Dear Kid A,

You are so totally yourself.

It has been eight years since that one first siren cry and the stunned silence afterward. You took stock, sucked on your fists, and deigned to stay with us.

I don’t really know how to write about your unwavering ferocity toward life, the way you barrel forward, with your list of the top ten countries you want to visit, your wide eyes, your exuberance. Your melancholy. You are a boy of opposites, quick to laugh and get a joke, quick to notice the discrepancy between want and fulfillment. Even at eight, you get it.

Your attitude toward travel inflames all of us with love for it, I’m thankful to travel with you. I love your kindness and your thirst for knowledge.

Since we moved to India, you mythologized your best friend, the kid you’d known since you were born. And then when you saw him again, he turned out to be what you were hoping for. I don’t know how you do that. It’s like you hoped the old fighting away, there were no more arguments, only understanding, and anything less than desirable you shrugged off. It didn’t matter. I love your loyalty.

You love your dad beyond anything else. He is everything you want to be. You are two peas in a pod.

Today we sat down and I pulled you into my lap and asked how it felt to be eight. You were pleased. We hung out there for a while, my arms slung over your shoulders like a jacket, and when I went to move, you scooted so you were still with me, shifted my arms back over your shoulders.

You haven’t done that in a long time. I think I like eight already.

Happy Birthday, firstborn son.

I love you.

I believe that Solo is trying to tell us that he would like us all to have a really fun week.

With another move across the world looming, deadlines pressing in, and many, many meals to cook, I would like to take his advice.

I’m writing fun down on my to-do list.

So there’s that Coldplay song, you know- Lost? The lyrics go like this:

“Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I’m lost…”

and

“Just because I’m hurting doesn’t mean I’m hurt…”

The Leafy Boy absolutely loves to riff on them. He’s non-stop. It’s just his sort of odd logic. Here are a few gems.

Just because I’m a book, doesn’t mean people read me.

Just because I’m a baby, doesn’t mean I have no hair.

Just because I’m a house, doesn’t mean that people live in me.

Just because I’m hurt, doesn’t mean I fell.

Just because I’m playing, doesn’t mean I’m having fun.

Just because I’m an ant, doesn’t mean I’m small.

I’m not so sure about the logic of the last one, but I guess if size is more about perception, every ant is going to be big to someone.

My parents are staying with us this week. Some much beloved grandparent time. We’ve been knocking knees under our little table, sitting up talking, eating and exploring Santa Cruz.

Today I was babysitting four girls (a trade with their mom, who was one of the incredibly generous moms who watched my kids while I was at Squaw Valley) and we packed up a lunch and headed to the beach. I spread twenty-six pieces of bread on the kitchen counter, slathered them with mayonnaise and threw some sliced things on them, folded them up and carefully stuffed them in an empty bread bag. We headed down to the beach with the eight kids.

Today Leafy was the whiny one. (There’s always at least one whiny walker.) It’s hardly ever him, so he must not be feeling well. Usually I have to keep him from running on ahead.

It was beautiful to be eating on the beach, crunching a little sand on a spread-out sheet in the stinging wind and sun. Two flocks of pelicans flew overhead. Solo amused himself by yelling and shouting about his own discoveries.  Yelling seems to make him feel important. The other two-year-old planted carrots in the sand and silently clambered over driftwood, hissing to herself. The eight-year-olds ate one and a half sandwiches; the two-year-olds pulled theirs apart and got them sandy.

Apparently we have a lot of buried treasure all around us. The kids diligently pulled it from beneath the surface: one vertebra of a small animal, sea glass, bits of shells. They hoarded their treasure in their shoes while they ran around barefoot. My mom and dad sat beside a cold firepit on a log that has been living in the sea for a while, and my dad stopped Solo from throwing ashes in the air after he tossed a fistful of it skyward and it all blew back in his face.

