I know there's a contradiction in what I wrote yesterday about novels. I implied that we all need stories, on some primal level; and then I said that perhaps novels will have to stop telling stories. What I was trying to say is that perhaps television and the movies--and even YouTube or NPR--are telling us the only stories we need to hear, so it's time for novels to try to do something else.
I never would have said that a few years ago. I don't know if I would have even said that a few days ago. Because I always believed that a good novel teaches us something about the human condition that no television series or film could possibly convey. But why is it, then, that no contemporary novel seems to reach me any more (someone who has adored novels all her life)? Because--I know this sounds simplistic, but it's true--I just don't lose myself in them. I'm not sucked under by the force of the story being told. With all of my favorites--War and Peace, East of Eden, Pere Goriot, Invisible Man, to name a few--that's what happens--I'm pulled under, held under, and come up for air reluctantly; then wander around for days trying to get my land legs back. Perhaps contemporary fiction (The English Patient, Immortality, Mysteries of Pittsburgh--all novels I enjoyed) aims for that result, but in my view, it never achieves it. But why would I give up on its ever achieving such a goal?
Because the hyperreality we live in makes any attempt to mirror that reality, and to tell the story of our lives, a sort of joke--something akin to adding another mirror to a hall of mirrors. What can we do about it? I'm not even sure I really think that novels should stop telling stories, but somehow the idea seems intriguing to me.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Do We Need New Novels?
On certain days I would answer yes to this question, automatically and without hesitation. Losing myself in a good novel has always been one of my chief pleasures in life. But what I am beginning to question is whether the contemporary novel has a reason to exist. I've plowed through too many mediocre novels recently (and no, I'm not including Lorrie Moore's latest in that category--I haven't finished it so can't evaluate it), but this is not why I'm asking this question. It just struck me all of a sudden--are novels, contemporary novels, really speaking to the experience of the average Joe and Jane? Aren't Joe and Jane turning to various television shows, or to the movies, or to nonfiction or to YouTube, to have stories told to them?
I recently enjoyed Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being, it's true. But with Kundera, who is really a philosopher-novelist, I'm there mostly for the philosophy and the humor, not because I'm in love with the characters or the milieu he's creating. (This is true with Calvino as well--though I could add that with Calvino one is also treated to a breathtaking richness and precision of language). Now, Tolstoy, Flaubert, Balzac, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dostoevsky--I'm there for the story, the characters and the milieu, and a little bit for the philosophy as well. I really lose myself when reading their works. But they're from a different time and place. Do we have anyone writing novels that matter as much as their novels mattered?
And if I, as someone who loves reading novels, find it difficult to understand the relevance of most contemporary fiction, what is it like for the Joes and Janes who are trying to squeeze in a good read on the subway or on their lunch break--or during baby's nap time? A friend of mine reads mystery novels almost exclusively these days, when he's not reading nonfiction. Most people are like him, I think. If they read a novel, it's historical fiction, romantic fiction, science fiction, fantasy, or mystery novels, which answer a specific need, the need for a particular kind of escape. So-called literary novels tend to irritate this sort of reader. Those novels do not help us flee reality, they attempt to highlight it in some way--however remotely or obliquely.
So why is that irritating? I think it irritates the average person today because most of us feel over-stuffed already with "reality," whatever that word means. Hyperreality (through kitsch and the media) is served to us in hefty portions, every day, no matter who we are and where we live. Reading many contemporary novels, written in their sardonic, or sententious, or shrilly clever ways, I can feel the average reader recoiling from the whole experience. It's not that the novels today are badly written; but it doesn't matter, the most cleverly written novels are speaking less and less to the general public, I think--or even, to the well-read public. Most of our recent novels are like another layer of chatter in an already resounding echo chamber.
Perhaps the contemporary novel will have to stand on its head. Since Joe and Jane are getting their stories from television and the movies, perhaps the novel will have to stop telling stories altogether.
I recently enjoyed Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being, it's true. But with Kundera, who is really a philosopher-novelist, I'm there mostly for the philosophy and the humor, not because I'm in love with the characters or the milieu he's creating. (This is true with Calvino as well--though I could add that with Calvino one is also treated to a breathtaking richness and precision of language). Now, Tolstoy, Flaubert, Balzac, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dostoevsky--I'm there for the story, the characters and the milieu, and a little bit for the philosophy as well. I really lose myself when reading their works. But they're from a different time and place. Do we have anyone writing novels that matter as much as their novels mattered?
And if I, as someone who loves reading novels, find it difficult to understand the relevance of most contemporary fiction, what is it like for the Joes and Janes who are trying to squeeze in a good read on the subway or on their lunch break--or during baby's nap time? A friend of mine reads mystery novels almost exclusively these days, when he's not reading nonfiction. Most people are like him, I think. If they read a novel, it's historical fiction, romantic fiction, science fiction, fantasy, or mystery novels, which answer a specific need, the need for a particular kind of escape. So-called literary novels tend to irritate this sort of reader. Those novels do not help us flee reality, they attempt to highlight it in some way--however remotely or obliquely.
So why is that irritating? I think it irritates the average person today because most of us feel over-stuffed already with "reality," whatever that word means. Hyperreality (through kitsch and the media) is served to us in hefty portions, every day, no matter who we are and where we live. Reading many contemporary novels, written in their sardonic, or sententious, or shrilly clever ways, I can feel the average reader recoiling from the whole experience. It's not that the novels today are badly written; but it doesn't matter, the most cleverly written novels are speaking less and less to the general public, I think--or even, to the well-read public. Most of our recent novels are like another layer of chatter in an already resounding echo chamber.
Perhaps the contemporary novel will have to stand on its head. Since Joe and Jane are getting their stories from television and the movies, perhaps the novel will have to stop telling stories altogether.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hugo and Old Poets
Walked Hugo Street today with the baby. Another lifetime ago (when I was around 24), I gave a poetry reading at a small cafe on this charming street, a corridor of calm in the hyper-busy UCSF/Inner-Inner Sunset neighborhood. An earthquake occurred during the reading; for once in my life (the sole occasion without a doubt), I had "presence of mind." Once the shaking stopped, I immediately joked, "See what great poetry can do?" The three-person audience was very appreciative of my humor. Or maybe they were shaking and grimacing with post-earthquake fear, not laughter.
Walking up Hugo towards the Haight, I reflected on the person I was then, the kind of poetry I was writing (absolutely postmodern and post-structuralist, for sure, and ultra-cool of course; way ahead of its time) and how far I was from even dreaming of becoming a mother. What I only dimly realized then is that poetry has to shake people to the core (no pun intended--okay, weak, corny pun intended), and motherhood also shakes you to the core. I'm not saying that motherhood has taught me how to be a poet. Far from it. I've never done less writing in my life than during the last six months. But once I get back into it, I might have something new to say. We'll see.
