We haven’t been watching the news much lately. It started when Malaysian Flight MH17 was shot down from the sky. How do you explain something so mind boggling and reprehensible to an eight year old? How do you explain that because the wreckage looks like that there aren’t any survivors? How do you explain why someone would shoot a plane of innocent people out of the sky?

Then the violence escalated between Israel and Gaza and bodies were everywhere, women keening, centuries of complicated conflict couldn’t be summed up for two young boys. I couldn’t even begin to formulate the questions not to mention the answers. And so we turned it off. The hubby and I discussed the news in whispers while the boys cleared the table or when we passed each other in the hallway during bath time or after curious ears were tucked into bunk beds or simply not at all. 

This week, Robin Williams. No mention of his death goes without details of the brutality of his desperation. How do you explain to children the subtleness of depression and how it lies and badgers until finally the afflicted take the only method of control they feel available and act in the most final way? How do you explain that the Genie is gone because of a horrible disease, a disease that affects family members they love, without inciting the fear that those very family members might fall victim to believing the lies, too? 

And now Ferguson. What to say to my boys about Ferguson? How do you explain to your white children the inconceivable grief of Michael Brown’s parents who have no true explanation as to why their child’s light is now extinguished from this world other than the fact his skin is darker than my sons’? How do you hold up the lessons they learn in school about Harriet Tubman and Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and Martin Luther King, Jr., and separate bathrooms as antiquated concepts when that type of racism and frustration and stereotyping is still endured by legions today? How do you begin to explain that the police are meant to help people, not arrest reporters and blindly throw tear gas at protests that were yet to turn violent? 

How can I burst their anyone can do anything they want bubble with the pin of life’s realities? 

How do I explain that the reason they have lockdown drills in school is because people with malice in their hearts bring guns and shoot children? 

How do I make them understand that as white males they are made lucky simply by their genetics, but that their character will determine whether they earn it? 

How do I ensure that they feel safe and secure in a world that some days seems anything but? 

How do I explain all of this when it is so difficult for me to comprehend? 

Right now, I don’t explain it. I leave it all at the door with the muddy shoes and collection of rocks that fill my boys pockets after an afternoon walk. I help with homework, throw practice pitches in the park, push the swing, read stories and snuggle. After they go to bed, I let the real world back in. I read twitter feeds of reporters arrested in Ferguson and blogs by those battling mental illness trying to drown out the lies depression shouts by sharing their experiences, fears and vulnerabilities. I check on my sweet, quiet, sleeping boys before I go to bed and relish in their contentment, the twisted blankets, the damp foreheads of sleep imagining the brilliant, technicolor dreams that dance in their head. I kiss their little bodies, resisting the urge to climb in bed with them, to hold them physically closer to my heart in an attempt to shelter myself from the torment of the real world swirling around us. 

Dawn comes and the hubby and I wake resistant children, send them off to school and pray that another day finds them well. As we gather at the table for dinner each evening, I take comfort in our little guy’s daily proclamation that “Today was the best day ever!” For indeed, each day with them safe and happy in the cocoon of a world their father and I create for them is the best day ever. 

So yes, I’m sheltering my kids from the news. 

There’s plenty of time for them to understand the real world. For now, I want them to believe that the world is compassionate, fair and attainable. I’ll use this time now not to scare or intimidate them with the realities of our world, but arm them with the patience, understanding, grace and love they’ll need to navigate this world of chaos and make it better.

 

Now that school’s back in session for the big guy, I’m up at 6:15 and, without work, no need to be primped and ready for anything at a particular time. So, this morning, I recommitted to a morning walk. Not only is walking good for my heart, it clears my mind and centers my spirit as my feet hit the road. The sights and smells of the season, weather, geography awaken my senses. The music in my headphones can energize or bring back a memory, the road in front of me giving me permission to indulge that memory or to put it down and leave it behind. 

My walk this morning brought to mind many previous walks in my life. The chatty walks with my parents after dinner when I was a kid and it seemed our entire neighborhood would be out walking our circular streets each evening, looping each other every 15 minutes. The walks with my college roommate along the picturesque and historic Gimghoul Road. The long, flat roads near our first home in Northern Virginia in the cold, early November air prior to each Thanksgiving meal we hosted for our families. The treadmill walks at 5:30 am at the Y before my hour long commute into the District. The stroller walks with my new born when I needed to simply get out of the house. 

This morning’s walk was muggy with the promise of a steamy August day to come. The crickets were eager in their song and the birds seemed lazier than usual, perhaps gone back to bed after an earlier, cooler breakfast. The hills were many and my legs felt stronger and stronger at every step. My mind opened up and I felt the creativity I’ve been lacking the last few weeks start to break loose a little. 

Tomorrow, I plan to meet the road again. To greet the day with purpose and motion. It’s a good habit I let slide in recent years. I’m glad I’ve found it again.

