The Day That Didn't Change My Life

I am 8 years old. My sister Sarah, who is 10, is beside me as we splash in the ocean. My mom sits on a beach chair a few yards away beneath a wide, green umbrella. The current, the waves, the briny sea air, the caw-caw of seagulls--everything is perfect. A perfect childhood memory. 

Sarah and I wade further into the sea, til the water comes to our waists, then our armpits. We duck under waves and listen, submerged, to the dull roar of the water passing above us. We surface. I turn toward shore, hearing my mom's voice in my head.

"Always look for the umbrella," she warned. "The water will pull you further and faster than you think."

She is right. As usual. 

The umbrella has drifted away to my left. I see my mom with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun, looking in our direction. 

"Here comes another one," Sarah says.

We suck in air and drop below the surface. The rumble of surf. Our long hair twines and twists in the churning water. Then the sea calms. I rise into the sunlight, expel my breath and seek another one. But my feet cannot find anything solid to perch on. Land has dropped out from beneath me. Only water, against which I kick, kick harder, trying to push my head fully above water to catch breath. My arms flail, fingers splayed. I know how to swim, how to tread water, but panic has caught me by surprise. I squeeze my eyes shut as again I am submerged. My heart hammers in my ears. I kick, struggle, fight to find solid ground.

Then I feel a hand on my arm, just above my elbow. I feel the rush of water against me as I am pulled forward, counter to the undertow that is eager to suck me into the sea. The sand of the ocean floor rises, chafes the bottoms of my feet. My face again finds the sun; my lungs the air. I blink away the saltwater and look up at Sarah.

She smiles. I smile back.

To this day I cannot remember what I did after that. While I distinctly remember the taste of that panic while unable to find my footing, I'm not sure I ever got out of the water. I continued to play with Sarah in the surf. I continued to keep an eye on my mom and the green umbrella. 

That day could have turned out differently. It could have changed my life, or possibly ended it. But it didn't. It now rests in my memory as another lazy summer day at the ocean. Sarah, I believe, saved my life that day. But she didn't know it. No one did. Not even me. She was just extending to her little sister her hand.

It is so curious to me how the times that we think should be momentous, often aren't. And the mundane, humdrum moments--like a lazy day at the beach--can hold such influence, such sway on the trajectory of our lives. Without even our awareness of it. It makes me want to follow Sarah's example and extend my hand a bit more often.

top image from: http://themoontraveller.tumblr.com/post/37665662694

 

Up the Lane Again (A continuation on A Handful of Stones)

After yesterday's post and the many comments that were given, I would first like to say thank you for your support and kind words and empathy. I would also be remiss if I didn't follow up with Part II of this saga.

Last night, as Jonathan was just finishing up his mowing and, again, was at the bottom of our yard by the lane, he hears someone approach. He turns and sees the kid who threw rocks along with the boy's dad. The dad shakes Jonathan's hand and says, "My son has something to say to you."

The kid looks at his dad, then at Jonathan. "I'm sorry I threw rocks at you. I shouldn't have done that."

Jonathan nods his head. "Thank you for your apology. I forgive you." Then he extends his hand. The boy stands up a bit straighter, grips Jonathan's hand, and they shake.

"This Saturday," says the dad, "if you need some chores done out here in your yard, you just call. He'll come down and help."

Then the boy hands Jonathan a note and, with another handshake from dad, they leave Jonathan to his mower. Jonathan opens the note, reads again the boy's apology and at the bottom of the note is the family's phone number for Jonathan to call if he has chores for him to do. A suggestion was even given from the lad as to what kind of chores: "I could pick up all the rocks in your yard so you don't mow on them." And then he signed his name.

Jonathan came inside and told me what happened. And I actually teared up. A great weight felt lifted, and it seemed for a moment that maybe the world wasn't quite so dark after all. Well, at least on our lane the sun was shining a little brighter.

top image from: purenourishment.wordpress.com 

Up the Lane with a Handful of Stones (alternate title: More Kids Need a Rain Barrel)

Something happened yesterday that I just can’t shake. Even now I think about it and my stomach churns. So maybe if I get it out, shine an examination light on it, it will help alleviate some of this angsty ambivalence going on inside me.