Walking up Hugo towards the Haight, I reflected on the person I was then, the kind of poetry I was writing (absolutely postmodern and post-structuralist, for sure, and ultra-cool of course; way ahead of its time) and how far I was from even dreaming of becoming a mother. What I only dimly realized then is that poetry has to shake people to the core (no pun intended--okay, weak, corny pun intended), and motherhood also shakes you to the core. I'm not saying that motherhood has taught me how to be a poet. Far from it. I've never done less writing in my life than during the last six months. But once I get back into it, I might have something new to say. We'll see.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Lorrie Moore
In her new novel, "A Gate at the Stairs," Lorrie Moore casts her sardonic gaze on the Midwest, motherhood (as handled by certain women), and the confusion of young adult females; but the most biting sarcasm seems to be directed at the forty-ish new mother in the book. Although Moore is not overtly antagonistic to this particular character, much of the description of her makes her sound hugely unappealing. I've only just started the novel (I'm on page 40), but it seems like the story will continue to cast this older woman character in a less-than-attractive light. Her worst character flaw seems to be her sense of self-importance.
What I bridle at is not the fact of this character--I'm sure we've all met forty-ish women who think too much about themselves--and perhaps I'm one of them!--what I dislike is the blanket dismissal of her--and I know it's a story told from the main character's perspective, and the main character is a younger woman, who might quite naturally reject the stodginess of an older woman; but her statement, "These middle-aged women seemed very tired to me, as if hope had been wrung out of them and replaced with a deathly, walking sort of sleep"--just makes the younger woman sound uninteresting.
And yet I also know that we all do it; we all generalize about one generation or another. And perhaps Moore is trying to say something deeper about that particular moment in time--right around 9/11--and that place, the Midwest. We'll see. I'll reserve further judgment until I've completed the book. The trouble is, though--I'm not all that thrilled with the overall tone of the novel, and I'm not taken with any of the characters. I admit that those two aspects are perhaps the most important ones for me, when I pick up a novel and decide whether I'm going to slog through it. I have to fall in love with a least a few of the characters, and I have to like the writer's overall tone. Plot doesn't matter as much to me. I've enjoyed a few of Moore's stories, very much, because her particular form of wit, which she maneuvers gracefully between a lighthearted, breezy tone and one as heavy as a sledgehammer, carried me easily through her thin, meandering plots. This time the tone isn't quite right (I'm not sure why) and the characters veer towards caricature. But the novel is currently Number 2 on the Bay Area's bestseller list for fiction, so maybe I'm in the minority in not being entranced by this particular work of hers.
What I bridle at is not the fact of this character--I'm sure we've all met forty-ish women who think too much about themselves--and perhaps I'm one of them!--what I dislike is the blanket dismissal of her--and I know it's a story told from the main character's perspective, and the main character is a younger woman, who might quite naturally reject the stodginess of an older woman; but her statement, "These middle-aged women seemed very tired to me, as if hope had been wrung out of them and replaced with a deathly, walking sort of sleep"--just makes the younger woman sound uninteresting.
And yet I also know that we all do it; we all generalize about one generation or another. And perhaps Moore is trying to say something deeper about that particular moment in time--right around 9/11--and that place, the Midwest. We'll see. I'll reserve further judgment until I've completed the book. The trouble is, though--I'm not all that thrilled with the overall tone of the novel, and I'm not taken with any of the characters. I admit that those two aspects are perhaps the most important ones for me, when I pick up a novel and decide whether I'm going to slog through it. I have to fall in love with a least a few of the characters, and I have to like the writer's overall tone. Plot doesn't matter as much to me. I've enjoyed a few of Moore's stories, very much, because her particular form of wit, which she maneuvers gracefully between a lighthearted, breezy tone and one as heavy as a sledgehammer, carried me easily through her thin, meandering plots. This time the tone isn't quite right (I'm not sure why) and the characters veer towards caricature. But the novel is currently Number 2 on the Bay Area's bestseller list for fiction, so maybe I'm in the minority in not being entranced by this particular work of hers.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
What Will Be Left
When I think of the degredation and destruction of the natural environment, the desperate situation of the salmon in northern California rivers and streams comes to mind; and I find it extremely upsetting. I know that other animals are closer to the brink of extinction, and that the most serious environmental problems--the increase of carbon in the atmosphere, the destruction of the rainforests, the erosion of topsoil worldwide, and so forth--these are the big, global problems in which the life of the salmon plays only a small part. But what a noble life these creatures live. Swimming hundreds of miles sometimes to return to their place of birth; leaping over the walls of major dam systems to make their way back home. When I read a recent article describing how the coho salmon might become extinct within the next year or two in the Klamath river system, I wanted to tear my hair out.
Some environmentalists scoff at the layperson's concern for individual species of animals, like the African elephant, the Siberian tiger, the polar bear or the northern California salmon. But I think we do need these examples of perfect beauty, grace or nobility to inspire us to act on the bigger, global issues...if I just keep repeating to myself, "Good god--what will be left of the natural world when my son turns 18?" such a question will only produce inertia and fear inside of me, not action. And I do want to act, more significantly than I have done up to now, in this particular arena.
And now that I've talked so much about the salmon--I'll start there.
Some environmentalists scoff at the layperson's concern for individual species of animals, like the African elephant, the Siberian tiger, the polar bear or the northern California salmon. But I think we do need these examples of perfect beauty, grace or nobility to inspire us to act on the bigger, global issues...if I just keep repeating to myself, "Good god--what will be left of the natural world when my son turns 18?" such a question will only produce inertia and fear inside of me, not action. And I do want to act, more significantly than I have done up to now, in this particular arena.
And now that I've talked so much about the salmon--I'll start there.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Presidio Heights
The neighborhood of Presidio Heights is just north of Laurel Heights, just south of the Presidio, and a stone's throw from Lower Pacific Heights. The average home price, among homes sold this month, was 1.8 million dollars. The shopping district on Sacramento Street includes at least three baby and children's stores, a "body wrap" shop, an antique dealer, an imported rug dealer and at least two psychologist's offices. The streets are absolutely crawling with babies. And moms. And nannies.
But the Presidio Heights I'll remember is the place where my son sat in a Jumperoo "Precious Planet," in one of the baby stores, and the only thing he wanted to do is play with the little spinning device on the front. He did so, with a serious look on his face, for about three minutes. He did not jump. I'm sort of proud of him for not jumping.
But the Presidio Heights I'll remember is the place where my son sat in a Jumperoo "Precious Planet," in one of the baby stores, and the only thing he wanted to do is play with the little spinning device on the front. He did so, with a serious look on his face, for about three minutes. He did not jump. I'm sort of proud of him for not jumping.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Blur
I've been only marginally successful with establishing a daily schedule for myself and for the baby. I know that I've posted about this recently--with high ambitions for both of us. Then a week like this one happens--with too many crises, too many fires to extinguish, and almost no time for myself. The days pass in a blur, and what stands out most vividly is the moment I see my baby in the morning. Or perhaps the moment my head hits the sack in the evening.
I bash myself constantly for all the things I'm not doing for the baby--for instance, this evening I agonized over whether or not to purchase an "exersaucer" or "jumperoo" or whatever they're called. Luckily a friend offered to loan me hers. (She has both of those items.) It seems like he'll outgrow them in just a few months, so a loaner sounds good.
