In Concert

I love Ellis in concert, and going to the concert with friends was the best. And when you walk in early and get hugged by the artist, now that's gotta be the very best. OK, except the concert was in a chocolate factory--kinda not really like Willy Wonka, well except for the circus performers at the next venue over--but with chocolate that was a real honest to god spiritual experience. No lie. The ultimate evening.
We belly laughed, and cried and giggled and ate amazing chocolate and had a lovely glass of red wine. And shared in the best music going, anywhere.
Thanks, Ellis. And thanks Jen and Melinda. The ultimate.

number 41

So, I do this weird thing. When I go to the Y, I put my stuff in the locker with the number that corresponds with my age. OK, well when I go to the West Seattle Y I put my stuff in locker 150 unless I know Roberta will be there, then I defer to wisdom and age and the woman who fed me my first Thanksgiving meal in Washington. But usually, I put my stuff in the locker that's the same number as my age. Today I opened locker number 40 and there was all this funky stuff in it--ear wax to keep pool water out, and some random swim cap. Oh yeah, I'm not 40 any more. I moved to the next locker, to number 41. And this sent me. The years go marching, it's what Sophia Lyon Fahs said, the years go marching. Yes they do. I looked just a little to my left, and there against the wall was locker number 37. There she was all cute and young with no troubles. And 38 stood next to her, a little worse for the wear, that locker has been through some stuff. And then was 39, proud of her spot but still, just barely holding it all together. And 40, oh yeah 40. Now that locker has waited, and waited, usually pretty patiently. Now here we are, locker number 41. Half way down the aisle. Finally. Here we are.

I put my clothes in the locker, changed into my work out clothes, tucked away my towel for the shower later, and slammed it shut. 41. Locker number 41.

Locker number 41.

Mother’s Day 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Even though this day was originally a call to leave war behind (http://www.prism.net/user/fcarpenter/howe.html) I kind of think Mother's Day is a call to remember just what this whole dishes-laundry-carpool carousel we ride is all about.

Even before I had any babies, I knew that raising kids was an art, that creating a home that would be a nest to grow a family would be the biggest thing that any person could ever do, and that I; with the biology and sprit I'm equipped with as a woman, would be perfectly suited to do just that.

I'm not talking Martha Stewart perfection of obsession with the bric-brac that sometimes comes with a house. Really what I mean is that funny ju-ju you feel when you come into a home. Maybe it's the sizzle of onions and veggies that will make a long simmered soup, or maybe it's the fabric softener that goes into the washer on the rinse cycle. Maybe it's the homebaked cookies that poor Hillary Clinton will never live down. But really, I think it's the air that invites a long conversation. It's the cozy, sometimes cluttered couch that invites sitting together for some down time. It's the feeling of acceptance and time and love and hope and care that comes when someone who lives in the house has chosen, as their primary function in life, to create a home for a family.

It's nothing for a delicate soul. There are no raises. The benefits are that eventually someone might take out the garbage FOR you and maybe they'll find your commitment to them lovely. But there will be days that they wish for nothing more than for you go just get out of their way and leave them alone.

Full time employment looks pretty good when this happens.

Someone else can run that afternoon with snacks and homework and the ride home from school.

Someone else can make dinner.

Someone else can get the kids to get on the bus to just go to school, even if homework isn't all done just right.

But those drives have little moments of clear brillance that you'll miss. And those dinner prep moments have chemistry lessons and LIFE lessons that you'll miss. And if you leave for those tricky times, you can't help but MISS things. There's no way to capture all of it, unless you are just there. No other way.

I've worked full time while homeschooling three kids. It's not easy, it's not fun. But if it was what I had to do to make the days work, well then, that was the only choice. I am not willing to miss those days.

Quality time is a lie. Time is time, and it doesn't matter if you're gone for an excellent reason. You are still, to you own child, just gone.

Maybe lots of moms disagree and feel that they'll lose themselves if they are JUST home with kids (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/362567_optin10.html).