To set the stage, I must explain a few things. We live out in the country. Behind our house runs a public Right-Of-Way— a weedy, deep-rutted lane that empties out at one end onto the main road, and at the other end into our back yard. This Right-Of-Way runs between two rows of houses (all the backyards would converge were it not for this lane splitting things down the middle). The lane is lined by ancient trees, stalky weeds, shrubs, and other leafy vegetation. Several houses down from us, on the opposite side of the lane, a house sits. A house that five children and at least two wild-looking dogs call home. The backyard is filled with trash, debris, old lumber riddled with rusty nails, and at one point a haunted-looking caravan camper. (Thankfully that is now gone.) In the pit-of-a-yard there is a trampoline for the kids that I’ve never inspected closely enough to know if it would sustain anyone’s weight, even that of a child. The kids’ ages range from about 10 years old to 3 years old, roughly. And every so often, you’ll see these kids straggle up the lane toward our yard, either on foot or on their bikes.

Now, I am a pretty open-minded person. I’ll take pretty much anyone as I find them without judgment.  (Usually. I am human, thus flawed, after all. But I do try to maintain an open mind.) And part of me always felt a bit bad for these kids whose only place to play was a derelict yard with threats of Tetanus looming everywhere. But something about these kids has never sat well with me. They actually remind me of the Herdmans from The Best Christmas Pageant Ever (remember that book? If you haven’t read it, you should.) Whenever I see these kids start hedging toward our backyard, especially when my kids are out playing, I cringe. I can’t help it. Something just makes me uneasy.

And that’s the reaction I had yesterday when I looked out and saw all five walking up the lane. Fortunately my husband was outside with our daughters, so I just observed from the open kitchen window. The five kids at first spent a little while rolling down our neighbor’s hill. Harmless enough. Then they kept hiding and jumping out (at nobody, apparently) from behind our neighbor’s little decorative fence. Then (surprise, surprise) they wanted to come into our yard to play with our girls. (And I don’t really blame them considering the wound-pit alternative they have). 

However I didn’t have to hear my husband’s words to know that wasn’t going to happen. He feels much the same as I do about the little rascals, and the older two boys (they look to be about 10 and 8 years old) have a bit of an edge to them—like they’re itching to take someone on. A wee proverbial chip lurking on their shoulders. Like I said, there’s just something that doesn’t sit well.

My husband declined their request to visit our yard. He answered politely but definitively. We are always careful to be polite to these kids, because 1) courtesy is something I want my kids to see in action and 2) I don’t want these rapscallions to set our house on fire. (Okay, that borders on profiling, but I've seen Lifetime Movies--I know how these things happen!) Rebuffed, the five shuffled about 10 yards down the lane, turned around. And wouldn’t you know, the two oldest boys picked up rocks and threw them at Jonathan. Yes. Rocks. Hurled at someone whose back was turned and whose crime was simply not giving a bunch of kids something they wanted but were not in the least entitled to. Then four of the kids started throwing rocks. (The youngest simply sat down and played in the dirt.)

Jonathan turned, realized what they were doing, walked over and asked them to return to their own yard. The three youngest took off running, but the two oldest boys—after initially skittering away at Jonathan’s approach—kept hucking their rocks.

I watched this entire scene play out from the window. And I was irate. I'm not a reactive person, but this got me hot to the point of wanting to throttle those kids. Yes, Jonathan was fully capable of handing the situation, but I couldn’t watch this unfold without acting. Call it the Mama Bear instinct or righteous indignation or pure rage—whatever you want to call it, it was surging in full force. 

I stormed out of the house and headed through the yard. When the two boys saw me coming (and I must have looked a bit fierce), they sprinted away down the lane.

“I’m going to go talk to their parents,” I said to Jonathan as I turned toward the lane.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “I don’t want to stir things up.”

I stopped and stared at him. “They were throwing rocks. Rocks! At another person. Who does that?!”  (Like I said, I was hot.)

“I know. But then they saw you coming,” he smirked. “They’re gone now.”

The whole time this had been going on, our girls were up by the house playing with the rainwater barrel, floating their little toy mermaids and splashing each other. No harm done, I suppose, I thought to myself. So I walked back toward the house and into the kitchen.

Ah, our dear old rainbarrel--the handiwork of Jonathan
and source of much joy among our children.

Then, only moments later, the oldest boy again sauntered up the lane, stopping along the way, and filling his hands full of stones. He came within 20 yards of Jonathan and again started to let his missiles fly. Fortunately the rocks didn't come close to their target, but the kid seemed to have no intention of losing interest anytime soon.