But more importantly--I need to relax and do the things I'm already doing with a greater sense of calm. To remain calm--perhaps the greatest test any parent faces. Especially when the days pass in a blur.
I bash myself constantly for all the things I'm not doing for the baby--for instance, this evening I agonized over whether or not to purchase an "exersaucer" or "jumperoo" or whatever they're called. Luckily a friend offered to loan me hers. (She has both of those items.) It seems like he'll outgrow them in just a few months, so a loaner sounds good.
But more importantly--I need to relax and do the things I'm already doing with a greater sense of calm. To remain calm--perhaps the greatest test any parent faces. Especially when the days pass in a blur.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I Don't Understand
I have to admit that I don't really understand babies. But do I understand anyone? Not really. Kafka said, "What do I have in common with the Jews? What do I have in common with myself, for that matter? I should just stand in a corner, content that I can breathe." (I'm paraphrasing.) I feel that way with the baby sometimes--except I can't stand in the corner; I have to step forward and "take charge" of things. I have to look like Responsible Mom, even when I feel like Closet Freak.
Sometimes--several times a day, actually--I feel my child's trusting gaze on me, and wonder, "How the hell am I pulling this off?"
Sometimes--several times a day, actually--I feel my child's trusting gaze on me, and wonder, "How the hell am I pulling this off?"
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Reservoir Dogs
Found a marvelous place to walk the baby -- actually my husband introduced me to it last weekend, and I've been there three times since then. It's a hidden reservoir ringed by a paved path and tucked into a hillside, with eucalyptus and monterey pine trees on three sides and a small city park / children's playground on the fourth. The street in front of it does not see much foot traffic and the entrance gate is entirely unremarkable--I've driven by many times without noticing it. The only drawback to the place is the cement ditch running around it, about one and a half feet wide and three feet deep. Deep enough to injure a child or even an adult who falls into it. But the reservoir is almost a quarter mile around, I think. It's a great spot for joggers, dogs and dog-walkers, and stroller-pushing moms, and I see plenty of each group almost every time I'm there. Although compared to most other scenic spots in San Francisco, the place is deserted.
I receive an instant sensation of decompression--an actual lessening of pressure in my chest, I think--the moment I start walking around the reservoir. Mainly because it's so quiet. Sometimes it's the first quiet moment I've experienced since waking up. And today was one of those days--even more chaotic and survivalist than usual. I was painfully grateful for the tranquility that descended when I entered the reservoir area.
About halfway through the walk a man with four large and furry dogs walked by. He made a feeble attempt to reign them in as they approached me and the baby, who was fast asleep; I looked up with what must have been an expression of mild irritation in my eyes. The look in his own eyes was so sorrowful that I had to look away immediately.
I have no idea what was going through this person's head; but it was a haunted look if ever there was one. I got the feeling that his dogs were a major, perhaps THE major part of his life. For one thing, there were four of them; and they were beautiful--thick, shiny coats, and the calm, alert look of well-fed, well-rested creatures. And the man's expression seemed to say, "Here comes a human--two of them, rather; exercise extreme caution, all of you!"
The thought came to me--as it did during my reservoir walk in the Sunset--"Nothing will ever happen to you"--but modified this time. "Nothing will ever happen to you beyond this. And nothing is more important than this--walking your baby; taking care of your son, while dimly connecting with other humans and with reservoir dogs."
I receive an instant sensation of decompression--an actual lessening of pressure in my chest, I think--the moment I start walking around the reservoir. Mainly because it's so quiet. Sometimes it's the first quiet moment I've experienced since waking up. And today was one of those days--even more chaotic and survivalist than usual. I was painfully grateful for the tranquility that descended when I entered the reservoir area.
About halfway through the walk a man with four large and furry dogs walked by. He made a feeble attempt to reign them in as they approached me and the baby, who was fast asleep; I looked up with what must have been an expression of mild irritation in my eyes. The look in his own eyes was so sorrowful that I had to look away immediately.
I have no idea what was going through this person's head; but it was a haunted look if ever there was one. I got the feeling that his dogs were a major, perhaps THE major part of his life. For one thing, there were four of them; and they were beautiful--thick, shiny coats, and the calm, alert look of well-fed, well-rested creatures. And the man's expression seemed to say, "Here comes a human--two of them, rather; exercise extreme caution, all of you!"
The thought came to me--as it did during my reservoir walk in the Sunset--"Nothing will ever happen to you"--but modified this time. "Nothing will ever happen to you beyond this. And nothing is more important than this--walking your baby; taking care of your son, while dimly connecting with other humans and with reservoir dogs."
Monday, September 21, 2009
Tolerance and Being Lost
What I wrote yesterday might seem stark and depressing; and it's true, last week was a tough one, and the post is partly a reflection of that. But it's not so bad to compare oneself to a dilapidated street, or to feel exhausted ninety percent of the time. Perhaps that's because things are starting to get a little easier. Or perhaps my tolerance for physical exhaustion is increasing.
The main reason I can tolerate it, I suspect, is the daily infusion of joy I'm also receiving.
If my life lacks something, it's that occasional long afternoon reading and writing and dreaming and sipping a cappuccino in a cafe somewhere. I admit a fondness for that particular form of sloth.
Writers are idlers by nature, let's face it. Without a certain amount of time every day to twiddle our thumbs and stare into space, or to read widely and without too much concentration, we tend to produce forced, unimaginative thoughts. My substitute for sitting in a cafe reading and writing has been, over the last six months, to take my baby for a stroll in a "lost" part of San Francisco. Recently, i.e. during the last couple of weeks, it's been a challenge to find the time even for that. I've got to reintroduce some form of getting lost into my daily routine.
The main reason I can tolerate it, I suspect, is the daily infusion of joy I'm also receiving.
If my life lacks something, it's that occasional long afternoon reading and writing and dreaming and sipping a cappuccino in a cafe somewhere. I admit a fondness for that particular form of sloth.
Writers are idlers by nature, let's face it. Without a certain amount of time every day to twiddle our thumbs and stare into space, or to read widely and without too much concentration, we tend to produce forced, unimaginative thoughts. My substitute for sitting in a cafe reading and writing has been, over the last six months, to take my baby for a stroll in a "lost" part of San Francisco. Recently, i.e. during the last couple of weeks, it's been a challenge to find the time even for that. I've got to reintroduce some form of getting lost into my daily routine.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Ocean Avenue
Took a brief walk with baby and husband today at Moss Beach, along the ocean bluffs, past the Moss Beach Distillery and down roped-off, unused Ocean Avenue, which is being overtaken by weeds and erosion. The street is reverting back to its natural state. Not even one square foot of it is perfectly flat any more, and many sections of it cave in or bulge out at crazy thirty-degree or forty-five-degree angles. You can see and feel the land heaving up to reclaim it.
