Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
So when the Matron reads a book about "The Mommy Wars" or hears media discussion about the dissent between the 'stay at home' (what? like in house arrest?) and 'working' mothers she wishes the narrative would clarify that this is a story about rifts between women who come from a specific shared demographic and has nothing to do with the majority of women, who (like many working class men she knows) would love to give up their day job: but can't. Even imagine. Because if they don't earn a paycheck, there's no food, rent or gas -- or even less, in some parts of the world.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
No, the Matron has been mulling over the definition of success -- in part, what kinds of successes does she need in order to lay claim to a successful life? Now, being the academic sort, she understands you can fault her immediately for all kinds of assumptions and fallacies, the first being that life SHOULD be 'successful.'
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The garden -- at 6 pm.
The weekend? Magic. The children weren't just hers: they were universal, timeless. During the course of an hour, Merrick sang on a skateboard, hunted frogs, built a stick fort and questioned death. They were all limb, mystery and joy. She marveled at their existence -- and the expanse open to them ahead, the large unknown life that is only beginning.
The Matron enjoyed every minute of her children. She applied bandaids, squeezed lemons, combed hair, brokered deals, sliced cheese, washed dishes and set tables without complaint.
Because for some reason (thank you God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe), the Matron woke to a sun-washed, stunning summer June day, fully - viscerally -- grounded in the reality of a recently experienced late afternoon in December, which looked like this:
That's right after dinner. Night, by 6 pm!
And for some reason, the Matron carried Night with her this weekend. June ends. Childhood passes. Her house is nearly 100 years old. A century ago, another family's stories shaped the same hallways and arches that she walks through today; those people are gone - forever. She will be, too. The children will soon be different people. One day they'll be adults, old, and facing their own demise.
She guesses it's possible to appreciate this differently
knowing this is right around the corner.
Like life. Not that there isn't beauty in Night. It's possible. But the beauty and grace night holds -- old age, death, change, seperation -- is hard-won and self-reflective, quite unlike the abandon of children in the summer time.
She's grateful for today's gift, knowing how quickly it passes.