Questions

At some point along the way, I received the advice that, when it comes to difficult subjects, take their lead. When they ask, answer their questions (and only their questions.) I've realized though that the hard part is actually hearing their questions, from their 3 or 4 or 5 year-old point of view. What's not such a great idea? Hearing the topic, and spewing out everything I know in relation to it. I may or may not have this propensity. Especially with my first born, who, by virtue of being born first and born wise, can trick me into forgetting that five is actually quite small. Not all of her questions lead me down this slippery slope.

Some are just impossible: 'Where did the first strawberry come from?'
Some are simply beyond me (it doesn't take much): 'Why does the earth rotate on a tilt?*

It's the questions I have at least partial answers for that require that delicate balance between being honest and age-appropriate. And when the one asking the questions regularly appears at my bedside in the middle of the night to anxiously whisper that she's 'dehydrated' or that her newly emerging molars are most definitely causing pieces of her gum to fall out, or (like last night) that she can't feel her heartbeat(!), that balance becomes even more crucial.

The first time she asked why a friend from pre-k had two homes--one with her mommy and one with her daddy--I almost found myself attempting to explain the dynamics of love and the causes of divorce. First of all, unqualified. Second of all, she did not even ask about divorce. Instead, we had a brief conversation about families coming in all shapes and sizes.

After the twentieth time being asked about the sanitary napkin dispensers in the public restrooms, I gave it my best shot: When a girl grows up, her body is capable of growing a baby. Every month it releases an egg and the uterus prepares itself in case a baby does come along. It develops a thick lining made of blood and tissues which can nourish a baby and provide a cozy home. If the egg doesn't get fertilized by the sperm, then that lining comes out each month. The sanitary napkins absorb that lining. She was unalarmed by this information. A sign that I had achieved that balance.

But then there was the time that I found myself explaining how x-ray machines were used on pregnant women to see the unborn fetuses. It was new, exciting technology; mothers could see their babies before they were even born! It became very popular very fast. During this time, a female scientist noticed that many children were getting cancer.
(More questions: 'What is cancer?')
The scientist discovered that the x-rays were the cause of the children's cancer.
('How did she know?)
It took 25 years for the practice to stop.
(Why?)
We discussed how people are slow to change. Slow to accept a new manifestation. Slow to accept the equality of religions, of races, of genders. She kept wanting more. So I told her about her partner, the statistician, who did everything in his power to prove her wrong by looking at the data from every possible angle. And how grateful she was for him. She was interested only in the truth--even if it proved her wrong. Only he didn't prove her wrong; he confirmed her findings. By asking questions from every possible angle and welcoming others' questions, she arrived at the truth.

That was the easy part. She had to take that truth and do something with it. For 25 years she worked tirelessly to change the way x-rays were used so that no more children would be harmed.

Yeah. I'm pretty sure this one got away from me. She didn't seem too traumatized, though I'm quite sure most of it was over her head. Oh well--I just hope she got the impression that questions are good. Never stop questioning.

Maybe we'll revisit this later. If we do, I'll tell her to be like the statistician: Ask your own questions. Find your own answers. That if enough of us stop imitating the past, we'll have a chance at remaking the future. One in which we decide for ourselves whether the color of our skin, the name of our God, our gender, or sexual orientation actually mattter at all.

"By its aid thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor."  -Baha'u'llah




* I didn't have a clue, but encouraged her to hypothesize. Without so much as a pause, she said, "I think a piece of a planet from outer space knocked into it and made it crooked." Well, duh! I'm just going to assume from now on that she already knows the answers. She's just seeing if I do too.

Mirrors

A few days before the winter solstice, I took the children to the local Waldorf school's celebration of the Winter Spiral. The tradition, observed during the darkest time of the year, involves a spiral created with pine boughs, the center at which a candle burns. Children and adults of all ages take turns carrying a single unlit candle to the center flame, lighting it, and placing it along the spiral. Onlookers sit in silence or sing quietly as the scene before them gradually fills with light.