Motherhood feels a bit like that. The extreme fatigue I'm feeling almost every day leaves me with no energy for organizing my papers and personal affairs (weeds and erosion), I have bigger curves everywhere and can't seem to shake the last ten pounds I gained for the baby (caving in and bulging out), and I love to lie down on any flat surface (the land is heaving up to reclaim me). So it's not that motherhood puts me in touch with the earth, as some people might claim. It's that I sometimes feel as if I'm coming apart at the seams, and that puts me in touch with an eroded street in Moss Beach.
Motherhood feels a bit like that. The extreme fatigue I'm feeling almost every day leaves me with no energy for organizing my papers and personal affairs (weeds and erosion), I have bigger curves everywhere and can't seem to shake the last ten pounds I gained for the baby (caving in and bulging out), and I love to lie down on any flat surface (the land is heaving up to reclaim me). So it's not that motherhood puts me in touch with the earth, as some people might claim. It's that I sometimes feel as if I'm coming apart at the seams, and that puts me in touch with an eroded street in Moss Beach.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Secret I
Kundera writes (again, in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being") that some men seek a woman's uniqueness, her most secret and individual self--the one-millionth part of her that makes her different from everyone else--through the act of sex. Certainly, some men do; but what they often don't realize is that women have many ways (as do men) of storing away that secret "I"--and sex is sometimes the least likely place to find it.
Perhaps a woman's "I" can best be found in the gazes of her loved ones.
Perhaps a woman's "I" can best be found in the gazes of her loved ones.
Friday, September 18, 2009
All You Have Is Love
What is it to love a child? Those who say "A baby changes you" (with the implied message that parental love is automatically self-sacrificing and noble) are simply wrong. The love of a child can be selfish, misguided, and/or inadequate; there's such a thing as a "trophy child," just as there are trophy wives, trophy husbands. Having a child does not automatically gain us entry into some sort of elite club of Selfless Parents. It just means an awesome responsibility, and the rest of our lives to deal with it.
To love a child is to know tremendous fear. "What if I'm just not good enough for this, what if I can't handle it? What if I drop my baby? What if..." But if we didn't feel this fear, perhaps we would not understand how lucky we are, every day, when nothing goes wrong. Of course, something will go wrong, over the course of our children's lives. They will fall; they will hit their head on something; they will know pain, heartache, sickness, suffering of one kind or another. (Even as I write this, a voice inside me says, "Not my kid!" But I know not to listen to it--or at least, not to fall asleep listening to it.)
To love a child is to ache inside, thinking about his smile when you greet him in the morning.
To love a child is to know how to scold him for something he did wrong without losing one's temper.
To love a child is to never say, even internally, "You owe me, after all I've put up with for your sake."
To love a child is to be there for him, even when he's being difficult. Or when you're being difficult.
To love a child is to take care of yourself, to make a life for yourself, to have a successful career, and to work and make sacrifices for the community--all things that help you serve as a good role model for your child.
To love a child is to laugh with him.
To love a child is one of the best rewards life has to offer. And, in the end--it's all we have.
To love a child is to know tremendous fear. "What if I'm just not good enough for this, what if I can't handle it? What if I drop my baby? What if..." But if we didn't feel this fear, perhaps we would not understand how lucky we are, every day, when nothing goes wrong. Of course, something will go wrong, over the course of our children's lives. They will fall; they will hit their head on something; they will know pain, heartache, sickness, suffering of one kind or another. (Even as I write this, a voice inside me says, "Not my kid!" But I know not to listen to it--or at least, not to fall asleep listening to it.)
To love a child is to ache inside, thinking about his smile when you greet him in the morning.
To love a child is to know how to scold him for something he did wrong without losing one's temper.
To love a child is to never say, even internally, "You owe me, after all I've put up with for your sake."
To love a child is to be there for him, even when he's being difficult. Or when you're being difficult.
To love a child is to take care of yourself, to make a life for yourself, to have a successful career, and to work and make sacrifices for the community--all things that help you serve as a good role model for your child.
To love a child is to laugh with him.
To love a child is one of the best rewards life has to offer. And, in the end--it's all we have.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
All You Have Is Now
I'm finding it hard to blog tonight. My body aches with fatigue; I slept about four and a half hours last night, and was running around with the baby all day. It wasn't a particularly bad day--nor was it particularly interesting or eventful...perhaps, in keeping with Eckhart Tolle's philosophy, I might benefit from just thinking about the Now...
It's a beautiful night, after a day of blue skies, light breezes and moderate temperatures--typical San Francisco weather in September. I put the baby to sleep about an hour ago. I'm listening to: the hum of the refrigerator, an occasional bubbling noise from the Macintosh, the cracking of the wood boards in this house as they expand and contract, the whirr of the Muni tracks and the constant roar of cars and buses in the distance, the tapping sound my fingers make, the occasional creak of the chair I'm sitting in. I'm here in the present moment---no I'm not. My whole body is screaming for the bed, to lie down and read in bed then to close my eyes...the house is a mess, baby toys, bibs and blankets strewn everywhere; too many baby furniture items taking up too little space; the dishes that need to be done. I'll lift not even one finger on my way to the bed, nonetheless. I am thinking, right now, about all the damn work that needs to happen tomorrow to make the house livable again...
It's a beautiful night, after a day of blue skies, light breezes and moderate temperatures--typical San Francisco weather in September. I put the baby to sleep about an hour ago. I'm listening to: the hum of the refrigerator, an occasional bubbling noise from the Macintosh, the cracking of the wood boards in this house as they expand and contract, the whirr of the Muni tracks and the constant roar of cars and buses in the distance, the tapping sound my fingers make, the occasional creak of the chair I'm sitting in. I'm here in the present moment---no I'm not. My whole body is screaming for the bed, to lie down and read in bed then to close my eyes...the house is a mess, baby toys, bibs and blankets strewn everywhere; too many baby furniture items taking up too little space; the dishes that need to be done. I'll lift not even one finger on my way to the bed, nonetheless. I am thinking, right now, about all the damn work that needs to happen tomorrow to make the house livable again...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Mothers of six-month-olds
Mothers of six-month-old babies are both the happiest and the most miserable people on earth. First, their babies are on the verge of developing about one hundred new skills at once, and every day brings new delights, new discoveries. Six-month-old babies also tend to smile and laugh a lot--at the sight of a butterfly, at the sound of a bell, at Mommy making an unusual face or suddenly popping the air out of her cheeks. What makes six-month-olds so happy? I don't know--just, the newness of everything, I suppose.
Mothers of six-month-olds are miserable--many of them--because they're still not getting enough sleep, and their babies still haven't reached the point where they are independent sleepers. I say "many of them" because I know some mothers have pulled that particular rabbit out of the hat--their young babies sleep through the night, and can even soothe themselves back to sleep if they wake up during the night. But I dare say that these mothers are not the majority.
Did I say I was a member of that elite club, the "Mothers of Self-Soothers" (MOSS for short)? I'm not saying whether I am or not. Let's just say that, as indicated in previous posts, I've faced "challenges" where sleep is concerned. Like ninety percent of the new mothers I've met.