*

I work at quieting myself everyday. In the car the other day, Chinua was a little amped and talking to the pedestrians while he drove (though they couldn’t hear him). He was singing a little ditty that went something like: “Mini Coop Coop Cooper Coop Coop Mini Coop Coop Cooper.” (Those may not be the exact lyrics.)

I burst out of my melancholy suddenly with, “What do we want? What is the meaning of all of this?”

He said, “Rae! You really need to lighten up!”

I was silent for a few minutes. “Do you want me to be singing the Mini Coop Coop Cooper song?” I finally asked.

*

Sand and sky and sun. Like Jesus pointing out the flowers in the fields. No matter where I am in the world, I will be home.

*

Two years ago today, we were marveling over our new healthy boy. Exhausted after a forty hour labor, I was so glad to have him in my arms.

Solo’s first name means “His Peace,” and his middle name (Adebayo) means “Joy has entered the house.”

Joy and edible sweetness. And plenty of noise.

Happy birthday Solo, our monsoon baby. You are a promise that made our family exactly right.

I so love the before and after of things.

Before the writing conference: Terrified of scary authors and other writers.

After: Friends with other fiction writers.

Friends with other fiction writers!

When I drove away from the dry forests to come back to the ocean, my heart was so full. I was glowing, vibrating with happiness. I loved reading the work of the other participants  everyday, I loved talking about it and learning from what people said. I loved hearing author’s read their work and talk about their processes.

The staff at the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley are some of the kindest people I’ve met, and I felt like I learned just as much about being a kind and generous person as I did about writing. I would like to emulate their way of including everyone in the room.

Plus, the time alone wasn’t so bad either. I’m always glad to get to the point where I miss my kids, and I have to come racing back to them a day earlier than I planned.

Of course I always miss Chinua. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyways: he really is a Superstar Husband.

Sara J. Henry has an excellent post on the Squaw Valley Writer’s Conference for anyone intending to go. You can find it here.

I have a few minutes to write a post before I hop off to the next thing. So here I am, with screen before me. This feels strange, it has been a remarkably technology-free time.

I went on a hike today, with the resident naturalist and a bunch of other people. I think we all felt that we needed to get out of our heads. We’ve been reading a lot, marking words with pens, analyzing, discussing. It’s been beautiful.

And every day the constant hills and valleys of self-congratulation and self-degradation. I’m pouring Cheez Whiz all over my brain with this stuff, who can think when they’re thinking about themself?  I will publish, I will never publish. She’s much better than me and I’m totally okay with that and I’m confident in my voice and who am I kidding I have no voice at all, just a dull whine in the desert, the whine of trucks in the distance. Nothing worth listening to. Maybe some air brakes thrown in.

So when that starts up I’m thinking about this:

The woman who cleans the condos on my floor is a small Mexican woman who reaches my armpit and is seven months pregnant. With her seventh child. I know because I asked. She smiles sweetly when we say hello to each other every day and she pushes this gigantic cart around and cleans all day, and so I will get out of my head and tell my insecurities to shut up already.

The first talk this week was about empathy and humility, two of the greatest tools in the writer’s toolbox.

I’m learning about a lot more here than just writing.

Hello there Fear, you stupid silly overgrown beast. This is precisely the reason I never listen to you.

All those whispers about there being a Writer’s Code that I wouldn’t understand, and the way you were throwing the words Rejection and Shame around?

Lies.

And that dream, the one where I was trying to go to the toilet, but I discovered partway through that I was in a large room full of people, somebody’s living room in fact (why was there a toilet in there anyway?).

Effective, but silly.

I’m glad I don’t listen to you, because here I am, in bliss. Guess what? Writers turn out to be people. Nice people, who use words like Empathy and Humility. Take that!

I’m so happy, so, so happy, and once again you have been unable to stop me. By now you should have figured out enough to stop trying.

But I’m sure we’ll meet again.

Hopefully then I’ll be able to ignore you, too. You may rob me of sleep, but you won’t make me change my mind.

