A Mystery Revealed.

My relationship with the car is definitely changing.  Although it might have something to do with the heated seat (I often find myself stalling when it is time to actually get out on a cold winter’s day) there is some bigger issue evolving that has taken me by surprise.

This is how I know.  Two days ago I jumped at the opportunity to pick up Will from college, a little over three hours away.  A long car ride felt like just what I needed.  Of course I listened to NPR until it got static-y- and then flipped the stations from Christmas carols to odd country stations you can really only find on the borders of NY State and the early mountains of Vermont.  (And there was no one else in the car to complain.) 

The odd part?  I distinctly remember a time in my life where a day of six hours in the car felt like an eternity.  The miles went by so slowly, the time never seemed to move.   But now—I look out the window and am completely absorbed by the changing scenery; absorbed in the solitude where I can think about anything or think about nothing.   In the car, Reality is suspended and things are on hold.  There isn’t any list to complete.  The rules are straightforward,  it is a simple formula.  Drive there.  Come home. And there in the car,  I realize I feel complete freedom from the complexities of life.  Suddenly, in the midst of the journey, I realize that I am actually enjoying the journey.  That it is the journey that I wanted, it was the journey that I needed.   And as for those  "Sunday Drivers" that always mystified me as a kid while sitting in the back of the the station wagon--itching to get out, to get there, to Arrive.   Why would anyone want to just drive around on a Sunday?   Now I know. 

The Pain and Pleasure of Expansion and Contraction

A long time ago, when I had many kids under the age of eight, there was no particular pattern.  Each day there was an equal possibility that one would need a spontaneous nap, trip to the pediatrician, or new shoes.  All time was essentially spent executing a day that included equal amounts of activity, food, diversions and negotiations, with four boys that each had their own agendas.  In fact, there was a moment in time when life was so busy that one of my friends, Kathleen, suggested we should all be keeping a running list of things to do when we finally had time free from what we then considered a form of bondage.   I was sure at that moment I would never need such a list.  As soon as these boys were on their way, I would remember exactly what it is I wanted to do.   All I had to do was look around.  There were free people everywhere! —Going to work! Reading their own books! Showering alone! Sleeping late!   They even had room in their shopping carts for food, instead of kids balanced inside and out.  Imagine.  

Well, freedom has arrived.  Now, moments have been replaced with expanses of time that feel unfamiliar.   But how ironic!  Thinking back, it was equally unfamiliar when I was suddenly including children in activities that were previously spent alone.   Along the way, however, and unnoticed by its insidiousness, my children inextricably became part of “it” all.  Now, my grocery cart only has food in it.  No kids, no complaining, no tipping, no arguing, no excitement.  The empty cart, in retrospect, makes me realize it was sort of interesting winning those tactical psychological battles without bribery; to have to rush through shopping without considering the many options for dinner; to feel that powerful feeling after cooking dinner with a baby on my back and one at my feet.  Gradually and suddenly, I am nostalgic for that moment by moment –my existence totally matters- feeling.  Now, instead, when dinner is done, the kids go up and do their homework.  And there I am in the kitchen—in this new “space”- pondering what this extra time should be used for.  What was on that list?  The sudden choice brings with it the responsibility to make the time count. The instinct to remain engaged at that super charged level consumes me; seeking to make existence matter in the way it did while washing their hair without getting soap in their eyes.  Freedom, it turns out, is a very weighty issue. 

Long and Slow

It started on a Tuesday afternoon with a jog to Stephen’s State park.   My first practice with the high school cross country team was almost my last when I found out it would be five miles with lots of hills -- but with promises from an upperclassman named Jen, who swore that I could run as slow as I wanted, I went ahead and jogged away from the school. She was the first reason why I initially did not quit.  And then, when I arrived back to school a while later, I was so completely and unexpectedly consumed with a sense of total disbelief and well being that I had made it, I now had a second reason to return.   I’d like to also imagine I felt an inner sense at this moment that this experience was going to embolden me in larger and greater ways of which I was yet unaware.  It was in fact, my seminal run, but the least of which had anything to do with athleticism.  

 There was the “game farm”, the “chemical factory”,  “Mt. Rascal Road”, mile repeats and 600’s.   It was the late summer of 1983, and running was not fashionable in the way it is now.  Races with sponsors, prizes, superheroes, spray paint and the like had not yet come into being.  This was back when we didn’t even run with headphones.  Instead we ran with each other and that is the story.    

Our coaches sat in a pickup truck moving at different places along the routes.   With cigarettes dangling from their mouths and a big ounce coffee at their sides, they would shout out encouraging things to Patty and I along the way—the two slowest members on the team.  I distinctly remember the idling motor behind us on a vertical hill,  and their shouted words out of the windows of the truck-- “pump your arms”  and she and I would dig in as deep as we could.  We were not the typical narrow hipped teenage girls that found running easy.  To the contrary--we were red faced and sweaty at the end of each run, none of them ever feeling easier than the last.  Interestingly, our coaches never made us feel bad about it.  In fact, I think they found our effort rather remarkable, given their own questionable state of fitness and motivation.  We must have been an anomaly to them.