Oh, and there's also the fact that six-month-old babies cannot yet sit up (in most cases), yet they are grabbing everything in sight and putting it in their mouths, so they need Mommy's attention every waking moment and can only be left alone in their cribs or playpens for three minutes at a time--maybe ten minutes on a good day.
Perhaps mothers of one-year-olds would tell me--"You just wait until your kid is running around and falling on thumbtacks, you'll long for the days when..." and the truth is--I will indeed long for these days when my son wakes up, smiles wonderingly at me and holds his little hands up to my face, waiting for me to deliver the world to him. I know how special this time is. I also know that it's hard to sustain the wonder when a good night's sleep is a distant memory.
Mothers of six-month-olds are miserable--many of them--because they're still not getting enough sleep, and their babies still haven't reached the point where they are independent sleepers. I say "many of them" because I know some mothers have pulled that particular rabbit out of the hat--their young babies sleep through the night, and can even soothe themselves back to sleep if they wake up during the night. But I dare say that these mothers are not the majority.
Did I say I was a member of that elite club, the "Mothers of Self-Soothers" (MOSS for short)? I'm not saying whether I am or not. Let's just say that, as indicated in previous posts, I've faced "challenges" where sleep is concerned. Like ninety percent of the new mothers I've met.
Oh, and there's also the fact that six-month-old babies cannot yet sit up (in most cases), yet they are grabbing everything in sight and putting it in their mouths, so they need Mommy's attention every waking moment and can only be left alone in their cribs or playpens for three minutes at a time--maybe ten minutes on a good day.
Perhaps mothers of one-year-olds would tell me--"You just wait until your kid is running around and falling on thumbtacks, you'll long for the days when..." and the truth is--I will indeed long for these days when my son wakes up, smiles wonderingly at me and holds his little hands up to my face, waiting for me to deliver the world to him. I know how special this time is. I also know that it's hard to sustain the wonder when a good night's sleep is a distant memory.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Children's books
I've been disappointed by many of the popular children's books--some of which I read as a child and am revisiting, some of which are recent discoveries. Eric Carle's drawings are pleasant, but the reason for his enormous popularity escapes me. "Goodnight Moon" presents a room and the various objects in it, over and over; in my view, the room isn't all that interesting, and since there's no plot, I don't understand why people love this book. Even, dare I say it, Dr. Seuss--my child loves the "Hop on Pop" and "Dr. Seuss's ABC" board books; he really studies the pictures and listens to me when I read those; but I don't see his interest in these books stretching beyond another four months or so. Having said that--I loved the "Birthday Book" and "The Cat in the Hat" as a child, and I suspect my son will too when he's older.
At any rate--I've purchased a book that offers children's book recommendations, and I look forward to discovering a new set of favorites that were not available when I was a child.
At any rate--I've purchased a book that offers children's book recommendations, and I look forward to discovering a new set of favorites that were not available when I was a child.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Abstraction
Yesterday's post led me to think about abstraction itself, in relation to babies. What kind of abstractions do babies understand? Today, without thinking about what I was doing, I started tapping different objects with a plastic spatula while carrying the baby around in a Baby Bjorn. He suddenly started laughing. Encouraged, I went up to everything around me and tapped it a few times. He laughed each time I did it. I wonder what was going through his mind.
Perhaps it was just the unexpected stimulation of the different sounds being produced; but perhaps it was also something a little more abstract, the idea that "Mommy is doing something silly, something just to entertain me." Surely this is what he is thinking when I pick him up and place his stomach against mine and bring his face close to mine, saying "hello BABY" in an excited way, something that always makes him smile or laugh.
One of the first times I heard him laugh was when we stood under a maple tree and he watched the late afternoon sunlight flickering through its leaves. That seemed to me a laugh of pure delight--"I didn't know that the world contained something like THIS in it!" But the laughter about the spatula hitting different objects and creating different sounds seems a little more complex.
I really have no clue, however, as to what abstract concepts my baby is starting to grasp. And does anyone really know when and how we first learn about abstractions? I'm sure many graduate theses have been written on the subject--but who knows for sure? Not me--and maybe that's good. It's such an unparalleled pleasure, sometimes, to stare at my baby's thoughtful expression and just wonder what he's thinking.
Perhaps it was just the unexpected stimulation of the different sounds being produced; but perhaps it was also something a little more abstract, the idea that "Mommy is doing something silly, something just to entertain me." Surely this is what he is thinking when I pick him up and place his stomach against mine and bring his face close to mine, saying "hello BABY" in an excited way, something that always makes him smile or laugh.
One of the first times I heard him laugh was when we stood under a maple tree and he watched the late afternoon sunlight flickering through its leaves. That seemed to me a laugh of pure delight--"I didn't know that the world contained something like THIS in it!" But the laughter about the spatula hitting different objects and creating different sounds seems a little more complex.
I really have no clue, however, as to what abstract concepts my baby is starting to grasp. And does anyone really know when and how we first learn about abstractions? I'm sure many graduate theses have been written on the subject--but who knows for sure? Not me--and maybe that's good. It's such an unparalleled pleasure, sometimes, to stare at my baby's thoughtful expression and just wonder what he's thinking.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Compassion and Lightness
Continued from yesterday: I guess I'd like my son to understand, as he matures and enters adulthood, both the Buddhist and the Polish/Czech forms of compassion, as well as the European/American form. How to raise a child like that? By offering examples of it in my own actions, I suppose.
How do compassion and lightness fit together?
I'm not sure I agree with Milan Kundera (at least the novelist as he presents himself in The Unbearable Lightness of Being) that lightness is an existential condition; that life in its impermanence is light because Nietzsche's eternal return is heavy. I've presented lightness in earlier posts as a choice one makes, not something imposed on us. I still believe that. Although Kundera's point is an interesting one, it's a very abstract notion. (Since the idea of "eternal return" is abstract to us, how can the idea of life-as-lightness be anything but abstract?)
This is not to say that life itself, and thinking about how to live one's life, which is the underlying purpose of studying philosophy, involves one in abstractions. It involves one, more often than not, in the all-too-concrete.
Living one's life, then, should involve lightness--to counteract the heaviness that comes with thinking about how to live. And perhaps one can only reach this lightness after understanding, on some deep level, the need for compassion--as both feeling-with and being-with others.
That's perhaps what I wanted to say, ultimately, about raising a child: what could be more important than teaching a child about compassion?
How do compassion and lightness fit together?
I'm not sure I agree with Milan Kundera (at least the novelist as he presents himself in The Unbearable Lightness of Being) that lightness is an existential condition; that life in its impermanence is light because Nietzsche's eternal return is heavy. I've presented lightness in earlier posts as a choice one makes, not something imposed on us. I still believe that. Although Kundera's point is an interesting one, it's a very abstract notion. (Since the idea of "eternal return" is abstract to us, how can the idea of life-as-lightness be anything but abstract?)
This is not to say that life itself, and thinking about how to live one's life, which is the underlying purpose of studying philosophy, involves one in abstractions. It involves one, more often than not, in the all-too-concrete.
