Soul

'What's a soul Mom?'

'A soul?'

'Yeah. What is it?'

'Well....'

This question posed so nonchalantly to me by my 5 year-old has caught me off guard. How do I answer this? Wait! I'm not ready! What will he understand? Is this one of those moments where you make it simple? Is it simple? I try my best:

'It's a special part of you that makes you you.'

'Well, where is it?'

'You can't see it buddy. It's not like your heart or your lungs or your bones. Still it's there and it's really important.'

'Why can't I see it?'

'Well, you know how when I tell you I love you with my whole heart? It's like that. The love isn't actually coming out of my heart so you can see it, but the love is big enough that I can feel it in my whole body and it fills me up. That love is part of my soul. I can't see it but it's there. Does that make sense?'

He looks at me for a moment and says, 'Ok.' And I can only assume he's satisfied with this answer. The trouble is, I'm not.

I want to have an answer equal parts rational and elegant. I want to be profound and walk away proudly knowing that he understands exactly what his soul is. What I realize is that the words, as usual, fail me. Not only is my answer unclear, but I'm wondering is it even right? Is our soul the part of us that loves? I guess I think so, sort of. In my mind I tell myself that soul is spirit. It's our breath mingled with our emotions and our dreams. It's the biggest and most visibly invisible piece of us. It goes elsewhere when we die and it was born at conception, the very second the miracle occurred. But how does that make sense? How do I explain this with any meaning to my small son? Do I go ahead and just say it the way I think it and watch the wheels turn? The moment has already passed, so I guess I don't. Maybe it will come up again, next week, or 5 years from now and my perspective and his perspective will be different and the words may suffice. At least as much as they can in terms of soul.

The point is little man, telling you now wherever you may be when you maybe see these words, that when it comes to the soul, I'm better at thinking in a line. I can make a list of what it is and what it isn't. This much I know with certainty: You are part of my soul. You're a piece that's not invisible. You're a piece that the whole world can see and that is such a miracle. Especially coming from this Mom who doesn't open herself wide to the world. You don't have to do surgery to look at my soul. You just have to look in the mirror. You were part of my body once and a huge piece of my emotions and dreams since before I knew you and onto forever. If souls had symbols the way super-heros do, you would be mine.

As far as clarity goes, that may be the best I can do.

For Matt & Lauren

For Sara

Just Enough

I live a small life.

Small enough that in 6 months, I don't do enough driving to warrant an oil change. Small enough that I still have the jeans and shirt that I wore on that first date with my husband 9 years ago hanging in the single closet that we share. (I have the shoes too I'm pretty sure.) We have a lot of pictures of places here and there, but not enough to fill my hard drive. All that travel I dreamed about has been put on the back-burner, not forever, but for now. These days I dream of living in a house with more storage space.

I get glimpses of the larger world. I read the news. Pop-culture is a guilty pleasure. That bustle of feet on a busy city sidewalk sort of fills me up and excites me on the rare occassions I experience it. I long for more culture. More art fairs and farmer's markets to inspire me. Book signings. I wish I lived in a place with public transit where my kids could know the thrill of riding on an underground train and how that simple yet complicated process means you get to walk more and drive less. I don't like crowds, but I like people. I like to see the telling perspective that a random woman's jacket might relate. Growing up in a small town, this is the sort of thing I've had to search out. This part of me feels restless, mostly when it's quiet.

Interesting though, that quiet doesn't visit me often because I live a loud life.

Loud enough that I worry that the dog will wake the baby as he clip-clop-gallops down the hallway when the mail arrives. Loud enough to hear the Number of the Day as related by a furry monster on Sesame Street, while I'm in the shower. Loud enough that all is quiet until I get on the phone and all hell breaks loose around me. (All kids know that trick.) Not so loud that I can't hear the wind come in the window and rattle the art work that hangs on my refrigerator.

I live a small life.

Small enough to pick flowers from my own yard and set them out in dishes from the kitchen. Small enough to fit both kids in the backseat where I can hear them talk and sing and poke each other. It's small enough that the purse I carry is sort of ugly and cost $12, but inside it holds all the stuff I need. Small enough that my heart fills up when we take out the photo albums filled with pictures taken mostly in the backyard. So small that that thrill ride on the Subway will be my child's vacation memory rather than a way of life. Small, but just big enough that we have a front step on which rests a flower pot, a pumpkin, and a rock collection.

Interestingly enough, that pumpkin has a face. It's smiling.

Today Is the Day?

This blog is haunting me right now. It's sort of lurking there behind all the stuff I need to do. It's reminding me that I need to create and at the same time making me feel inadequate and guilty that I haven't done so. The empty page is taunting me and the clock is holding me back.

I am a list person.

This blog is on my list.

The only thing that's been there longer?

I need to get my wisdom teeth pulled.

What's that say about me?

I'm worried that it says that the artist and/or writer in me that wants out is as much as a priority as those teeth.

I hate that it says that.

I loathe when a list outlives my pile. When the chore/activity/event get's put off so long that it no longer needs the list, it simply exists; burned into my brain until I get with it.

First item on my new list:

Get with it already.

For Matt

Once upon a time there was a girl. Well, not exactly a girl...not like a little girl, but older. Someone kind of like you, but a girl.

Anyway, so the girlish person was having one of 'those days.' You know the kind. Rough. Frustrating. Nothing redeeming. She felt like she was working really hard and getting nowhere. This sort of day had been recurring frequently in her situation. Despite the day, she was trying hard and doing what she could so that eventually she could rest her head on her pillow and feel that something, even the smallest something, had been accomplished. At times even the slightest goals are hard to reach.

Somewhere between the dishes and diapers, the long day and the short temper, the not-old female went outside. While there, it occured to her to check the mailbox. It's true that there would probably be bills and infuriating political flyers, possibly a rogue magazine or a credit offer 'not to be refused!' However, the sort-of-like-you girl always felt that no matter what arrived there was still something magical about the mail. She felt that in a day full of domestic mundane there was always this possibility of surprise. Afterall, a mailbox is a lot like a Christmas Tree; Magical in it's potential to excite. Just because it's there.

She reached her hand into the box and flipped through the papers that failed to inspire. And it was there. Almost glowing. A correspondence from one she loved and respected. Today the potential was met. Exceeded. The magical mailbox delivered not just the correspondence but also a light for a day that was listless. A gift. A thought that proceeded over miles and through hands unknown, delivered at just the right time fulfilling it's intent. It said without saying. A reminder of the good kind of ties that bind. And immediately...a smile.

The smile felt good. Because of the correspondence the smile stayed for awhile. The not-lady passed it along to a little boy who really needed it because he was missing someone so much who was really far away. It made him feel liked even though he had been up to a lot of unlikeable things lately. Feeling liked helped him make better choices and brought some light to his lonley day.

But that's not all. She also passed the smile to a miniature platinum-haired princess who hadn't been particularly blue, but who always lit up at the sharing of affection.The little one passed the smile right back, but even bigger until it became so big that it filled the room touching everyone in it. Even the dog sleeping in the corner whose mighty tail began a rhythmic thumping at the feeling it gave him.

The day felt different. The domestic mundane felt meaningful. The boy felt liked. The princess felt cuddly. The dog felt happy. The not-young-not-old girl felt like her day had been redeemed. Someone awesome had thought of her. It felt lovely.