Regards,

Rae

PS: By the way, driving in India is really fun, with the jungles speeding by and Raintrees stretching overhead. Just thought you should know that your little plans on that front didn’t work out either.

Sometimes these periods of silence come to me. I’m not sure what to say.

I keep thinking about those pelicans and how beautiful they were when they dove. Just a straight plummet, down into the water, and they pop back up and shake themselves off: no big deal. Whatever, water off my back.

Oily feathers, that’s what I need.

When I was young I wished that I had brown skin and long straight black hair. I don’t wish that anymore, but I find myself wishing that I had a happy-go-lucky personality. Do those exist? Because for those of us over here, it’s hard to believe. You just laugh? Enjoy life? You don’t have to compose a small story about your sandwich to enjoy it? Or draw a picture of it, or dip it in wax and feathers and set it on fire?

I need a lot of trimmings in order to get out of my mind.

Here’s one trimming that really, really helps.

Are you ready? It’s a good one.

Community.

I’ll say it again: Community. Oh, sweet togetherness, normalcy, cooking together and eating plums and standing barefoot, shifting from foot to foot. The comforting moments in this strange summer have been solitude and peace coupled with the right amount of community. I need space, it’s true. I can’t think with all those other voices in my head. But I love to be with friends who have purpose and love filling them up and causing them to overflow.

If it’s not a normal part of your life, I strongly encourage you to make one day in the week that you have a communal dinner. It could be with one other family, or two, or three. Take turns cooking or cook together. You will look forward to it, and you may even dread it, but you will always be glad that you made the effort. Jesus ate with people. People with very little, all around the world, continue living and working because of the strong connections of their communities.

Tomorrow I drive off into the East for the Writing Conference. The book and the conference have been occupying the 32% of my psyche that is left over when the kids are done with it. I’m nervous and excited. I have nothing to say, my friends. I know about as much as a newborn baby.

Or a pelican, leaning in for the perfect dive.

(A friend of mine used to say that, about candy bars or prayers or a nice gas price.)

I am very busy today. VERY busy. My friend is hosting a Yeshu Kirtan tonight at her house and I will be there with bells on, singing my heart out. I’m making rajma and masoor dahl and rice.

But I just couldn’t help myself. I had to put these up because they are my favorite silliness on the Internet right now. (You may have seen them, but hopefully it’s new for some of you.)

Double Rainbow guy. (Very familiar. I feel like I know him.)

And the extremely awesome subsequent Double Rainbow Song, which Chinua and I listened to no less than four times yesterday, and which he put on and danced around the living room with me to, when I was tearful and sad. (It did the trick.)

So intense!

So I have this boy named Leafy, he’s the Leafy boy.

We’ve always known that Leafy is a sweetie, a genuine heart-melter. (“I’ve got so much love in my heart for you…”) What is emerging recently is that he HAS YOUR BACK.

He will defend you. He’s notorious for telling parents of other people’s children that their children DIDN’T MEAN TO DO ANYTHING WRONG! He will stand on a picnic table, gesticulating with passion, at the top of his lungs defending your six-year-old right to be in the Flower Club, because IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE if you a six-year-old in danger of being kicked out of the Flower Club. (Which by the way, is only for girls, but this is not personal, this is about Justice for All.)

He’s picked out the little girl that he wants to marry. He’s very different from my oldest, a young scientist who was genuinely shocked to discover that Chinua, if given the chance, would not prefer two Separate Planets for boys and girls.

“You wouldn’t?

“Because then a lot of my favorite people wouldn’t be there.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t VISIT…”

Leafy is a romantic, a gift-giver, and one day he will build you a mansion. (He may blow it up later, but that’s another story.)

So I was touched but not surprised when Leafy helped me out after Solo broke my glasses in Trader Joe’s.

He made me glasses. Out of K’nex. I melted.

I love my Leafy Boy.

This post is part of Love Thursday, where folks blog about love.