Living one's life, then, should involve lightness--to counteract the heaviness that comes with thinking about how to live. And perhaps one can only reach this lightness after understanding, on some deep level, the need for compassion--as both feeling-with and being-with others.
That's perhaps what I wanted to say, ultimately, about raising a child: what could be more important than teaching a child about compassion?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Compassion
When I think of the word "compassion" I automatically think of Buddhism, since the word and the concept play such a central role in its practice and teachings. The compassion of Buddhism is perhaps a little different than what Milan Kundera describes, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by indicating the Latin roots, "com" and "passio," meaning literally, "with" and "suffering." Kundera movingly describes in that novel, Tomas taking up the hands of Tereza and kissing them because of a terrible dream she had in which her fingertips were being pierced with needles. In an indirect way, she has had this dream because he has been unfaithful to her, and he cannot bear to see her suffering. Kundera also says that the root meaning of the Polish and Czech words for "compassion" (these being non-Latin-origin languages) is a little different--something more like "feeling with" than "suffering with." This is a significant, if subtle, difference..."feeling with" being perhaps more of a help to the sufferer than "suffering with," in many situations.
But what about the Buddhist meaning of "compassion"? While I'm no expert on Buddhism, I think it's not so much about feeling-with, but a sort of being-with...what I described, perhaps, in an earlier post--walking with my mother when she was sick with cancer and could only walk thirty yards or so. Where compassion is required, Buddhist philosophy seems to say, don't rest comfortably in your feelings; do something. I think this sort of philosophy permeates Japanese and other Asian cultures in many ways.
What does this have to do with raising a child? Everything...
But what about the Buddhist meaning of "compassion"? While I'm no expert on Buddhism, I think it's not so much about feeling-with, but a sort of being-with...what I described, perhaps, in an earlier post--walking with my mother when she was sick with cancer and could only walk thirty yards or so. Where compassion is required, Buddhist philosophy seems to say, don't rest comfortably in your feelings; do something. I think this sort of philosophy permeates Japanese and other Asian cultures in many ways.
What does this have to do with raising a child? Everything...
Friday, September 11, 2009
Moms and Moms
Meeting up with other new moms, with moms in general, with parents in general, can be a tricky thing. Everyone has the best of intentions, and everyone wants to help--but never have I received so much unsolicited advice, and never have I been less receptive to unsolicited advice. Also, never have I had less energy in my adult life, and meeting up with other parents who have already bought the perfect playpen, safety-proofed their house, bought life insurance, done this and done that for their child--reminds me of how much I need to do, right now, without delay...panic sets in when I think like this for too long...so I have to try not to.
And few things are harder than to stop thinking a certain way.
And few things are harder than to stop thinking a certain way.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Beautiful Sleep--2
I've started the kid on a new "training program" whereby he learns to soothe himself to sleep. It's already working, to an encouraging degree, after just two days of preliminary efforts. He's sleeping for longer periods at night and waking up less; and he's taking excellent naps during the day.
It does seem that sleep begets sleep, as many of the sleep books indicate. In other words, better sleeping at night leads to better napping during the day, and vice versa. It's counter-intuitive--one would think that more sleep at night would mean less of a need to nap during the day--but that doesn't seem to be the case for babies (and maybe not for adults either). As the books indicate, less sleep at night or during the day raises cortisol (stress hormone) levels, which makes it tougher for a baby to sleep, not easier. In other words, they remain partially wired throughout the day and night, unless they're getting enough overall sleep.
If this keeps up, it will drastically change my life. Simply put, I will have time to do--something, beyond this fifteen-minute-a-day blog, beyond little scraps of exercise, reading, studying, piano-playing and organizing. I know that the total daily free time I have will only increase by about two hours; but what a golden two hours! What a remarkable thing two hours can be. I feel like doing a pirouette on the kitchen floor just thinking about it. And perhaps best of all--I will sleep.
It does seem that sleep begets sleep, as many of the sleep books indicate. In other words, better sleeping at night leads to better napping during the day, and vice versa. It's counter-intuitive--one would think that more sleep at night would mean less of a need to nap during the day--but that doesn't seem to be the case for babies (and maybe not for adults either). As the books indicate, less sleep at night or during the day raises cortisol (stress hormone) levels, which makes it tougher for a baby to sleep, not easier. In other words, they remain partially wired throughout the day and night, unless they're getting enough overall sleep.
If this keeps up, it will drastically change my life. Simply put, I will have time to do--something, beyond this fifteen-minute-a-day blog, beyond little scraps of exercise, reading, studying, piano-playing and organizing. I know that the total daily free time I have will only increase by about two hours; but what a golden two hours! What a remarkable thing two hours can be. I feel like doing a pirouette on the kitchen floor just thinking about it. And perhaps best of all--I will sleep.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Obama and Me
It's bizarre to think that my child was born when someone of reasonably sound mind and principles had achieved the office of the presidency. Today Obama delivered perhaps the third best speech of his life so far (the best being his 2004 Democratic Convention speech and his Philadelphia speech on race in 2008). His speech on health care was impassioned, to the point, and easy to understand. It was an honest attempt to respond to the criticisms leveled at him from both the left and the right. It was also an honest attempt to respond to the average American citizen having a hell of a time with the health care system. It was the speech, finally, of someone determined to put his national fiscal house in order. I'm not completely on board with everything he does--of course not--but in this case, I fully support him. I understand why he can't do everything the left would want him to do.
Thinking about the fact that my son was born during the Obama presidency reminds me of the depressing fact that my father died under the George W. Bush presidency...depressing, because my father was an impassioned follower of national politics. He was a leftist, but not a knee-jerk liberal or progressive by any means. He would have been quietly thrilled about Obama being elected. He was, moreover, from Kansas. He told me stories about playing basketball with some of the black students while he was in high school in Wichita (in the late nineteen-forties and early nineteen-fifties), not because he wanted to make a statement of some sort, but because he didn't see why he should avoid them. Throughout his life, my father rigorously opposed any sort of conformism, especially when it involved imposing illogical or downright unethical norms to a situation. And unlike most people, my father would always step back from a situation in order to examine what those norms were. Most people, in most situations involving shaky moral principles, just go along to get along.
How do you raise a son who stops to question things, as my father did? Perhaps, by telling him stories about people like my father. And people like Obama.
Thinking about the fact that my son was born during the Obama presidency reminds me of the depressing fact that my father died under the George W. Bush presidency...depressing, because my father was an impassioned follower of national politics. He was a leftist, but not a knee-jerk liberal or progressive by any means. He would have been quietly thrilled about Obama being elected. He was, moreover, from Kansas. He told me stories about playing basketball with some of the black students while he was in high school in Wichita (in the late nineteen-forties and early nineteen-fifties), not because he wanted to make a statement of some sort, but because he didn't see why he should avoid them. Throughout his life, my father rigorously opposed any sort of conformism, especially when it involved imposing illogical or downright unethical norms to a situation. And unlike most people, my father would always step back from a situation in order to examine what those norms were. Most people, in most situations involving shaky moral principles, just go along to get along.
