Eight years ago, this journey began. Our twin boys were six and I initially just wrote about the cute stuff they did. In fact, the name of this blog came to be because one day I heard them chanting “ihopeiwinatoaster; ihopeiwinatoaster” over and over in the basement. Time passed, I tried to go a little deeper, say important things. However, those cute boys are in High School now and their stories are their own. So, what’s an old blogger to do? Well, I guess that’s what I am about to find out.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Sometimes I stand at a
window and feel the weight of time and I weep.
Sometimes I watch the
pines or maples grow, the cars or people go by, the sun and moon
setting to my east and rising in my west, or another way around, and
Sometimes I marvel at my
faith, sometimes I wallow in my deep faithlessness, and I weep.
Sometimes I see boys that
will be men and men once boys play and dance and sing and fight and
pray, and I weep.
Sometimes I think of fathers and
sons and can think of only how big and heavy it all seems, and I weep.
Sometimes I remember the lightness
of joy, and I weep.
The boys are in the back
yard - the muddy, mucky, brown and sad green of it all colors my
mood and I watch them, and, as always, I am watching myself. They are improvising something, which is only a grown-up, somehow
more defensible way of saying, they are playing "make believe."
I think of those words,
"make believe," as I watch them stickfight and run
unaimlessly - though it seems otherwise - across the yard, mud
splattering and flying, sticks unsafely brandished. They make
each other believe, they collectively agree on a different now. Curiously, this
"now" requires two old remnants of the ferns that hung on
the porch last summer and a gnarly root of pine unearthed when the
water pipe came through.
I watch as they they carry
the potless roots of the ferns across the yard, holding them high,
chanting or screaming - mine is a silent trip today, only my own
memories score the scene - and I laugh at the beautiful absurdity of
it all. They place them on a table under their playset, like
offerings on the a red-stained cedar altar. Minutes later I look out again
and one boy, the bigger, is dragging the rootstock over the grass,
opening molehills like a plow and laughing manically into a wind
that seems to keep his voice from me, capturing it for its own.
Once destined for fire and
dirt, they have become alive, necessary again, to the imaginings of
two nearly ten year old boys. Is the pine root a gate, are the ferns lamps? What story is this? I wish I knew. I
wonder if it is one I told, of forest elves and brave boys and
hard-fought victory and mud and musty caves. I am sure it is.
I watch as they huddle in
close together against the cold that is the wind even on the most
beautiful of March days. I watch them talk together, seriously. They nod at one another and run off to their corner, a place of calm
and peace and put down their swords and hug.
Sometimes I watch them
make believe and weep.
I have stared out so many
windows in my life. I cannot think of place I've ever lived from
which I could not look out upon some scene and wonder at it. I
recall the squirrels in the backyard of a home in the country. I
remember girls from the window of a college dorm. My view has been
simply a bush fill of chickadees or the story of a street two
stories below. Always through a window, as I think back on these
times, do these memories come - the frame, the glass, the curtains or
grime - I see it through something.
It's as though, even as I
watch the thing play out in the now, I know it is already in the
past. And yet, when I bring it back again it plays as though it is
in the present. Is the future simply the past made now again?
From Marci's "...things
you don't expect to hear from the backseat..."
"Don't lick me, little
I don't even know...
I appreciate the time you took away
from your own to give me some, I recognize that as the gift it is, I
really do. Also, I don't want you to imagine me as an
beyond-middle-aged, gray-bearded, overweight and overwrought man standing at a window
and sobbing uncontrollably. Listen, I like to weep, sometimes a tear
rolls down, sure, but mostly, it's just a feeling. A feeling that is
not sadness or even melancholy, not hope or joy, no, it is merely an
awareness of it all. I weep for the now, whenever it might be.