Jonathan works with troubled kids for a living; he's far better equipped to handle belligerence and threats of bodily harm from a pipsqueak than most. He calmly turned, again asked the kid to stop, to go back to his own yard. Another rock came sailing through the air. Finally, Jonathan walked toward the kid, who initially squared up to Jonathan like he’s gonna take him on. (Seriously?!) Then, when Jonathan didn't stop walking, but kept coming toward him, the boy scrambled away, back to his yard, back inside his house. Jonathan walked through their littered backyard, around their house toward the front porch, and disappeared from view. I went out and stood on our back porch, watched the scene with my heart hammering, and prayed that nothing turned ugly. Our girls continued to splash and play, but I saw our 7-year-old watching me. (Oh, how it makes me tremble when the innocent eyes of children watch my every move.)

After only a few minutes, Jonathan once again appeared, strolled back up the lane, and resumed his yard work. I walked down to him.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Their mom came to the door. I told her that her son was throwing rocks at me.”

“And what’d she say?”

“She said she’d take care of it. She was very nice.”

I felt a slight relief, at least in the hope that maybe a smidgeon of justice would prevail.

Yet now, sitting here, away from the moment, distanced from the initial rage, I still feel a burning in my stomach. It’s all nice and warm and fuzzy to say “be kind,” “show empathy” on a blog post. Yet when watching stones being thrown by a 10-year-old who should know better, everything gets shrouded in a murky darkness that scares me a little bit. (Is this the world we live in now? Where kids think it’s okay to throw rocks at an adult?) It also gets that “Right Fighter” within me going. (It’s not just that it’s dangerous, there’s a principle at stake here!) I know as a mother I should be modeling self control. I know as a Christian I should be loving to those who are unkind. I know as a human being I should be understanding and considerate. All of that became a billion times harder yesterday—which is, I suppose, when it really counts.

I want to give my kids a just world. A kind world. A safe world. Unfortunately I can't. I can only teach my kids how to respond to the injustice. The unkindness. And, yes, even the danger. And it all starts with me choosing to do the right thing. Choosing to be loving. Even when it’s hard—especially when it’s hard. Because that’s when my kids will know when I say “Be Kind” that I’m asking only for what I myself am trying to live out. 

And, yes, all my kids were the beneficiaries of another lecture yesterday on the importance of never—EVER!— throwing stones. Unless you're throwing them in a pond because, let's face it, I love to see the ripples spread.

top image from: karisslaree.blogspot.com 

 

Sparrows (a poem by my 18-year-old self with meager understanding of poetry, brevity, or life)

Sparrows

By: (18-year-old) Anna Urquhart

I walk down the Spanish paseo,

look among dazzling fountains

and budding flowers,

hear numerous conversations,

yet understand few.

I see garnished faces.

I hear laughter braided with smiles.

I see hands shake and embrace.

The smooth skin of the polished walk

forever reaches before me.

I wander among the flowery words

and the decorated apparel.

An injured song shuffles off the lips

of a tired, bantam beggar

sitting in the shadows of an olive tree.

His hands are brown and withered.

His hair swallowed by infinite grime.

His raggedy garb blowing

like old men’s bleached beards.

His teeth of yellow corn

flecked with poppy seeds.

His voice as sickening as cats’ squalor.

I am instantly repulsed

and try to slink by.

I stop when I hear this thick, grated voice

singing a mutated hymn of grace.

I pause only feet away

and look at him.

Amid the grime and scum of his costume

there comes a glow.

His eyes, though dimmed by hardship

shine with a hope those around,

who have all that could be desired,

do not possess.

His aria dances among the flowers

along with the diligent bees.

It floats over the fountains

and zigzags with the dragonflies.

It is not beautiful but is undefiled.

It is not the voice of an artist

but of a man

who knows where contentment lies,

whose spirit will not be vanquished,

who patiently, willingly endures.

I look away,

look down at my spotless garments

and my reverently folded hands.

I have known beauty and wealth,

my mind has become mundane.

The sound of the melody drifts away,

rising until the last notes are safely

on their way to heaven.

I see the pauper stand and sway

as if dancing to a celestial strain.

He hobbles down the concourse

Heads in my direction.

I am frozen.

As he rambled by he hoists his eyes to mine,

imparts a smile, and continues on.

I want to stop his leaving

but reverie arrests my action.

I watch the warped shoulders

droop and shift as if the weight of his clothes

might drag him to the ground,

but he continues til I can no longer see him.