 

This is our first winter spiral and we don’t know a soul here. To start with, we are expecting it to be outside, and so we come all bundled up only to find it being held inside a classroom. The girls are eager to participate, but going alone seems too daunting. Hoping it won’t be too disruptive, when it is our turn I stand up with the baby in the sling and the girls on either side of me. We approach the ‘angel guide’ and she graciously asks in a whisper if we would like to go as a family. ‘Yes,’ I whisper back, and she hands Samaya an apple with a beeswax candle inserted into it.  I know (of course I know) that Violet wants a candle of her own, but when none is offered I can't bring myself to disrupt the sacred flow of the ceremony. We step carefully to the center candle, Samaya lights her own, chooses a spot along the spiral to place it, and then we continue along the path that leads to the opposite side of the room.

Now in different seats, Violet immediately pseudo-whispers that she wants to carry a candle too, but I whisper to her that our turn is finished—that Samaya carried the candle for our family. Now Violet, who is a little girl with big feelings, and who periodically struggles to keep her big feelings in check, and who has been experiencing one of these periods as of late, was not at all pleased with this information. After a couple of failed attempts to quiet her, I lead my less-than-peaceful little people out of the room, at which point Violet now feels at ease to turn up the volume a bit. It is certainly not what she is capable of, but it is enough for me to feel quite embarrassed. I tell her as much, and hurry to stuff them into their coats and (superfluous) winter gear, which of course Violet is not having.  I am on the verge of blowing my peaceful mama cover. It is then that another teacher comes out into the hall and very lovingly invites us into her own classroom. I tell her thank you, but we are leaving, offering as clarification that Violet is very sad that she did not also get to carry a candle.

 

“I understand,” she says directly into Violet’s eyes. And I can see that she does. More importantly, Violet can see it—her own feelings validated and reflected back to her. A brief moment, and then, ‘I have a very special candle you may have. Would you like to see it?’ Violet blinks and then nods, and we all follow her into her classroom. She cradles a tea light mounted on a watercolor star. ‘It smells like bees,’ she tells Violet. ‘Because it is made of beeswax.’ Violet takes it, her only outward reaction an easing of her facial muscles. I thank her in Violet’s place, and we walk quietly to the car. She is taking this small act of kindness in, turning it over and around in her mind. I am taking it in too, grateful for the mothering I myself have just received. This woman has just ever so gently, without threatening my own motherhood for a moment, reminded me to ‘understand’ my child, however seemingly trivial or inappropriate or embarrassing. Violet doesn't need to know that her mother is embarrassed or angry. She just needs to see her own feelings handed back to her. And then, once we're both looking at what is, we can navigate a way to what could be.

I need to be her mirror; to reflect HER truth. Not mine. 

 

The next day, I hear this story from Tom Price:

During World War II, there was a nun who worked in an orphanage in France. Children were being orphaned at an astonishing rate—higher than at any other time in human history. When the children were told what had happened to their parents and that they would be living at the orphanage indefinitely, they would often be traumatized, sometimes permanently. The nun realized that if she told the children a story about other children with the same information and the same details, the children would invariably come to the end of it and say, ‘Oh, is that what happened to me?’ And because the nun had provided them with a mirror in which they could see truth isolated from themselves and approach it on their own terms, in their own time, with their own understanding, they were far better equipped to process the information.

 

Tom Price used this method with his own children, telling bedtime stories about little turtles whose lives bore striking resemblance to his own children’s lives. One time, he came home from work to find his daughter crying hysterically. When he asked her what had happened, she refused to answer. He later found out that she had dumped all of the yogurt from the yogurt maker into the bathtub and had proceeded to take a yogurt bath. Her mother was not at all happy. That night, when Tom came into his daughter’s bedroom to tuck her in, she said, ‘Tell me the story about the turtle who took a yogurt bath.’ She wanted to process what had happened, but from a safe, non-threatening distance. 

 

I only heard this story because a friend referenced it in her own recounting of the stories she tells to her daughter. Stories about a little brown fox whose life bears striking resemblance to her own daughter's life. Stories that began around the time that her marriage was ending. She knew that to an almost three-year-old, the splitting up of her parents could potentially feel like trauma, and so the little brown fox and her mother told their story, night after night. While the real girl and her mother looked on from the safety of each other's arms. 