I am a creature of habit. Aren’t we all? But this week, I’m reeling a bit. School started for T yesterday. On top of that, the hubby and B are out of town enjoying the tail end of a family reunion weekend that T and I left early. As a result, I’ve had two days of insane quiet.

Why am I complaining, right?

Because I put a lot of pressure on myself to be productive. And sometimes I’m not sure what productive means to me at any given moment. Does it mean I should be writing, grocery shopping, cleaning, handling committee responsibilities, or even simply resting? Yesterday, I gave in. After taking the big kid to school and briefly meeting his teacher, I took care of the groceries and a few other errands then allowed myself to watch a random home renovation show marathon on TV. I took a nap. I read. And I know I needed it after a busy weekend and several nights of difficult sleep.

Today, however, I put T on the bus at 7 am and then felt the yawning gap of time until 3 when the bus will bring him back home. I did manage to edit an essay project I’m working on and I changed the sheets on the bed, but now it’s late morning and I’m not quite sure what’s next today.

It doesn’t really matter if I get anything done today, honestly. Another lazy day may be just what the doctor ordered. The hubby and B return later this afternoon. B doesn’t go back to preschool until much later this month, so pool days and games of Spot It will be back on the agenda tomorrow, the little guy determining the shape of my routine yet again.

But the past two days have caused me to pause and anticipate what my routine will look like in a month when they are both in school? Granted, a preschool day is much shorter than the big kid’s day at school, but there will still be hours that are just mine. How will I determine what hours are spent exercising (remember that concept? I don’t!), writing, household managing?

Just when I think I’ve gotten the hang of this no work life, something new slaps me in the face and I realize I’m sometimes still just as lost. Although I’m excited about the new opportunities this creative life I’m trying to build offers, it is also frustrating, slow and unknown. There is no road map.

So I’m working hard to embrace my inner spontaneity. At least until September when I can cobble together some sort of routine to call my own. Sorry, it’s just a habit.

The boys just completed their last week of summer camp. I spent the week doing some writing, running errands, watching a few movies. And on the last day, I went on a date. With myself. 

The idea was taken from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. She recommends, among many wonderful suggestions, taking your inner artist on a date once a week. It seemed somewhat hokey to me, but realizing I only get so much inspiration from my home office, I decided to give it a go. As the last quiet morning stretched in front of me, I packed up my journal, a couple of books and headed to the Botanical Gardens after dropping the oldest at baseball camp. 

The morning was beautiful, quiet, warm. The cicadas scratched a call and response promising a hot day to come. The cardinals chirped at the present coolness, sharing a greeting as they swooped from branch to branch overhead. The traffic hummed on Piedmont Avenue a few hundred yards away. The water cascaded over the stone lip of the water feature like silk, the roar in my ears enough to block the occasional footsteps and passing conversation. 

I took several deep breaths and felt the pleasing pull of my pen against paper. Little observations, moments, thoughts, running in black ink and bad hand writing. I didn’t move more than my hand against the page. It was then that I felt the stillness settle. And it felt familiar, warm and good. It had been a long time. 

In my day-to-day life it’s difficult for me to find peace, quiet, stillness. In the wake of no job to balance, I find it hard to be physically still, instead seeking tasks that keep me moving, busy, occupied. To find the stillness, to invite it in and remember the creative spark that lives within it was invigorating and calming at the same time. It was a moment to remember the honesty of me. 

The hubby and I are big Orange is the New Black fans and the opening credits run against the backdrop of a fantastic Regina Spektor song, “You’ve Got Time.” As I welcomed the stillness and wondered at its novelty, a line from that song bubbled to the surface: 

Taking steps is easy, standing still is hard.

So true. It’s so easy to move forward, to keep going, to try to fix it as you go. How many times in life have you found yourself on the wrong (or at least the less right path), but just kept going because it would have been harder to stop, to backtrack, to find a new map? It’s happened to me. The stereotype about the man who won’t stop to ask for directions didn’t become a stereotype for nothing. Stopping to find the right way is sometimes harder than just continuing down the wrong road convinced that eventually you’ll end up where you want to be. It’s practically an American mantra: “Keep on keepin’ on.” 

But the stillness I experienced was so fresh and exciting, I can’t wait to find it again. It’s not going to be easy. Just as it is important for the hubby and I to step outside of our couch and DVR evenings to connect for a regular date night, it is just as important for me to take time to connect with the inner self, the muse, the stillness.

In the coming months, I plan to aim for at least one artist date every two weeks. A stroll through Oakland Cemetery, a latte in a new coffee shop, a drive to a new town, a morning at the arrivals gate at the airport, a tour through an art gallery, browsing in an antique shop. I’m not bad company, come to find out.

I think this might be the start of a lovely long-term relationship. 

