Our Separate Shells

We sat under a tent by the ocean. I read by lantern light while she listened. I in my oyster bed, mom in her argonauta. Each in different shells of life, we connect with the wisdom offered in this tiny book written nearly 60 years ago. Lindbergh takes us through the phases of our life's relationships. I get a glimpse of the future in her life; she can remember the past through mine.

I want to expound on what I've read. But I before I do, take a look at this portion. It reminds me of recent nights on the beach reading and talking with my mom. It calls me to pay attention to the need in me to relax.

page 94..."Evening is the time for conversation. Morning is for mental work, I feel, the habit of school-days persisting in me. Afternoon is for physical tasks, the out-of-doors jobs. But evening is for sharing, for communication. Is it the uninterrupted dark expanse of the night after the bright segmented day that frees us to each other?

Communication - but not for too long. Because good communication is stimulating like black coffee, and just as hard to sleep after. Before we sleep we go out again into the night. We walk up the beach under the stars. And we when tire of walking, we lie flat on the sand under a bowl of stars. We feel stretched, expanded to take in their compass. They pour into us until we are filled with the stars, up to the brim.

This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy - even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide. "

This selection touches on something I recently read by Susan Schaeffer Macaulay. She was talking about how, as mothers, we need to focus on winding down in the evening hours, facilitating an environment in which our family can relax at the end of the day. She acknowledges how difficult this can be, especially for a mother who is with her children at home all day. Yet endless busyness will inevitably lead to the fragmentation of our souls. So what do we do? I have a couple of ideas I want to try and see how the mood in my home might change. Retreat is something Lindbergh stresses. I'll share more in my next post.

Build Strong Children

It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. ~Frederick Douglass

I am on a hotel balcony looking into the room where two of my children play. I recall this quote twittered today by a friend. It is surreal to watch my family doing life on the other side of glass. I have written about this before...watching my family through a window. I cannot hear what is being said. The dynamic changes when one of my senses is disengaged. What I see is magnified. The smiles, the silent laughter, the eye contact between a brother and a sister.

Tonight Promise has agreed to Jett's request to play. She has chosen a theme he loves: Batman. She has drawn the Joker on a pizza box top and dressed Jett in his favorite Batman costume. Jett watches PJ intently as she explains the rules, which simply are...punch Joker. Why are they are having such fun together? Because one has chosen selflessly to play what the other likes.

Love really is an easy choice. It's not necessary that we always be doing something that is centered around self. Why don't we as parents teach our children to love, give and share on the front side of life? Wouldn't we be setting them up for success as adults? It's not as impossible as culture tells us. If we listen to the loudest voices around us, we hear, "children are a hassle", "motherhood is a burden - certainly not a career choice worth pursuing." But if you were to step out of range of that voice, even momentarily, your ears would ring with the song of the family (borrowed from The Pearl). Listen intently to the Mother Heart within you, and you will question culture. Allow your ear to be drawn and you will pursue something above the status quo. You will not pursue in vain!

Gift from the Sea

I have been at the beach two weeks and have felt nothing creative. I haven't studied, sewn, or written a thing. And I haven't wanted to. I am not wearing make-up or cleaning, and of all the shoes I brought, I have only worn the flip-flops. Yesterday as a damselfly landed on my beach blanket, I was inspired. I picked up a book I have been saving to read at the beach. I read it with emotion. The very thing I had written in my poem was expressed in the foreword of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's book. Do you know of this woman? Her life was fascinating. I have a few more insights I want to share from her book. But for now, read chapter one here. It is what I feel.

THE BEACH:
The beach is not the place to work, to read, write or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even - at least, not at first.

At first, the tired body takes over completely. As on shipboard, one descends into a deck-chair apathy. One is forced against one's mind, against all tidy resolutions, back into the primeval rhythms of the sea shore. Rollers on the beach, wind in the pines, the slow flapping of herons across sand dunes, drown out the hectic rhythms of city and suburb, time tables and schedules. One falls under their spell, relaxes, stretches out prone. One becomes, in fact, like the element on which one lies, flattened by the sea; bare, open, empty as the beach, erased by today's tides of all yesterday's scribblings.

And then, some morning in the second week, the mind wakes, comes to life again. Not in a city sense -no - but beach-wise. It begins to drift, to play, to turn over in gentle careless rolls like those lazy waves on the beach. One never knows what chance treasures these easy unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind; what perfectly rounded stone, what rare shell from the ocean floor. Perhaps a channeled whelk, a moon shell or even an argonaut.

But it must not be sough for - heaven forbid - dug for. No, no dredging of the sea bottom here. That would defeat one's purpose. The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea.

Damselfly

Small damselfly maintain your post
A shady rest longed for my most

What woman doesn't know your flight
Wings flutter til the dark of night

Your rhythm slows, you take your pause
I think I should join in your cause

Slowing down you gain direction
I too learn from my reflection

Pattern of peace I long to see
Displayed in your simplicity

Alone on the beach, a damselfly lit beside me. In keeping with nature's propensity to inspire, I was given this bit of verse.