Mirrors reflect. In nature, reflection occurs when light (or any other wave) bounces off a surface, allowing it to be seen. 

Abdu’l-Baha said that, "If we wish to understand what the spiritual life is, we must look to the material world, which is an outward figure or symbol of the inward spiritual reality.” So this entire world of existence—everything from the sun to the soil—is one giant mirror. Science isn't in conflict with religion; science is religion’s reflection. 

Baha’u’llah and Abdu’l-Baha constantly use analogies from nature:

• “The world of humanity has two wings—one is woman and the other man."
• “So powerful is the light of unity that it can illuminate the whole earth."
• “Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value."
• “Flowers may be variegated in colors, but they are all flowers of one garden..."

Nature is infinitely complex. No matter how many times we look in its mirror, we will always see something new. Something beautiful.

When asked one time why everyone who entered his presence left with such a shining countenance, he replied that he saw his Father’s face in everyone he met. I want to see that. I want to notice the candle they hold in their hearts. And reflect it back to them.

(Human) Race

My silence on this topic is not out of indifference. It is, however, out of three other reasons: Samaya, Violet, and Isaiah.  Yes, there are also elements of fear and ignorance.  Of offending. Of saying the wrong thing. Of exposing my own prejudices. I will own that. I must own that. After all, it is denial that has not only kept the gaping wound of racial inequality from healing, but has driven it deep under the skin to systemically poison our collective body.

It is just that at this moment and most of my other moments, I am surrounded by tiny, open ears. And what I want, need, those ears to hear is this:

How generous of Violet to offer you her only cookie!
You show such love toward your brother!
How just of you to stand up for your friend!
I am moved by your compassion.
The manager at this store is ALWAYS joyful.
I notice your patience.
I see your kindness.

I want them to hear these comments and others like them so many times that they cannot help but notice these qualities in themselves and others before they notice anything else. I want them to walk through the world noticing justice and unshakeable joy. I want them to walk through the world seeing genuine kindness and love. I want them to walk through the world feeling and acting on compassion. I want them to walk through the world really seeing all the beautiful bits and pieces of their brothers' and sisters' souls.

I am not naive. I know they will also see things uglier than I can imagine. I am certain they will encounter unspeakable injustice and deep sadness. I know that they will hear of shocking cruelty and hatred. I even know that they themselves will turn a blind eye to another's pain and do nothing at all.

I am just praying that when they find themselves in a dark room, their immediate inclination is to find the light switch. Strike a match. Pull the curtains.

Abdu'l-Baha once said, "Darkness is the absence of light: when there is no light, there is darkness. Light is an existing thing, but darkness is nonexistent."

It seems to me that healing our collective broken family will be achieved not through the tearing down of nonexistence, but through the building up of the existing good, however small it may be. Even if exists only in the state of potentiality.

My oldest daughter is in kindergarten this year at a public school in Maine--the whitest state in the country. She is the only brown child in her class. She is acutely aware of this fact because, as it turns out, children are not blind. I listen carefully to her observations. I validate her feelings of wanting to be white, of having straight hair. I tell her, honestly, that I think her skin color is beautiful. That I used to desperately wish for curly hair. I tell her what Abdu'l-Baha had to say on the subject:

"Flowers may be variegated in colors but they are all flowers of one garden."

And then I ask her what acts of kindness she saw at school that day. Because it is true that we are many colors, but it is more true that we are one race: the human race. And kindness--love--is our shared currency.

In October, Oprah interviewed Raven-Symone, who boldly and unequivocally renounced all other labels (including African American), declaring, "I want to be labeled a human who loves humans."

This is what I want for my children: to grow up as humans who love humans.

Isaiah. One.