For me, there is no greater art, nothing more important, no better way to spend my life, than with my amazing sons, doing the laundry, the dishes, driving to practice. There is nothing I'd trade for the chance, the honor, of being their mother. Nothing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Hunh?

Am I really hearing this? You know, my kids, what they say? I mean not just when they say "I need more graph paper. The sugar is gone. Can you drive me to the movie?"

But what about the things that they say without saying them, or the things they say in just in a little whisper? Or the things they say with a little sideways look that evaporates in a moment.

Yesterday I was headed into the YMCA. I was late, the day was just one road block after then next, and I really had to be to Youth Group on time. I was on my cell phone with a friend trying to figure out the details of a big event the next day. Then I saw one of my favorite families. They were down at the corner; the dad and the two older boys were talking and looking up the street. There was a mini cello case, so I'm sure it was either just before or after cello lesson for the kindergartener and they must have been waiting for mom to come swoop in and pick them up.

But the baby was up over dad's shoulder. She's about a year-and-a-half old now. I got to do her child blessing when she was a newborn, so she's pretty special to me. And across the parking lot I can tell that she sees me. I can see the look on her face "hey, that's Kari from church, hey guys we know her!" But she's still little. She can say "chip" and "no" and "more" but to say "hey guys, there's our friend Kari" is just more than she can do.

So I can see her pointing and making toddler noises. But there's too much going on, and dad and brothers just miss it. And I've got 45 minutes to do my hour long work out, so I just wave crazily to her, turn and open the door and head into the Y.

I think I miss these moments with my old, old kids sometimes. So, OK, they can say more than "chip", and the things that they have to say are way more than "hey, there's our friend over there", but it's the same kind of thing.

There are things that people who I love, my kids and even other people, there are things that they say to me, and sometimes I miss the whole thing. "Hunh?" "What?" "OK, what did you say?" Or sometimes, just nothing. Nothing.

I'm gonna try to watch for the little finger pointing, and the little moments that point, too. And I promise to try really hard to stop, and to follow where the little finger points and to listen while you or anyone else explain it to me, because really. I want to hear. I care about it. Really I do, I care.

And if I flake it out, well then, just smack me upside the head and say "duh, you WANT to hear this" "you need to hear this" "hear this"

I will. Really, I will.

Sweet and Sour

I know what I’m having for lunch today. We’re gonna go to the little Chinese place that’s by the bowling alley—not the new one down the hill we just found that has fantastic authentic food where the menu is in Chinese and they only give you chopsticks and I’m the only white person in the place. Nope, we're headed to the little hole in the wall that doesn’t even have chopsticks if you want them, and the tables are really just to sit at while you wait for your to-go order.

Because I want crappy sweet and sour “mock” chicken. I don’t want authentic. I want sweet and I want sour and I want it with high fructose corn syrup and breading and food coloring. And soy sauce that’s made in Kansas.

This morning I was in the car with my middle son. As we sat at a red light waiting he looked over at me, squinting, brows pulled tight and said “how you do?” He’s psychic, or so super sensitive and perceptive and intuitive that if he lived in a calmer society, he’d be the shaman. I looked at him. I don’t want to lie to my kids. They know when something’s up. They get it; this one especially. Telling less than the truth breaks the trust between us. So I told him.

“It’s like life just can’t be straight forward. It’s full and empty, up and down, the good with the bad. Can’t we just have the sweet or the sour? Why do they have to be all mixed together?”

This was the moment the 13-year-old came back to the surface and the shaman faded and he looked at me like I was nuts.

“I just got an email from someone I’m so deeply happy to hear from, but it’s fall-out from the guy from high school who just died.”

“Mmm” he said, and looked out the window—earbuds stuffed in his ears and the ipod so loud I can hear the “Chemical Romance” song right through his ears.