The runs to the “chemical plant” will be burned into my mind forever.  Basically, this route was a total of 10 miles along a dusty and long railroad track.  It would probably be illegal now. We knew when we arrived at practice, that if it was “a long and slow” day, we’d be running on the tracks.  Despite the lack of scenery it turned out to be one of my favorite runs.  For two hours, there was nothing to do but chat about life and there wasn’t any topic that we didn’t cover.  I forget the details of those conversations, but not the feeling of closeness and companionship that evolved on our mini-marathons at the end of the school day.  We needed nothing to be connected—not a cell phone, not Facebook; not a Garmin or a running app.  Looking back—running on a deserted railroad track was the perfect medicine for an insecure teen with lots of questions about life.   In fact, those runs turned out to be a reference point for the years that have followed.  From the deepest core of my being, I learned that most times, all it takes is a kindred spirit to get through challenges; and that inspiration, determination and satisfaction comes from being last sometimes, again and again.   

Empty Space and Longing

I parked by the old knitting shop today to meet a friend for a walk.  But first I just stared into the windows.  I stared into the windows, into the empty space and just wondered out loud to Karen- where did that little community go?   Love does not even describe the feeling of having that little room in the middle of town; having that room filled up with people of all ages; folks who came to look at the yarn, sit at the Laura's white farm table; maybe knitting together or maybe just solving some basic problems like what to make for dinner.  It was a teeny tiny port in the storm in the middle of a busy day, in the middle of busy lives.  

It has a realtor sign in the window and it turns out the rent is even higher now, really ruining my little fantasy about starting up again.  But it just seems so clear that every community needs a little shop to stop by and sit at; to stop by and look at the colors of yarn; the colors of personalities; the fabric of knitting; the fabric of lives.   Back in the old days every house had a sewing room, or so I'm told.  It was a place to fix things; a place to create.   And I sort of imagine that people met up and patched everyone’s pants on Tuesdays.   They probably exchanged some strategies about what to do with their broody chicken or maybe their broody kids.  Possibly, they felt connection to people because it turned out their neighbor had a broody chicken, too. And that connection felt really good.   I miss you, little knitting shop.  I miss that little tiny space that was made enormous by the people inside.   Google is a great "invention" but googling about dinner ideas is just not the same. 

  

Why Chickens?

I often get asked why I raise chickens.  It’s good bar banter when you are running out of conversation ideas, waiting for your table and struggle with small talk.  So usually during the second long pause I’ll just pop in with a chicken tale, and that keeps things going for a while.  But lately I have been drawing a blank when the basic question is asked.  Why chickens? This is because the original reason (more on that in a minute) is no longer valid AND, instead, an odd assortment of other reasons has landed in its place. 

So much has happened on my chicken journey that I kind of end up stuttering about what nice pets they make.   Back home and alone,  I am able to remember the original goal: it was because I wanted to make real Caesar salad one night.   And every single authentic dressing recipe listed raw egg as its critical ingredient.  Although my practical side knew that the warning on the egg carton about the “consumption of raw eggs can lead to salmonella” was just for legal protection, the far more powerful, impractical side of me bought into the possible threat.   Around this same time, my radar for things to worry about went off as I reconsidered the favorite birthday cake in our family.   The French meringue icing, made delicious by barely cooked egg whites, was a risk as well.   So now, raw egg anxiety conveniently morphed into a more general anxiety about birthday celebrations.  Getting chickens was an obvious and logical solution and certainly more convenient than hunting down Xanax before everyone’s birthday.   

But, ironically, the chicken project has evolved so differently than I ever expected.  And in this year and a half journey—I haven’t yet even made the Caesar salad.  My original chickens are all gone now, dead at the hands of the infamous clever fox made so famous in those nursery tales.  Of course, like many people, we read those same tales to our kids without any reference point about chickens in our lives; they were simply cute stories about animals outwitting each other.  We had no history with chickens.  And then we kissed goodnight.

But in a strange twist of events, my now much older children have a reference point.  It came on a clear sunny morning when the phone rang at 7:30am on our family vacation.   Our chicken “babysitter” woke up to find that the coop had been ransacked.  And suddenly, that life lesson about vulnerability and what it meant in reality was cleared up.   Backing up a bit here, as a mom to four boys I feel an extra responsibility to impart values that raise them into gentlemen; men that can connect, empathize; lead and relate; men that love; men that protect. 

By taking on ownership of chickens, we also took on a very real life lesson in the care of the vulnerable.  I wish I could explain How They Rolled Their Eyes at me every single night before the chicken disaster when I would ask them if they were SURE they closed the coop door.  But now I don’t have to explain it at all.  Nor do I have to remind them to check the door.   The week after vacation and out to dinner with my husband, I came home after dark to find out that everything had been securely locked up, locked up without any reminders or phone calls from me.    So today if someone asked me “Why Chickens?” it wouldn’t be about salad ingredients.