How do you raise a son who stops to question things, as my father did? Perhaps, by telling him stories about people like my father. And people like Obama.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Personality
What is a personality--and when do we have one? At a baby store in San Francisco yesterday, watched a two and a half week old baby, a little doll-like creature of about six pounds or so, kicking its legs and crying with its miniature, gasping voice. Comparing this baby to my own, it does seem that my child has made great strides in his development of a personality. But is he really so different at this stage than a thousand other six-month-old babies? Smiles readily; protests vociferously when I leave the room for too long; grabs and bites everything in reach; seems proud of his small accomplishments, like rolling over from his front to his back, or pressing the music button on the plastic fish.
What I actually believe, however (like any doting mom I suppose) is that his winning personality was there at birth, but will not come into full flower until sometime in the next year or so--and it's my job to provide him with enough nurturing, enriching soil to let his personality achieve its fullest possible expression.
I have a picture of him lying on the examining table minutes after the grueling experience of being born, with such a thoughtful expression on his face that he seems to have just exited a Life Strategies conference that he'd been attending in the womb. He has his quiet, thoughtful moments now, as well--but I don't think I've ever seen him with quite the same expression on his face as during those first moments of life. But was that his "personality," or just the normal reposeful look of a child recovering from the birth experience? And--does it really make a difference how well I prepare the "soil," or will his personality come to the fore and shine brilliantly, regardless? The old "nature or nurture" question perhaps--but maybe that's a ridiculous debate. Does a seedling need "nature" or "nurture" to develop? Both, of course. And so does any child.
How much "nurture" does he need? I suppose that's the real question. And, how much "nurture" is too much?
What I actually believe, however (like any doting mom I suppose) is that his winning personality was there at birth, but will not come into full flower until sometime in the next year or so--and it's my job to provide him with enough nurturing, enriching soil to let his personality achieve its fullest possible expression.
I have a picture of him lying on the examining table minutes after the grueling experience of being born, with such a thoughtful expression on his face that he seems to have just exited a Life Strategies conference that he'd been attending in the womb. He has his quiet, thoughtful moments now, as well--but I don't think I've ever seen him with quite the same expression on his face as during those first moments of life. But was that his "personality," or just the normal reposeful look of a child recovering from the birth experience? And--does it really make a difference how well I prepare the "soil," or will his personality come to the fore and shine brilliantly, regardless? The old "nature or nurture" question perhaps--but maybe that's a ridiculous debate. Does a seedling need "nature" or "nurture" to develop? Both, of course. And so does any child.
How much "nurture" does he need? I suppose that's the real question. And, how much "nurture" is too much?
Monday, September 7, 2009
Photos
Recently sent pictures of the kid to several friends. Presenting your baby at his most attractive, least fussy, least drooly moment is a little bit of a lie, inherently; like brushing the crumbs off the table and vacuuming right before guests arrive, just to hear them say "Ooh, you keep such a clean house!" Also, it's like giving your friends a tour of your house even though they didn't ask for one. It feels cheap, even if you know everyone on the receiving end will enjoy seeing the photos. I thought I wouldn't be the kind of person to send unsolicited photos of my baby to anyone. But--okay, so I was cheap, just this once.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Time Part 3
What I want to do, obviously, is retain some small portion of my pre-baby life. What has worked so far is to undertake projects that take fifteen minutes or less, and repeat them every day if at all possible. Piano-playing, yoga and weights, study of foreign languages, this blog: these projects have progressed to some extent. Fifteen minutes a day is ridiculously short, but then again...it's infinitely better than nothing. Ultimately, time has not disappeared with the arrival of this child (though it does seem like it at times). Time advances, slowly but surely, through infinite repetition. Paradoxical but true.
What's frustrating, of course, is that any project that requires two or three hours of concentrated effort simply doesn't happen, or happens very rarely. All this is obvious and completely predictable...however, I am hoping for the impossible--to carry out a few bigger projects over the next six months, even with baby in tow.
What's frustrating, of course, is that any project that requires two or three hours of concentrated effort simply doesn't happen, or happens very rarely. All this is obvious and completely predictable...however, I am hoping for the impossible--to carry out a few bigger projects over the next six months, even with baby in tow.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Time and Germania
Right now my baby is pleading urgently for my attention and I'm sitting here typing...it feels like I've been bouncing around like a pinball all day, for him and for the rest of my family. So I refuse to listen to him for at least five minutes...not easy to do...
I'm not sure what I was trying to say yesterday about time, I must admit. And I doubt I'll be able to clarify things at the moment. So I'll write about Germania.
Germania is the name of a street in the neighborhood formerly known as Mint Hill, near the Lower Haight and Duboce Park. It's a narrow street, perhaps the width of one car; fine houses and condos line both sides of the street. It's one of those streets that is within throwing distance from a very busy commercial district, yet manages to retain the utter calm of a street largely overlooked by everyone, except, of course, the happy few who've found a way to live there.
Part of me will always dream of owning a little studio on a street like that, a place I could visit once a day for a few hours, to do nothing but read, write and gaze out the window. A place where time would seem to stop, to vanish, to evaporate.
Looking over my schedule from the last two months--what I wrote yesterday was false, I haven't had sixty minutes a day, since early July it's been more like twenty. So I'm no longer thinking about how to match my schedule to the baby's; I'd just like to impose sixty minutes of my pre-pregnancy life on his. And work up from there.
I'm not sure what I was trying to say yesterday about time, I must admit. And I doubt I'll be able to clarify things at the moment. So I'll write about Germania.
Germania is the name of a street in the neighborhood formerly known as Mint Hill, near the Lower Haight and Duboce Park. It's a narrow street, perhaps the width of one car; fine houses and condos line both sides of the street. It's one of those streets that is within throwing distance from a very busy commercial district, yet manages to retain the utter calm of a street largely overlooked by everyone, except, of course, the happy few who've found a way to live there.
Part of me will always dream of owning a little studio on a street like that, a place I could visit once a day for a few hours, to do nothing but read, write and gaze out the window. A place where time would seem to stop, to vanish, to evaporate.
Looking over my schedule from the last two months--what I wrote yesterday was false, I haven't had sixty minutes a day, since early July it's been more like twenty. So I'm no longer thinking about how to match my schedule to the baby's; I'd just like to impose sixty minutes of my pre-pregnancy life on his. And work up from there.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Time
What to do when a few minutes' time to oneself suddenly dwindles to nothing, because of an unexpected illness or injury in the family? I'm posing myself this question tonight--not explaining exactly what happened, but let's just say, a minor crisis occurred which is enough to upset the fragile balance I'd worked out where, on a good day, I was able to carve out something like twenty minutes for this blog, ten minutes for yoga and free weights, five minutes for a shower, fifteen minutes at the piano and ten minutes reading something. Let's see--that's 60 minutes. Is that really all the time I had on an average day over six months? Yes--beyond a few other business matters I attended to, and non-baby-related errands and chores, that has been my non-baby-related life for six months. Now, even those 60 minutes seem threatened.