I guess I need to remember that sweet and sour go so well together. It’s the perfect thing. Yes, this man died. It is deeply sad. It’s loss. Life always swings to death, it’s what makes room for the rest of life to move on, it’s sacred and good and part of life. If none of us ever died no one would be able to take a breath here on the planet. Even the sad is good. And hearing from this lost now found person is all good—like divine sweetness. Like pineapple. It sounds like this is happening across the country from this one man’s death—old friends finding each other after years and years and years. Sweet.

I think I’ll bring my sweet and sour “chicken” home and dump super spicy thai sauce over the whole thing. Like life. Sweet; sour; and if we’re lucky— wicked spicy.

Girls on the town in the Minneapolis Deep Freeze

The people you knew years and years ago...are they still in your life? Are there people who know stories about you that you wish no one ever knew? And can you just reach over and steal a bite of their food, even if you haven't been in the same room for months and months? Old friends. Good friends.

Now, the winter where I live is dreary. The clouds hang on for weeks. It rains. We all get a little gloomy, no one wants to go for a walk in the rain. No one wants to just hang around outside. But really? We're all crazy. The flowers are blooming! It's in the 40s! And in February we start to get real spring planting moving, and the sun comes out for days and days! So what did we do?? My family made the brilliant decision to come to Minnesota for our mid-winter break. It's 11 below, the actual temperature, with a 25 below windchill. It hurts to breathe and anything exposed freezes. But we came here to see those old friends.


In fact, Suz even came from Florida because there was a chance that all five of us girls would be in one room for a day or so. Well, maybe it was more than that, but she came to cold weather so cold it's dangerous; willingly, even bought a plane ticket. We just fly standby.

So there we were, staying in downtown Minneapolis for an overnight, the five girls who share a brain. Now we're all 40--the baby of the group just climbing that milestone this month. And it was cold. The skyways were closed. But it didn't matter. We shopped--at Target. We ate at a nice restaurant, we went to a niche pub. We laughed over nothing and drank a bottle of champagne.


And then as we each leave, one by one, to go back to our lives, a little piece of me rips off again. It's like that really strong velcro that holds super tight, but when it rips apart it makes that huge noise.....rrrriiiiiiiip. And in a couple of days I'll leave too. Rrrriiiip. It makes me think that maybe, it would almost be worth it to move back here to live in the super cold to be nearer to some of these pieces of myself. But of course, when you live close together you hardly ever take a whole week to hang out with your friends. And now we have those friends that only know the stupid stories about us from the last five years who live by our new home, and that's a piece we'd have to rip off. And it's really, really cold in Minnesota. I don't want to live someplace where the very air you breathe is dangerous. Volcanoes, earthquakes...now that's a reason for danger. Air, not so much. So I'll wear goofy wool socks, and be cold inside buildings and out for a while. It's OK. I'm happy to do it--but, really, I'm not moving back.

YES WE CAN!

YES WE CAN!
So, I went to the Obama Rally today. Two of the kids went with me, I think public school has totally ruined Michael and no matter what I said this morning, he would not skip school and come with me! Peter said "He's making grades while we're making history."
I don't know if we were really making history, but being in a big arena with 20,000 people who are actually letting themselves feel hope for our country was a little exciting. For so long I've felt nothing much good about being living here in the states and what we are doing to the rest of the people of the planet through our government.
But Barak Obama says things that make me hope. Like, that americans can be counted on to do the right thing. And that if things are going to change, we all have to do hard things, and that's OK, we can do that.
Cool.
I want to live in a country that takes care of it's old and sick, and does not give tax breaks to oil companies. I don't want a president who said "I hate all gooks" and would stack that suprememe court with even more judges with shameless political agendas.
Tomorrow I'm going to my caucus and I'm speaking my mind. I know I live in a very, very red neighborhood, but I don't care. Let 'em fine me for having moss on my roof (in SEATTLE??! MOSS??! Oh my!).
And if you were there, and you got stuck in hours and hours of awful traffic like the 58 mile back up on I-5 and if you stood outside for an hour and really really wished for just a little coffee, well then we'll say together after the swearing in, "hey, maybe we made a little history there on that grey February day..."
I'll host the post election party.