I walk to where he

only moments before had been sitting.

I sit by the olive tree

as though by sitting where he had

I might secure some of the serenity

beheld in him.

A breeze wafts by, bringing with it

the sickening stench of my beggar man.

I watch two sparrows chase and flit

after miniature rays of sunlight

as if they know that heaven

has fixed their plight.

I have many times returned

to the place of reverie

never to find my pauper

sitting by that tree.

I know not where that beggar is today

with his unending spirit of assurance.

The light in my eyes has dimmed,

and my passion blurred.

My hymn of grace an unrelenting

descant of complaint.

I yearn to see the eyes of that man.

Eyes to give me assurance,

hope.

I crave the sound of his

grating, grace-themed melody

to remind me that

security and contentment

come only with acceptance.

In that accepting do we finally find peace.

The peace of a sparrow pursuing sun beams.

Happy National Poetry Month!

Top image from: pinterest/Marian Durkin

Had I But Known What Truths Emerge from Paradise Lost

Guest Post by: Liza Mattison

I'm not entirely sure how I passed my second semester of chemistry sophomore year, and part of me believes to this day that my teacher, who was as old as the hills and a shade less animated, mixed up my name with the girl above/below me and gave her my rightly deserved F in exchange for her hard won C. Poor lass has probably spent lo these many years in a life of thwarted dreams and regret because of it while I on the other hand proceeded to immediately forget what little I had ever gleaned in the first place and continue to not have not the faintest understanding of what a salt bridge is all about.

I’m fairly convinced our final exam was written in Sanskrit and after an interminable two hours, the swirl of ignorance clouding my thoughts offered nothing more, so I put away my pencil and calculator, handed in my test, and staggered into the daylight. As I did, the nebula of confusion began to dissipate and gave way to a strange clarity of mind. The torture of chemistry may have ended, but I realized there was still one last thing I had to do in order to put it fully behind me for good. So I marched down to the grassy banks of our campus pond to do it. “It” in this case means: “heave the thick, hardbound textbook that had served me so hopelessly all year long into the muddy waters of Paradise Pond.”   That’s right. I threw my chemistry book into my college campus pond.

  

Before hucking it over the bank’s edge, I inscribed a cute little poem in it. Right on the inside cover:

            And deeper than did ever plummet sound

            I’ll drown my book in the languid sea

            Where, perhaps, it will be found

            By the fish who can learn my chemistry.

I’ll admit I thought I was pretty darn clever riffing off the big S, and I congratulated myself for what I decided was a splendid integration of humanities and the sciences. I also regret to say that whatever hesitation I might have had about littering or befouling an otherwise lovely piece of water was dismissed just as quickly as the synaptic pulses could even form the thought. Not only would this be a cleansing act, a ceremonial ritual of healing, it pleased me to think that I would have this little secret. That just beyond the reedy marsh behind the boathouse, and unbeknownst to anybody but me, my chemistry book would lie in the muck undisturbed and unnoticed from now into an indefinite future. Lost forever to the world from that moment on. It was all so deliciously beautiful I could hardly stand it.

I dated and signed my name below the inscription in large, loopy, and (foolishly) indelible lettering and then heaved the thing in, imagining that it would sink like a little stone. Instead, for five horrifying minutes it sort of lolled and bobbed in the gentle current, its white ghostly pages lifting sluggishly in the breeze. Eventually though and to my relief, it did sink and slowly disappeared from sight.

Mission accomplished. I felt cleansed. Satisfied. Serene. My book, my mercifully short chemistry career, and my secret little ritual were all safely buried in the silent waters of Paradise pond.

Except that it turns out they weren’t. Because when I returned to campus the following September, a big brown gash tore across the landscape where the pond used to be. Because what I didn’t realize was that they drained and dredged Paradise Pond every so often in order to keep it a pond. Because it is actually not a pond so much as an artificially swollen loop of an otherwise small and unassuming river. As a geology major, I probably should have remembered this. As the out to lunch scholar that I was, I had entirely forgotten this little fact.

I rushed down to where I had heaved my chemistry textbook. The one with my name written all over it. In indelible ink.  What the hell had I done? Of course I couldn’t find it anywhere in the still damp mud. Was it even still there? Had someone found it and seen my name written on the inside cover?

Who cares, I hear you cry. It’s just a book. It’s probably not the worst thing those waters have seen. Well, you’re right, of course, but here’s the thing. Ready?