The trick, perhaps, is to think differently about time. In reality, I was often watching the baby while I took care of those simple tasks--I've brought him into the bathroom while I was in the shower, I've plunked him down in his bouncy chair while I played the piano, and so forth. And he didn't seem to mind too much, in fact, he often seems pretty content these days to be left alone for a few minutes, as long as there has been some sort of intimate contact between Baby and Mommy right before, and as long as I try to talk to him during the activity. (I guess we're all a little bit like babies in that respect.) I suppose that I mustn't think of it in terms of "carving out time for myself," but instead, in terms of, how can Baby and I get through the day without running roughshod over each other in terms of our personal schedules? I'm not sure I've completely figured that one out.
The trick, perhaps, is to think differently about time. In reality, I was often watching the baby while I took care of those simple tasks--I've brought him into the bathroom while I was in the shower, I've plunked him down in his bouncy chair while I played the piano, and so forth. And he didn't seem to mind too much, in fact, he often seems pretty content these days to be left alone for a few minutes, as long as there has been some sort of intimate contact between Baby and Mommy right before, and as long as I try to talk to him during the activity. (I guess we're all a little bit like babies in that respect.) I suppose that I mustn't think of it in terms of "carving out time for myself," but instead, in terms of, how can Baby and I get through the day without running roughshod over each other in terms of our personal schedules? I'm not sure I've completely figured that one out.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Hurtling Towards 6 Months (and 45)
The big six-month birthday is fast approaching--I won't say exactly when it is, in order once again to preserve anonymity. But it's close enough that I'm getting excited.
On the other hand--a little disturbing to contemplate how rapidly those six months came and went. The velocity of time, as I posted about earlier, has to do with the blending-together of day and night that has occurred since his birth.
No doubt every mother feels like time has wings, especially in the first part of her baby's life. Is it worse for an older mother? I couldn't say.
What's probably worse is when you're caring for your own child (or children) and your elderly, ailing parent (or parents). There's a book about this experience, written by a woman, newly separated from her husband, who took care of her baby and her dad with Alzheimer's and moved to a rural part of the Northeast, all virtually at the same time. (An interesting thing I just discovered: the original title of the book, "The House on Beartown Road: A Memoir of Learning and Forgetting" (Elizabeth Cohen, 2003, Random House) was changed, for the trade paperback edition, to "The Family on Beartown Road: A Memoir of Love and Courage." Says something about the commercialism of our times that such a banal title won out in the end.) It's an excellent, honest, funny book, about a woman taking an impossible situation and finding the absurd humor in it, as well as surprising moments of grace. She writes, for instance, about her father dropping language behind him as he walked, and her baby stopping to pick it up.
I miss my parents terribly--most terribly, perhaps, when things aren't going well with the baby. (Does one ever really stop depending on one's parents, for moral support at least? I mean, if one was blessed with having good parents, on whom one could invariably rely for some sort of moral support.) But I'm not sorry that I don't have to care for this baby and a sick parent at the same time. My heart goes out to those who are grappling with such a difficult situation. May they find some measure of grace and comfort in spite of the whole grueling experience.
Okay--so I'm suddenly not so concerned about approaching 45 years of age. Let the gray hairs fall where they may.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
"The Red Violin"
Watched the first half of "The Red Violin" today (am only watching portions of movies at any one time--too tired to make it all the way through a film on any given evening). Is it absurd to think that objects have a soul? And, do adults ever love objects as fervently as children do? The scene where the child is so attached to his violin that he sleeps with it brought tears to my eyes--the film was worth watching for this one scene. Part of the joy of becoming a mother is entering, at least vicariously, the enchanted world of children and their beloved objects.
My son will reach the six-month mark soon; I would say he has yet to exhibit a marked attachment to one object, although very early in life he seemed especially fond of one particular blanket (but he does not seem too interested in it now).
I rented an upright piano recently that produced such a rich and luxurious sound, especially for an upright, that I was inspired to compose music for the first time in my life. (I've played the piano since age 4.) When I listen to the pieces I wrote, I know that they needed that particular piano to come to life.
So yes, I do think objects are imbued with, if not a soul, at least the ability to draw out whatever remains soulful in the dessicated hearts of adults.
My son will reach the six-month mark soon; I would say he has yet to exhibit a marked attachment to one object, although very early in life he seemed especially fond of one particular blanket (but he does not seem too interested in it now).
I rented an upright piano recently that produced such a rich and luxurious sound, especially for an upright, that I was inspired to compose music for the first time in my life. (I've played the piano since age 4.) When I listen to the pieces I wrote, I know that they needed that particular piano to come to life.
So yes, I do think objects are imbued with, if not a soul, at least the ability to draw out whatever remains soulful in the dessicated hearts of adults.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
St. Francis and Loneliness
Ventured into the upper-crusty St. Francis Wood neighborhood this afternoon; other than the magnificent trees--huge Canary Island date palms and Monterey pines, for instance--it was a crushingly dull walk marred by too many gardeners wielding leaf-blowers and the desolate feeling of huge houses with no sign of life inside or around them, and no one walking down the wide streets. The one place that truly appealed to me was the playground--until I spotted a sign in front of it--"Private Property; Do Not Enter."
So I'll write instead about the fears that older new moms face. Perhaps a primary one is loneliness. Have I been lonely since giving birth to the little one? In truth, I haven't yet had much time or energy to ask myself this question. And perhaps that alone should give me pause. I can see how being a parent seems to make one's life shoot by with the roar and speed of a freight train. So maybe I'll look up after eighteen years of constant caregiving and think, what happened to my life?
I can't quite believe that, however. On some very deep level, this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me, with the possible exception of meeting and getting to know my husband. Having a child cannot be separated from whatever this thing is called "my life."
For instance--giving a bath to the baby this evening, and afterward, I felt privileged just to have this remarkable little troublemaker in my life--and I know that I am, most definitely, privileged to do so. It enriches me in ways that I only dimly understand. Yes, it's remotely possible that when I'm sixty, I'll feel sad about having spent most of the last part of my middle years tending to another human being. It might even feel lonely. But I won't feel as if I haven't lived; of that I'm certain.
So I'll write instead about the fears that older new moms face. Perhaps a primary one is loneliness. Have I been lonely since giving birth to the little one? In truth, I haven't yet had much time or energy to ask myself this question. And perhaps that alone should give me pause. I can see how being a parent seems to make one's life shoot by with the roar and speed of a freight train. So maybe I'll look up after eighteen years of constant caregiving and think, what happened to my life?
I can't quite believe that, however. On some very deep level, this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me, with the possible exception of meeting and getting to know my husband. Having a child cannot be separated from whatever this thing is called "my life."
For instance--giving a bath to the baby this evening, and afterward, I felt privileged just to have this remarkable little troublemaker in my life--and I know that I am, most definitely, privileged to do so. It enriches me in ways that I only dimly understand. Yes, it's remotely possible that when I'm sixty, I'll feel sad about having spent most of the last part of my middle years tending to another human being. It might even feel lonely. But I won't feel as if I haven't lived; of that I'm certain.
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