Dear Isaiah,

You are one year old now and I am just as crazy in love with you as the day I met you. You. You are my gift. My joy. My love. I wait for the moment every night when you crawl from your bed into mine, push your head into my rib cage, and immediately fall back to sleep. Somehow, the ridiculous awkwardness of it comforts us both. And the fact that you don't generally abuse your free pass to my mammary glands.  It's been a few weeks now since your first turn around the sun and honestly if I had written this in a more timely manner, it would have been something along the lines of, "You're still my baby. But also, you're still a baby." I don't know if I can say that anymore. The first part, always. But suddenly the space you occupy in the world is so much more animated, communicative, conscious, defined, capable, toddler-like. 
That you manage to pull off this toddler-esque persona is actually quite remarkable considering the only words you consistently say are 'Dada,' 'zhis,' and a version of 'cockadoodledoo'--and that you are still a crawling person. But you also stand with your back against the couch and catch balls. You climb the bathroom stool. Then stand on the top rung and hitch your leg onto the counter. Another week and you will be on the counter. Anyone who has been to our bathroom can attest to the sheer height and potential disaster this scenario suggests.  You play ring-around-the-rosie with your sisters and tear down the hallway on your radio flyer push wagon. Just today I realized you know where your belly button, nose and toes are. And that if someone says, 'too loud!' you cover your ears with your hands. Also, you're a great kisser. This afternoon when I asked Violet to tell me the time, you waited until she walked away and then crawled to the spot she had been standing, pointed at the clock, and spouted off what I'm sure was a very accurate description of the exact angle of the sun's rays. In another language. 
When I ask you if you want to sit in your high chair and eat dinner, you adamently tell me, 'uh-uh,' which sometimes means 'HELL NO' and sometimes means, 'YES!' You won't ask for milk in a respectable manner, but you will stick your fist down my shirt and insist on 'zhis.' And then there is the near constant shrieking. (Yes, you cover your own ears when you do this.) You spend a good portion of your day attempting to drill into your sisters' heads the concepts of personal space and free will. Another good chunk trying to get your distracted mother's attention. Both regretfully require high decibals. (You and the Vitamix account for why Mama's earplugs live perpetually on the kitchen counter.)
Your favorite book: Brown Bear, Brown Bear
Favorite activity: swinging in your new birthday swing
Favorite foods: bananas, meat, and water
Favorite toys: balls and anything with wheels
Favorite human being: Daddy. In fact, your love is so great that he has started sneaking in the door when he gets home from work just so he can take off his coat and shoes before your urgent Dada-shrieks claw at his ears and your tiny hands claw at his pants. There is no point at which you tire of him. (The reverse cannot also be said.) No point at which you willingly share him. You have many rituals together, involving cleaning each others' ears, watching dogs bark on YouTube, playing with feathers, and switching on and off lights.  
On your first birthday, Grandma, Grandpa, Auntie Julia, and Uncle Sina, Ferida and Yue joined us for dinner, you became intimately familiar with frosting, and we took you trick-or-treating for the first time wearing your new mouse hat thoughtfully made by Auntie Julie. I made you your felt birthday crown, your sisters made you cards, and Daddy hung your tree swing. It was as simple as it gets. Leaving plenty of room for you. Happy belated birthday,  Isaiah. You filled all my empty, dark corners.

.

 

The Birth of the Bab

Today was the commemoration of the Birth of the Bab, a manifestation and forerunner of Baha'u'llah. Our family attended the community celebration last night with prayers, readings and refreshments, and it was lovely... But the actual holy day awaited us in the morning and we had not a single plan for honoring it. That didn't feel right.

Before I went to bed, I sent the word out to my mama friends that there would be a birthday party for The Bab this afternoon at our house. And yes, there would be cake. Let me start by saying that I should ONLY throw parties without any prior foresight or thought. It leaves absolutely no room for stress and opens wide the doors of simplicity and joy. I never even had a chance to lose sight of the key components: the Guest of honor (in this case, The Bab), the children whose hearts I wished to connect to this Guest, and cake.

While Samaya was at school, Violet and I made a trip to the grocery store for the crucial ingredients. We ate lunch, baked cupcakes, whipped together some frosting, cleaned up the house. The children came and we all sat down to make watercolor cards to give to The Bab. When we had finished, we sat in a circle and read them out loud so He could hear them. There were hearts and stars and messages of love and...portraits. Today I asked Samaya, 'How did you know The Bab's favorite color was green?' (It is actually associated with Him.) But tomorrow I will attempt to convey "the impossibility of representing, in any human form, whether pictorially, in sculpture or in dramatic representation, the person of God's Manifestation"(UHJ) and that even attempting to do so is disrespectful. Their station too great. Our understanding too limited to even approach Their true nature through artistic representation. 

