When I was little, I practiced braiding a lot. I had long hair and I’d braid and re-braid my own hair. Like a waltz, there’s something melodic about the 1-2-3 of a braid.
Now, I don’t braid my hair and yet all the multitasking comprising my days makes me feel as if braiding was good practice or apt metaphor for what ensued.
In the here and now, I’ve been flat out busy: a project here or there that can go unnamed for now along with the sprint-like fundraising to secure 117 acres of farmland by Grow Food Northampton, plus writing projects large and small, and you know, four kids, etcetera.
You might recall I wrote 50,000 words in November toward a book about open adoption (or more aptly, toward a draft of a book about open adoption). Now, I find myself seriously trying to write a book proposal and some sample chapters, not just wishing that I’d figure out how to do those things. I’m excited and overwhelmed (and if you have advice for me, please let me know so I can email to glean nuggets of wisdom from you).
Here’s what’s hardest about working on the project: I can be in the midst of recalling some pretty hard moments—and then a kid needs me or the phone rings and it’s someone I actually have to talk to. The braid’s all one strand too thick, the other too thin. No writing retreat is going to materialize soon; this mismatched braid width issue is just how it’s going to be. I have to gracefully re-braid.
Oh, and it’s nearly impossible not to hurl myself into the obvious litany of worries one has when a project feels personally significant: will anyone want to read this thing I’m pouring my heart into writing?
**
Especially given this vulnerability about the act of sharing my story, is it any surprise that I felt particularly tender upon learning about Elizabeth Edwards’ death this week?
As commentator after commentator tried to distill the woman from the troubled marriage and the politics from the woman, beyond feeling sad, I felt protective. Elizabeth Edwards put herself out there. She’d shared some of life’s most painful disappointments and she’d described her deepest hopes and her most optimistic visions for the country—and for that matter, for her family—with anyone who wanted to listen. I doubt I have one original thing to say about her. I didn’t know her (although my father did and I’ve read some notes she sent him). From what I do know, I found her an admirable, substantive woman who wanted to make change in this world and who loved her children fiercely.
She re-braided continuously, trying to even out the strands, to make a thing of beauty. And I find myself wishing some for some smooth, satisfying braids—the figurative kind—for her children as they say goodbye to their mama.
**
There are a couple of things in my own mama-ing that always feel lacking and those are getting us all to eat dinner together nearly often enough and figuring out religion, faith or spirituality. Small-ticket items, both of them to be sure! Last night, the dear husband was out at a work-related dinner and when the four kids and I were in the kitchen together around 6:45, there was some shared eating (three kids on the pasta course; one toddler on the frozen yogurt course) while I got something to eat, too. Those folks I admire at Dinner: A Love Story might not quite deem this family dinner. By our standards at least, it so was. Score.
Before taking the overtired toddler up for a story, bottle, teeth brushing and bed routine, we lit the menorah. The atheist teenager gave us a hard time for trying to remember what to say; he thought we should not bother in the first place. We only kind of bothered. That made three nights of menorah lighting (out of eight, folks; you do the math). Honestly, that’s about our average. I got some lovely photos and will weasel one into a post very soon.
Meantime, this essay braids itself together thusly: I read this quote about Chanukah: This is a time to reflect on all events that happen against the odds. Some call them miracles. During this eight-day stretch, I talked to each of the younger kids about the story behind Chanukah, weaving in—beyond the story itself—that notion in our lives of things that happen against the odds. I can come up with more than a few. I appreciated the reminder to ponder that phenomenon. It’s from that place we can hold onto our stories; it’s from that place we can gather the courage to share them.
**
And when you light a menorah with a toddler, you do sing Happy Birthday to You as well. Although in absentia (and once over the phone), we serenaded my friend, Randi, whose birthday happened to be on the first night this year each time we lit the candles. It took some doing to stop Saskia from blowing them out. Given how, uh, casual, our Chanukah was, you’d wonder why I didn’t let her blow. Hey, I’m trying to pass something on here, even if I’m not entirely sure what.
