what blue looks like

i remember that moment when i was a kid and i look up at the sky and wondered for the first time if what i call 'blue', is the same thing that someone else calls blue?  it was a moment of great pause.  an existential dilemma- how similar or different are we from each other? are we ultimately alone? what if what looks like blue to me, and what we've both decided to call 'blue', actually looks red to you? what if our commonality is not as common as we thought? what does that mean?

i remember many times last year when i was home schooling zoe, and i was about to pull my hair out and poke out my eyeballs, florence who'd been lingering in the background, listening and very aware of our daily struggles, would say to me when i'd escaped to the kitchen, "she will be fine."

i did not find comfort in these words. 

what does that mean? what is "fine"?

blue. fine. how do we define things? how much shared meaning to our words really have?

it gave me pause again. i had to ask myself what i thought would suffice as "fine".  did it mean she'd somehow learn to sit still and work independently? did it mean she'd go to college and get married? did it require her achieving my definition of "normal"? my version of what i'd imagined life for my kids to be like?


what color does florence see when she looks at the sky? what does her blue look like? what is her "fine"? 


i think her sky is blue too.  blue like mine.  but i thought her  fine was very different. i thought her fine was alive. walking. housed. fed. loved. able to learn- even if slowly- even if differently. 

but maybe her fine was much bigger than that.  maybe her fine was spoken out of patience and wisdom and years.  maybe her fine was based on waiting, and evolution, and time.  maybe her fine is not rooted in fear, but in faith.


this week zoe turned 13.  this week i went to her first parent/teacher conference in over three years.  i sat in her chair, at her desk and waited with baited breath for the rug pull, the shoe to drop, the wind to leave my sails. but. i heard that in fact, she is fine. she is settling in well and adjusting and things are getting better each day.  i heard that she is not disruptive but participating.  that she is happy and not anxious.  i heard that she is very much fine. i wished i'd recorded the meeting because i was in such shock that i think i missed the first half of what she said.  because when i heard fine, i think i was somewhere in my kitchen last year, hearing florence calmly say,  "she will be fine." and feeling the warmth of Gods smile.


yesterday was zoe's birthday party. she was excited. she was happy and thankful and welcoming. she had friends. they played, and laughed, and ate cake.  it was fine. it was better than fine. it was fabulous.

so i think the sky is blue- brilliantly blue and it doesn't really matter if it might look differently in you're world, because we've all agreed to call it blue.  fine is more complicated. there are more interpretations, it can depend heavily on the one evaluating. 

but maybe florence's definition is right. maybe fine for our children lies in the waiting, the patience, the time, the faith, the stillness. 

'and the stillness the dancing'.

13

13 years ago i was in labor.  that was a long time ago- a day of transformation and beginnings. a moment when someone arrives- and when a part of my body began traversing the earth on it's own.  forever connected- forever spent understanding that connection- navigating self and other- moving way, returning - learning independence and dependance, relationship.  that day of labor might have been the easiest part of these years- but even that wasn't easy. 

by the end of my pregnancy, i was on bed rest, she was too small they thought, she needed to come out they said, so she did. one month early.  zoe rode right side up for the eight months she lived in me- showing both her dislike for being upside-down and her strong will.  about this time 13 years ago, i'd had some chinese voodoo turning procedure and zoe had been "successfully inverted" - her head was down- she was "ready".

but was she? (i will always wonder).


was i?

i was induced and along with it came all the stressful labor things that tend to happen, especially to medical people and especially to those who have been given concerning beginnings like- "IUGR", and when things are being forced when nature isn't ready.  poor zoe, we didn't start well, listening to you.

you see what you look for and you look for what you know. things were "known", so things were over looked for, and found.  she had all variations of "decels"on the monitoring strip, so there was a scalp electrode screwed into her head, i had an amnio infusion to be sure the cord wasn't smooshed. the pitocin was cranked up. oh zoe, we disturbed you.  we moved you around, and poked you, and pushed you- was this where it started? have the last 13 years been spent defending a bothered sensory system? i will always wonder what your life would be like if we'd left you alone. 