Despite being someone who had blithely tossed her chemistry book into a pond, I wasn’t at all ready to think of myself as a blithe sort of book-into-pond-tosser and I certainly didn’t want others to think of me that way. Because tossing books into ponds, blithely or otherwise, is, objectively speaking, littering.  And littering, objectively speaking, is a stupid thing to do. It is especially stupid when you’ve written your name on the about-to-be-tossed article.  And it is especially, especially stupid when you are on a beautiful campus whose powers that be take particular pride in said beautiful campus and have a habit of rebuking those who do stupid things that degrade said beauty of said campus.  I had been scolded before by these very powers that be for acting thoughtlessly, and so it was not entirely out of the realm of possibility that I might be scolded for my thoughtlessness again. (nb If ever you feel you have been unjustly ticketed by your campus public safety, then the right thing to do is to go to their office and explain your situation in calm, reasonable terms like an adult. The wrong thing to do is to stew about it while you are writing your check for the ticket because you are liable to write your payment out to “the weedy, clay-brained harpies at public safety”, which upsets them and gets you reported to your dean who writes you a stern letter of reproach and points out things about your maturity level that may very well be true but frankly sting just the same).

For an entire school year the pond was empty, and for that entire school year, I anxiously wondered if my book would be found and if I would be found out. Not as a clever and vaguely witty master of ceremonies I had fancied myself during that brief window of my actions, but as a hubristic little litterbug who was clearly not even that bright of a geology major. Was that really how I wanted to be seen by those who had offered me a place within their hallowed ivied walls? 

Before, it had pleased me to think that my little book toss carried a certain symbolism. Now I realized that it carried a lot more symbolism than I had bargained for. What had been done in secret was now literally exposed.  Or maybe it was. Maybe it was still safe. Would I be caught or would I get away with it? Would my reputation in others’ eyes be besmirched by this little episode? I couldn’t know the answers because the questions were undeniably out of my control. One thing though was for sure. The uncertainty of it all was quite unpleasant to live with.           

As it turned out, nobody did find the textbook, or if they did, nobody ever cared. Except for me. I cared a lot, because I discovered what I stood to lose from my own impulsiveness and the subsequent possibility of exposure. In hucking ol’ chem. II into the muddy waters, I relinquished control of the narrative of who I was. It was easy to think I was funny until I risked being exposed as thoughtless. It was easy to believe I was clever until I was forced to reckon with my stupidity. I was so taken with my own cleverness (and often what seems clever is just myopic stupidity) that I never considered what else might be revealed from my actions except maybe a stunningly rudimentary grasp of poetry. And anyway, I had assumed that like that old book, nothing more about the episode would ever resurface so who cared.

There are so many lessons and connections I could spin out of this cautionary tale: the dangers of plastering drunken or otherwise inappropriate pictures all over social media, the importance of always doing the right thing, the seriousness of thinking through your actions, the consideration you should show for others and for the environment, the inevitability of the past catching up with you, and I’m sure there are loads of others. But Aesop has probably covered it all before and much better than I ever could, so instead I’ll just leave you with two nuggets of advice:

1)      Think about the kind of person you want to be in this world and try to stay true to that ideal

2)      And for goodness sake, don’t sign your freaking name to a book if you toss it into Paradise Pond in Northampton, MA. Because––spoiler alert––they dredge the damn thing every now and again. Who knew?

This is a picture of Liza and I and our friend Joe (another Terrace Dweller)
lounging in the foreground. Never a dull moment.

This hilarious and oh-so-perfect post was written by the extravagantly talented Liza Mattison: a wife, MFA student, writer, former park ranger, and hostess of the blog Green Light. Liza is also what I call a Terrace Dweller*. Thank you, Liza, for your humor and insight and original poetry. You never cease to amaze! 

*To understand what a Terrace Dweller is, you'll need to read a much earlier post--but I highly recommend that you do because more of these dear people will be showing up, so it will help to have the background info. Now, if you read "The Terrace" you'll notice that Liza is not mentioned--that is because, while we were all up on the Terrace, Liza was wandering around Rome trying to find us. So, in acknowledgment of her effort, and because she truly is a quintessential Terrace Dweller at heart, she has become an honorary member.

PS: Tomorrow, in honor of the last day of National Poetry Month, I will be posting an original poem I wrote back in the days of yore (aka high school). You won't want to miss it!