Fear

There happened to be a field trip that coincided with my birthday this year (February 23rd). It was to iFly Adventures on the peninsula, and I had actually read up on it last year - it was started by a guy who left HP at about the same time I did. It seemed like a really interesting idea, to create a wind tunnel that people can free fall in - the effect of skydiving without the airplane.

I signed us up. Ben - my cliffhanging, No Fear child - was so excited he could hardly hold still in the car. Tanner - my sweet, amiable analytical - got quiet. I - driver that I am, and natural program manager - tossed all of the risks around in my head for 25 freeway miles.

Here is a synopsis of my fear-induced mental game:

I'm over 40, hell, I don't need to prove anything to anyone. Why am I doing this?
What if I pass out in the tunnel?
What if I barf in the tunnel?
What if I pee my pants in the tunnel with that silly jumpsuit on?
What if I barf in the CAR? Can I turn around and go home?

By the time we arrived, all spit was gone from my mouth, seemingly never to return. I sat through the educational seminar, helped kids get suited up, got my own goggles on good and tight. Sat in line a good long time watching other people do this (mostly kids, of 25 people only 4 parents flew), what went well, what went wrong. My blood pressure was not what I would call stabilized. My chances for any kind of control were slim, but I had this: I could tell the instructor exactly what I was and wasn't willing to do.

When he finally came to bring me into the tunnel, I gave him this dictate:
1. I do NOT want to fly up into that cone.
2. Do NOT let go of me.

We're good, he said, through the roar.

As soon as I was aloft, all fear drained. I arched my back, held my head up high, and it was one of the most wonderful, exhilarating moments ever. I am, after all, a fairy; flying should be natural. I would happily go back again, and no risk planning necessary.

Tanner, on the other hand, clawed to get out, gave the guy a real run for his money, and will never be talked into going back.

Ben was Superman.

The Problem with Seeds and Skeins

As I planted 940 seeds (ask me how I know this) in flats on Saturday, it occurred to me that seeds are aligned in my brain with yarn in this way:

Seeds aren't little tiny dots, some so small I can scarcely see them even with reading glasses on, let alone count them out one by one (John Jeavons, I will haunt you when I am dead) and plant them in one inch grids.

They're plants. Better yet, seeds are beautiful red peppers, strikingly green chard with red ribs, bouquets of pastel sweetpeas, or HOME GROWN TOMATOES. They are rare and precious and bring color, flavor, aroma and a whole range of very happy emotions to mind.

And thus spake the knitter. Yarn is not twisted strands of (most likely in my collection) animal fiber or strands from the butt of a lepidoptera; it is sweaters against the rain and hats keeping a friend's body heat in and gloves wrapped around mugs of chocolate and it is lace and cables and thick and thin and the most sensuous thing I touch on most days.

Except for bread, the kneading of bread, bread which is clearly not a combination of flour and salt and yeast and water, but a scent radiating from a kitchen and a flake and a crust and a texture with melted butter. Bread, the ingredients I throw my hands into and come out with a velvety bowl of dough that takes the impression of my lifeline.

And my children, who aren't monkeys at all, but living, breathing human spirits with the future walking before them, driving of cars and passing of exams, sports and poetry, love lives and work lives and maybe even procreation.

So I understand addiction. Although I have never been one to think that drugs could take my mind somewhere beneficial and better than this world I see in front of me, I can see and feel and taste how one can become addicted: to this seed, this wool, this bread, these boys.

lgb 2/19/09

Latest Poem

Today I thought I lost them


It was getting dark, and no kids.
I had sent them outside to play
and they know to come in before dark
and to not go where I can’t see them
and not to talk to strangers
or get into strange cars.

But it was getting dark, and no kids.
I walked and drove the block – no kids.
I yelled in the back yard – no response.
That voice began in the back of my brain
and yet, I felt they were safe somewhere.
Even their bikes were home.

Finally I stood in the dark house,
centered, that panic grabbing me
and the thoughts of calling police
and my God, what would I say to their dad?
I wailed for my eldest son, desperately, loudly,
and I heard his reply.

They had sneaked back into the house
and put themselves to bed, perfectly quiet,
completely covered by their blankets,
ears stoppered to my yelling with sleep.
I stood looking at them, dumbfounded,
no sane response.

I won’t dwell on where my mind had gone.
Shots, treatments, anguish, surgeries, years,
cannot have more, and no longer have each other.
I won’t focus on how my life revolves around
these two small and wonderful souls.
I will just live gratefully.

30 Dec 2008

Tooth Fairy Time

Ben (the heir apparent) will be seven in the end of March. Today I yanked his first baby tooth, and I warned him: he's my first child, I haven't done this before. We had several tries (it was an itty bitty tooth and really hard to get a good grip on), but finally I just used the brute force method, and out it came.

I believe this is a rite of passage for both of us. I feel so adult! And he's so excited about having the tooth fairy bring him money in exchange for his tooth tonight. What a wonderful time of life.