the raindrop prelude

Every weekday now I am away from my boys and every weeknight I could swear my youngest looks older. In the 12 hours I am gone, Elliott ages, noticeably. I feel the small ache that comes from missing out. I miss out on the silly faces, the nonsensical comments, the lunch menu, the potty successes, the belly laughs, the enthusiastic greeting off the bus and the begging to watch "train show" or go to the park. But I almost never miss out on bedtime.

When I was home most of the day, bedtime was more of an after thought. I'd whiz through a couple books, say a short prayer, put on the music and turn out the light, anxious to head downstairs and have a break.

These days bedtime has a different flavor. I savor the ritual. I look forward to reading and snuggling in bed, to asking Elliott about his day and asking God to fill us with his love. I relish hearing the storybook rhymes, the gentle breathing of a boy drifting off to sleep and the music of the classical lullabies CD we never seem to replace. I especially love the music.

Almost always Elliott falls asleep right before Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.15, fondly known as the raindrop prelude. And because I am laying with him now until he drifts off, I almost always, instead of heading downstairs to get my break, stay snuggled next to my sleeping boy for at least the next 6 1/2 minutes until this piece is over.

Although spending full days away from Elliott reminds me so poignantly how time marches on and how I have no control to stop it, this Chopin Prelude allows me to go backwards in time and hold it still, precious and unchanging.

About fifteen years ago I took piano lessons. I progressed slowly because I've never really had a musical gift and because I never really practiced much. I did, however, dedicate myself to one particular piece - Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15. It was the one and only piece of classical music that I could play (nearly) flawlessly. I was crazy about it. A few weeks before I was to play in a piano recital, my maternal grandmother died. She was one of the most important, loving, creative and stable influences in my life as a child. I adored her.

I don't remember how it happened but somehow, since I missed the piano recital, I ended up playing the Chopin piece at my grandma's memorial service. The memory is vivid: from how I dressed to the intense emotion that made my hands shake and my tears fall on the keys. I have never delivered anything with as much passion or confidence as I played that piece. And every time I hear that Prelude I remember exactly how I felt: full of life and full of grief, full of passion and completely broken, loved and lost.

I am truly surprised I didn't spontaneously combust.

Often now I have a twinge of this same emotion. My baby is growing up and I'm missing it. I am both thrilled and devastated. Loving the changes and mourning the loss. Soon he will be a boy that today's me can barely recognize. My hands shake and my tears fall on the keys at the very thought of it.

But if Chopin has taught me anything, it's that I wouldn't want it any other way. To hold back, to temper our sorrow and our passion, our grief and our love is not living. We're just going through the motions, counting down the hours until we get a break.

I cannot stop my child from aging anymore than I can prevent any of the great losses I am sure I will suffer in my lifetime, whether I am home when they happen or not. I could worry and I could fear. I could just cut my losses and quit. Instead I come home every night and read and pray, snuggle and listen to Chopin, remembering that letting go and playing with everything I've got won't stop time but it will make the time I have rich and beautiful and worth remembering.

p.s. i love you

In the blink of an eye, my life has radically changed. Instead of long, leisurely weekday mornings getting breakfasts, making hot cocoa, drawing baths, playing board games, checking email, emptying the dishwasher and policing screen time, I am out the door at 6:40 a.m. to catch the train to Chicago. Although Elliott remains my faithful alarm clock and early morning companion, it's highly unlikely that I will ever catch a glimpse of Liam on a weekday morning. Age seven is the new sixteen.

The first morning I was gone, I scribbled Liam a quick note on scrap paper. He wrote me back that day. So I decided to get a notebook and collect our daily notes back and forth.

This morning I was running late and forgot to write. Liam, apparently, was a little heartbroken. But he faithfully wrote his note anyway.

I have always been a huge fan of the love letter. It's the writer in me, and the romantic. Although it is only day four of this new long-term adventure, I figure if my boy and I can keep up the note writing for at least a few months, I'll be grooming a little Shakespeare, and coming home after a 12-hour day to the best words I can imagine.

friday haiku

in February
dollar fifty daffodils
are the world's best buy

::

If you missed it, I wrote a Tribune column yesterday about our special boy.

a charlie brownish kind of day

Homeschooling has its drawbacks. I haven't written much about it, but for multiple reasons, we took Liam out of school after Christmas break to spend the rest of the year learning at home. Liam was and has been 100 percent on board, but holidays just aren't the same. Yesterday we made some cute superhero suckers to give to a bunch of Liam's good friends and Elliott's classmates. Elliott excitedly came home with reciprocal valentines from all his friends. Liam delivered his suckers after school, but other than cards from parents and grandparents, he came up empty.

The day wasn't a total bust. We enjoyed fancy hot cocoa and waffles with strawberries and whipped cream for breakfast. We made special heart cookies and delivered them to friends and neighbors who have had a darker than usual February or who are just simply alone today. And Liam spend the late afternoon with a couple of his best buddies.

