candle in the vase that you bought today

Staring at the fire for hours and hours as I listen to you play your love songs

All night long for me....only for me

And then, the magical triumvirate will unite

Dododododo, do, do, dodododo

Dododododo, do, do, dodo

Dododododo, do, do, dodododo

Dododododo, do, do, dodo

(Are you humming 'Suite: Judy Blue Eyes' yet?)

It'll speed up

And there's a rose in the fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with

Love the one you're with

It'll slow down

All along the lee shore, shells lie scattered in the sand

Winking up like shining eyes at me from the sea

Here is one like sunrise, it's older than you know
It's still lying there where some careless wave
Forgot it long ago

It'll challenge

From the bottom of the ocean to the mountains of the moon

Won't you please come to Chicago

No one else can take your place

We can change the world

Rearrange the world

It'll remember

Guinnevere had golden hair
like yours, mi'lady, like yours
Streaming out when we'd ride 

through the warm wind down by the bay
Yesterday
Seagulls circle endlessly
I sing in silent harmony
We shall be free

It'll galvanize

Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming

We're finally on our own

This summer I hear the calling

Four dead in O-hi-o

It'll encourage

Teach your children well

Their father's hell did slowly go by

And feed them on your dreams

The one they pick is the one you'll know by

It'll connect

Though we rush ahead to save our time

We are only what we feel and I love you

Can you feel it now?

Just a song before I go, to whom it may concern...

There's a concert tonight

Write on,

b

11:31 -- Collecting moments...

Now that I'm back at school from maternity leave, it seems like every little task and tidbit is completely compartmentalized.  There's a specific order in which we get ready to make sure everything works out:

Get up
Shower
Feed the baby
Finish getting ready
Get the toddler up
Breakfast for everyone
Finish packing the bags
Move bags to the car
Get coats on
Get baby from upstairs
Grab school bags
Move out to the cars
Say goodbyes
Drive away NLT 7:20 a.m.

There's a specific order for how we unwind in the evenings too.

The jumble of jobs is smoothest if done in a certain order because the packing is dependent on the dishwasher and the dishwasher is dependent on the meal...  You get it.  If I think about all this too long...my life starts to look like an instruction manual from Ikea.

But, in all these mundane, predictable moments...there are surprises too.  Ones that make me giggle, or want to shoot a few quick pictures, or give kisses and hugs, or close my eyes in complete thankfulness that all these mini-events are the stuff of my life.

The future isn't thinking about sending my boys to school in an actual elementary, or how they'll be in high school.  The future is what we do to manage the moments in the present.  How we collect them to make something special; a life with more to come.

This piece of wisdom (and wordart that I created above) is courtesy of Leslie Feist, singer-songwriter of 'Mushaboom,' which incidentally is one of our favorite songs right now.

One of the funny moments in our collection is when I pretend to be Feist and Reid pretends to be the mushaboom guy when we sing in the car...

Write on,
b

2:31 -- Standing Still

At this point, it's merely hours.  Hours until I head back to my coaching position in an elementary school.  Like a heavy door, my maternity leave closes on lazy feedings and naptime workouts, mid-morning Starbucks runs with a sleeping baby and time enough to actually keep house.  The day is here, as I've peeked at the calendar from afar the last few months, just like I knew it would be.

I initialed all baby belongings in preparation for day care.  I packed the diaper bag and my lunch.  I took stock of the galleria to inform my grocery shopping for Reid's meals away from home.  I tried on my favorite ivory sweater with gentle graphite stripes...the one I wear when I'm up in front and I'm nervous.  I fed Grant as often as he expressed interest because come Monday, the suctiony sounds of my pump will replace the mealtime gurgles and coos and feeding on demand will give way to protecting regular slivers of school time that will secure my milk supply.

There's stillness in my heart though. 

In all the moments I snuggle Grant...and gaze into his giant eyes...and feel his body as a comfortable extension of my own, I wish -- just once -- I could freeze time.  Like ice cubes.  This memory in this compartment, and yesterday's memory in the tray preceding.  I freeze: because if I don't, the remaining hours melt into a buzzing alarm and hot, hidden tears while I help load the boys into my husband's car Monday morning and then drive away by myself.