I read a brief story about The Bab's birth and early years, and then it was time to sing Happy Birthday. Though The Bab was there in spirit, He was not physically able to blow out His candles, and so we each took it upon ourselves to make a wish of peace for the world and blow out a candle for Him. Upon further consideration, it was also deemed necessary to eat two cupcakes each, one for ourselves, and one for...you get the point. And that was it. We played outside, we said our good byes, and, on another whim and stroke of utter (lazy) genius on my part, we made green ice cream for dinner. Definitely a new tradition. A whole bunch of kale thrown in the vitamin with frozen cubes of coconut milk and frozen bananas. Instant, healthy, fun dinner. 

      

Evolving Perfection

Too often, I have this nagging feeling in the corners of my mind that perfection keeps slipping just out of my grasp. The house is a disaster despite constant cleaning. The children need baths despite having bathed last week. I still look pregnant despite having given birth almost a year ago. I can't seem to find the peace of mind to sit down and write despite knowing that writing gives me peace of mind like nothing else. 

But last night, perfection knocked me to my knees and squeezed my heart with both hands. We were watching The Velveteen Rabbit. Violet was captivated. At the end of the movie, the boy watches, devastated, from his father’s arms as his beloved rabbit awaits the fire along with all the other bedding contaminated by scarlett fever. The father, in turn, weeps, having finally realized that though his wife may have died years ago, his son is very much alive. He begs his son’s forgiveness for his physical and emotional absence. It is a powerful and complex moment. Violet is standing in the middle of the carpet, absolutely still, unable to sit. When she turns to me, silent tears are streaming down her face. She is feeling what this father and son are feeling. And I am overcome. Overwhelmed. By the empathy, depth, understanding she has just exhibited. Never have I loved her more than at this moment.

Many tears has this child shed in fits of rage or pain or anger. But these tears. These quiet heart tears. She has never shown these to me before. And I feel honored. Privileged. To have witnessed such perfection. 

And all the rest of it...evolving perfection. 

A loose tooth

My first baby showed me her first loose tooth today. I thought she was delusional. Then I thought it was wishful thinking (she's been desperately hoping for one ever since her best friend lost a tooth). Then I thought she was teasing me. Then I realized SHE HAD A LOOSE TOOTH. Then I hoped I was delusional (this. just. cannot. be.) But I felt it. I saw it. Sal's words from One Morning in Maine echoed in my ears: "You could even see it wiggle." I searched desperately for a way out. A way BACK. How did we get here already? I stood in the hallway for multiple seconds, staring incredulously. Everyone always tells you they grow up. Kids, that is. But honestly, I thought they were mistaken. Maybe their kids grew up. But what did they really know about mine? You know, besides whatever Facebook told them?

I called my baby's daddy. He already knew. He laughed. How could he laugh as our daughter surely and steadily slipped from our grasp? The full realization of her separateness suddenly sunk into the pit of my stomach. I fought back tears. I suppose I knew in theory that she was born with her own soul. I just hadn't experienced all that...space...between hers and mine before. Not even when she started school. Not even when she developed her own social circle. Her own friends. Her own life that I simply had no idea about. For whatever reason, the universe chose this moment--this wiggly-toothed tiny moment--to shove that space at me.

Small consolation came at the end of the day.
"What was the best part of your day?" I asked her.

"My loose tooth!" She unhesitatingly declared.

"What was the hardest part of your day?"

"Waiting to tell you that I had a loose tooth."

"Really?" I choked, incredulous yet again. For now, for today, I was her first thought: I can't wait to tell Mommy.

I'll take it. I'll take everything this confident, exuberant, glowing, GROWING five-year-old throws at me. And I'll do my best to slow down and savor every bit of it. Forget you, miserable life-sucking to-do lists. I'm making a new list. One list. It goes like this:

1. Samaya
2. Violet
3. Isaiah