One of the most frustrating parts of this new writing life has been my lack of routine. Most of that is due to the fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants summer life with kids meaning outings and play dates and pool time are not always planned and always taking precedent over my need for writing time. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing is moot since it’s a decision I’ve madeas to how I want to spend time with my kids this summer. It is what it is.

What, I realized today, is further complicating this lack of routine is my complete and utter lack of process. Or rather, my undeveloped process. All writers are different. Some outline their plot from start to finish before writing. Others start with the germ of an idea or character and see where it takes them. Others write detailed backstories before starting on page one. Others write the end first before working backwards to the beginning. Some write in a linear fashion. Others just write whatever hits them and stitch it together later. Some write with music. Others in silence. Some in the middle of the night, others first thing in the morning.

Me?

Dunno.

The only other time I took something large from beginning to end was for NANOWRIMO in 2010. I wrote that “book” linearly and it was torture. But it was mostly torture because I knew I had to keep slogging forward every day despite how bad it was or even when I knew it was taking a wrong turn simply so I could finish it. I’m glad I did it. It proved that I could. But is it a stellar work? Not even close. And I don’t feel bad about that. It was a learning experience and one I truly value.

That being said, I still am unsure of my process. I’m not sure what works best for me because I haven’t yet had the luxury of time to determine how I work best. I know in a few short weeks, we’ll be easing our way back into school routines and I’ll be faced with five mornings a week of solitude. I am hoping then I will develop a true schedule or routine to apply to my writing – something I’ve never had the luxury to do – and I think whatever process I have will come then.

In the meantime, I’m scribbling in notebooks, forgetting character’s names and completely losing my way when it comes to what it is I’m doing with them. But a house doesn’t look like much when you’re digging a hole for the foundation. So this mess I’m in right now, I’ll consider my hole. A hole that I know will eventually be filled with something solid that I can build a framework on and then make pretty with a few cans of paint and detailed finishes.

Or at least I hope so.

This summer the boys are finally playing with each other.  Legos, made-up games in their bedroom, race track building, watching TV. Unless I’m breaking up a fight, I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.

I have been looking forward to this moment – the moment when I’m not forced to play every round of Candy Land or assemble every train track creation, but now that it’s here, I’m a little sad. Sometimes I’m even bored. I don’t know how much is still my adjusting to not having work to sneak into my at home time or how much of it is the lazy days of summer or how much of it is just my need to constantly be in motion. Last summer, if the boys were preoccupied, I had emails to check or releases to write or media reports to update. Those moments of peace were filled with tasks being completed so that even if I found myself with no work and no boys to entertain, it was a relief to take a moment to myself and scan a magazine or simply sit and enjoy the quiet.

This summer, I find myself with an apparent abundance of time. And yet no time at all. Because the fact is, I can’t focus on any task of my own for too long before I need to interfere in an escalating altercation over whose Legos are whose or a pillow fight gone too far or the rare invitation to come and play, too. And then there is the unpredictability – some days, I need to be involved every 10-15 minutes. Other days, they might be content with each other for two hours. I never know when the play time starts what I’m in for.

I had a moment this weekend where I lamented to the hubby that I was bored. He chastised me that hadn’t I wanted this? This free time? This time to explore who I am and what I want to do? I agreed, but felt like I finally have the time and no idea how to fill it. After going back and forth, I realized what was really bothering me. It wasn’t that I had an hour to myself and chose to catch up on last week’s So You Think You Can Dance? It wasn’t that I was struggling with the writing (although I tried to blame it on that, too. I tried really hard.). The truth of the matter is that, at 7 and 4, the boys already don’t need me as much. And I don’t always like how that feels.

When they were toddlers, all I could focus on was the light at the end of the clingy tunnel of neediness. Now that I’m closer to the opening, it’s too bright out there. It’s scary and breathtaking and vast and a little lonely. I’m having to readjust my mothering to how they need me now. Now, they need me to be supportive, reassuring, a safe haven when they are scared, embarrassed or angry. They need me to laugh at their jokes and ask questions about their creations. They need me to point them in a direction and then let them take it from there.

These are hard lessons for this mama to learn.

I take comfort in the fact that I’m raising these two independent spirits who are creating together and building a brother relationship that is beautiful, loving, humorous, honest and oftentimes frustrating, angry and aggressive. But it’s hard to realize, sometimes, that I’m not always a part of it. I love seeing it and watching them navigate a day together, but sometimes I’m jealous that they don’t need me in it.

Until they do. Because someone got hurt, or is hungry or just wants to snuggle and read the next Harry Potter.

These moments are becoming more precious because in those moments the boys are choosing me. And while it’s hard to sit on the sidelines sometimes waiting to see when I’m needed or wanted, I am taking comfort in the fact that they know I’m there. There to help. There to laugh. There to play. There to hug.

It makes the now occasional round of Candy Land that much sweeter.