But tonight there were tears. It's tough to be left out, even when it's not at all intentional. He just wasn't part of a classroom valentine's day party this year. And it's tough to be the mom of the boy whose mailbox went empty. It just isn't always enough to have your mom tell you you're great.

Nothing breaks my heart like putting to bed a kid who's sad. Although I know there's bound to be the fair share of heartbreak in our future, I feel partly responsible for today's. Maybe I should have emailed some neighbors and told them Liam would be giving valentines to their kids, hoping they'd all set one aside for him. Or maybe we should have gotten involved in some homeschool group. (But since we've only planned this as a half-year venture, we haven't pursued new friends.)

Tonight, I came downstairs feeling sad myself. Andrew had just finished lessons, so I told him about the day and what a trooper Liam had been yet how he cried when I put him to bed. Andrew headed upstairs. After a few minutes he came into the kitchen.

"He's fine now."

"What did you say?" I asked.

Andrew smiled. "I gave him five dollars."

As much as it sucks to be sad, and sucks even more to see your kid be sad, throwing money at disappointment doesn't seem like the best solution. But apparently it works. Still, I'm looking forward to next year when we'll continue our traditions of having fancy hot cocoa for breakfast and making treats for lonely neighbors, but when we'll also have a classroom of valentines to sort through at the end of the day. Because after a year without, a boy understands what a gift a full mailbox is, Justin Bieber and Barbie cards included.

friday haiku

long walk from the park
fingers numb, cheeks red, bone cold
sky was glorious

suspended animation

Darkness greets us morning after morning, the earth lays dormant and I wait and wait to hear about a job. My whole life feels suspended, not moving, like we're treading, going nowhere. Then, suddenly everything changes. A streak of pink in the early morning sky, buds on our lilac bush and, good news, a great job! All of these gifts were there, under the surface, waiting for their time. It's the waiting part that threatens to suck the life right out of me.


Because of my boys, I pulled out our traditional valentine decorations this weekend. For a few years now we have suspended construction paper hearts all over our living room and dining room. I wasn't in the mood to put them up, but now that they are there they make me smile. In a fallow time it works to just go through the motions. Do something that brought you joy before and see where you end up. It certainly helped when we were decorating that Elliott kept trying to reach the ceiling and would look up awestruck, saying, "Wow, that's pretty! Wow, that's cool!" (Those chubby cheeks help, too.)


I also had an urge to sew over the weekend. Nothing complicated. I just found some red and white fabric in my stash and cut out some hearts and some squares for pockets and stitched them on bias tape.


The banner of love hangs over my kitchen sink to remind me to smile and look up and be thankful for the simple things. Some days that small task is easier than others. Yesterday, very difficult. Tonight, the gratitude overwhelms me.


And then, there are valentines. Glue and stamps, stickers and tape. Little paper gifts for friends and for each other. Our table has been left as an unending art project. If I don't clean it up, they go back to it and dream up new ways to cut paper to say I love you. And on the dark days, come what may, love is the gift that keeps us going.

friday haiku

seventies disco
is not what I imagined
my children would love

what I found in the silence

This weekend I left my family and my computer behind and retreated with a bunch of wonderful women to LaSalle Manor. 40 hours without kids or responsibilities. 40 hours to be served, to share, to learn, to pray, to read, to be off the Internet, to sleep alone. Although it was all fabulous, one hour stood out. In the middle of Saturday afternoon, the entire group fasted from talking or engaging for one hour. We all agreed to total silence, and it was exquisite.

Sure, I could decide to be quiet at home. But there was something special about being in the midst of 45 other humans also being silent. I didn't wonder what other people were doing, if I was missing out on some fun activity or if I should be doing something else. I just shut my mouth and listened. For one incredible hour, I just was.

For part of the hour, I walked the path around the lake on the property and noticed everything. The way the sun sparkled on the snow. The creaking of the trees in the wind. The burn of the cold on my face. Every inhale, every exhale. For the other part of the hour, I tried to write down what I found in the silence. Words are inadequate, but poetry comes close.

I urge you to try it. Shut your mouth and your mind for one full hour. Take a walk and see what you find in the silence. I hope to do it often.

In the Silence

Cold settles into my bones,
burns my cheeks.
Ice cracks, trees moan, the frozen river flows.
I close my mouth and enter into nothing.

He comes to me:
You are loved.
Let go.
Walk with me until your heart bursts into flame.

For one hour I say no to distraction.
Breath, water, blood,
I need nothing more than this quiet.
No thing.

The sun tosses diamonds at my feet.
The river sings.
The trunks bow.

The unheard voice whispers:
You are alone
and never alone.
Do not worry.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Make space
for more of me.