Amidst the sound and fury, there's a job...that really doesn't feel like much of one.  There's a teacher who emailed early last Monday to wish me a happy last week, but also to let me know she's counting the days until I'm back.  There's a classroom I designed myself to make visiting teachers feel like treasured guests during meetings or planning chats because all my favorite pictures, quotes, and books are displayed like they would be in a home office.  There's a vibe in this school that forwards the belief that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.  {And, it is.}  There's a professional development series I'm authoring that's centered around fine-tuning our writing workshops in a variety of areas like nudging boy writers, and increasing volume, and implementing continua to guide instruction as each unit progresses.

Today is soccer...and grocery shopping...and laundry...and bedtime routines.  Sunday is church...and cartoons...and family time.  There will be a bed time Sunday night that's much later than anticipated and then before I know it, I'll pull into the school parking lot with no recollection of my commute. 

Until then, despite the errands and task management, I'll be still.  To savor.  And, to freeze.
Just like the Weepies say... 

Write on,

b

Song lyrics speak to me... Second Edition

I won't lie; my greatest music teacher was never someone my alma mater employed.  It was my dad. 

He didn't show me the ropes with major and minor keys, line and space notes, or time signatures.  He simply shared what he loves.  The music, the sound, the feeling it brings, the thoughts behind the lyrics, the heart.  And, it transferred.  We both enjoy late-60s rock like Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Neil Young, Carole King, James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Simon & Garfunkel, and Jimi Hendrix.  We listen loudly when no one's around.  We sing.  We go to concerts.  We create fabulous Pandora radio stations.  The artists are like real people in our lives (right down to his beloved David Crosby walrus mustache --- it's admiration or an enterprising way to push my mom's buttons.)

This spring, my parents and I sat glued to Morgan Neville's documentary "The Troubadour: Rise of the Singer-Songwriter" based on the intertwined careers of James Taylor and Carole King.  One song, so lovingly performed, echoed through me as if traveling toward home.

I used to sing that for you before bed, my dad gently offered.

Inspired, I learned the song.  I know Carole's harmony and James' melody and we always listen two times through so I can sing both with my son. (Reading teachers, I'm employing the neurological impress method!)  It is our bedtime routine's encore number.

Sing our song, Mommy, he pleads.



You Can Close Your Eyes
James Taylor. _Mud Slide Slim_. Warner Bros., 1971

Well the sun is surely sinking down
But the moon is slowly rising
So this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone

It won't be long before another day
We're gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
You can stay as long as you like

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone

Because of my dad, I do know love songs...their depth, breadth, and soul.  Someday because of me, Reid will too.

Write on,
b

{To enjoy our song, visit mckays videos on You Tube.  Start the clip around 1:00; finish around 3:30.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVk13zLhbZo&feature=related}

Song lyrics speak to me...

I'm the quiet type who takes it all in.  Song lyrics are no exception.  Listening to music in the car or working on school projects with my iPod, I love figuring out what singer-songwriters are really trying to say...so eloquently, so passionately, so personally.  To me lyrics often express ideas I cannot, will not, or haven't yet named.  They speak to memories of feast and famine...family members...and overcoming fears.  To faith and to love.

With my parents last week, I watched a TV special on how Simon & Garfunkel constructed the album "Bridge Over Troubled Water".  Like old friends from my childhood, their songs were revealed one by one..."America," "Only Living Boy in New York," "Cecilia."  Then, "Old Friends/Bookends" particularly poignant lyrics again drew me in; my mom lovingly connected them to her father she so misses.  I couldn't help but marvel at their masterful writing while listening now as a grown-up.  The unmistakable imagery.  The beautiful painting these words produce.       

Old Friends/Bookends lyrics

Old friends
Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
On the high shoes
Of the old friends
Old friends
Winter companions
The old men
Lost in their overcoats
Waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city
Sifting through trees
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends
Can you imagine us
Years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy
Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fear
Time it was,
And what a time it was
It was . . .
A time of innocence
A time of confidences
Long ago . . . it must be . . .
I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They’re all that’s left you

If you don't know it already, give this song a listen.  The music perfectly complements the writing, creating a well rounded, deep experience; a complete picture of a moment in time captured magnificently.  As writers, isn't that what we're all about---the complete experience?  Studying lyrics can take our work to the next level.

Now, teacher-writers, how could a piece like this glimmer in your writing workshop?  What lyrics speak to you?

Write on,
b