and finally at 6 pm on september 11th, zoe shot out into the world, surprising everyone with her non-IUGR birthweight, her preemie ears, her fuzzy black hair, and tiny calamari tentacle hands. my beautiful zoe- life, fullness- in a little 5 pound bundle.

the birthing of our children is in stages- the labor continues for decades.  the pain changes, the process changes, the knowing and loving deepen- as does the joy.  it doesn't get easier, but it grows in it's value and passion. we transform each other. we move and speak in relation, in reaction. we journey together.


this day, today, starts another chapter- because we've decided it does- she is a teenager. we begin the years of further differentiation, of moving a step further apart- which may make the coming back together much more special, the connection potentially greater. 

for years, i've fear this time.  i was full of "what if's" and "oh no's" and anxiety about what might not happen, of how different it would be for her, for us.  for years i was in denial about somethings and wrongly convinced of other things.  for years i wasn't sure how to look at zoe, how to interpret her, how to package it all.  for years i was overwhelmed and in response i was a massive pendulum- i spent years swinging back and forth. 

three years ago when her challenges collided into an enormous mess and i stopped some of the noise in my life and slowed way down- i began to really see her.  my pendulum stopped swinging.  out of that darkness i began to live in my days, my hours, our now. it was a great big beginning - a hard, painful, beginning for both of us.  it was labor- a valuable necessary labor. 

transformation usually hurts.  it just does.  birthing hurts- but oh the joy that follows- holding that warm new child- the awe- the purity and goodness- the potential- the attachment.  life beginning, life changing. out of darkness came light- out of hard times came writing. a new birthing- that without zoe, may never have arrived.

now, in this next season, the sun has come out.  we have moved along, we have a better understanding and knowledge and acceptance. i'm learning bit by bit that there will be movement forward and backward, sometimes it will be leaps, other times tiny tip-toed steps- but in patience and trust we will go forth. 

i picked her up early yesterday from school. it was lunch time. she didn't sit at the table with the girls from her class but on the steps in the sun eating her gluten and dairy free homemade lunch.  a girl several grades younger sat beside her and they talked together.  zoe was calm and happy.  aware of herself.  knowing her needs- when to engage and when to retreat.  i'm so proud of her.

here she is. 13. at school. taking risks.  being brave. not much has come easy for her- all of her milestones have taken much effort and work- but her sweetness, her genuine love of life and people, her joy- that was all there on the day she was born- and i love to watch her bloom.

for zoe who has a dozen years

"oh zoe, my zoe i love you so much
may you always be free
oh zoe, my zoe, if you weren't so much you,
i would never know me"

this was a song i made up for you when you were a little girl.  you've always loved music.  and this has become one of my favorites.  i had no idea how true that would be.

that because of who you are- i'd find parts of myself that i didn't know before.  parts that needed exercise, parts that need work.

that because of who you are i'd live my life outside of the box, i'd see many things that my eyes were closed to before, i'd begin an adventure that i'd never have chosen but one that stretches me and challenges me everyday to think differently, to live differently, to bend and not break.

because of who you are i have changed my focus, i have backed away from parts of work that sung to me like the sirens of greek plays, tempting me to find my own glory.

because of who you are i have come to know an amazing group of people, other children who feel the world differently and their parents who love and sacrifice deeply.

because of who you are certain things are so much more beautiful and things that i thought were important are irrelevant and in all of this, is freedom, if i allow myself to see it that way.

because of who you are, i see the lack of value in the size of the house, or the neighborhood, because to you, a house is a house- made of ugandan sticks or made of buckhead bricks.


because of who you are, i start writing and sharing and allowing my vulnerability to be a connection.

because of who you are, i see the value in all living things, insects and rats, and the friendless, and the poor kid on the playground with no shoes, because to you, all are equal.

because of who you are i see the need in people who i might not have noticed before, i see the power in a conversation that i might have been to busy to have, i see the joy that comes when you put people first- in front of (dare i say it...) schedule, or task completion.

i hope this year, i will learn more from who you are, and not squelch it.  that i will expand my box and not shove you into mine.  that i will live in your exuberance and not sour your joy.

you are a light.  a gift.  a treasure. and now you are a big girl.  but you still love that song, and so do i.

happy birthday girl. and thank you.  i thank you.