If you are ever wondering how to slow down in life, simply go on a walk with a toddler.
Today, I let Mara lead. Rather than my usual, “come on, let’s go, time to roll”….
I followed her home from dropping her big sisters off at school. And seven minutes slowly became thirty.
Her inherent curiosity in every nuance was both maddening and extraordinary. Sucked in like a tiny human pollinator, she stopped and smelled every single flower. She waltzed backwards, in circles and sat on the curb to rest. Wandered along every corner and crooked edge. Squatted down low to watch a rolly-polly cross the sidewalk.
Mara is this way, in other ways too. Like many toddlers, she is not just a passerby to the world, she is “of” her surroundings. At the beach, she rolls in the sand like she’s rolling down a hill, smothers her face in it. On a hike, she lays her belly down on the warm trail and watches the dirt slip through her hands. At home, she sticks her finger in the mud and licks it like chocolate frosting.
I often catch her gazing up peacefully at the sky.
Every moment of her life is a miniature love affair. Every smile feels like her biggest yet. Every ice cream (“eye-eye”) cone, the best ever.
Her love feels like light pouring through a colorful stained glass window.
I pulled a honey bee stinger out of a little girl’s palm at a birthday party. She was already crying from missing her mom, but this infraction really took the cake.
Five of us mothers huddled around, reassuring and loving on her — someone grabbed a bag of frozen corn.
Her mom was called and I heard, “I’ll be right there”, on the other side of the line. She sailed in gracefully, scooped her daughter onto her lap and swayed back and forth, speaking their native language of love.
There was no one else in the world better than the comfort of her mother’s arms, the scent of her body, the warmth of her words penetrating sad tears.
I mother everyday. I comfort my daughters. I heal them with my love. But seeing who I am to them, through the near distance of another mother-daughter, was strikingly beautiful, almost unbelievable.
Our love is an archetype.
Our tongue is a language of endless variety, but in the end, we are all mother.
Our road trip from California to Minnesota on the fringe of winter kneaded me like dough into an expanded version of myself. Travel has a way with transformation.
California has always been the promised land in my mind. I have traveled many places, but never taken a road trip across this many state lines before. Every day we moved with intention from one geographic landmark to the next; dry desert to striated red rocks to black hills to prairie lands and finally to 10,000 lakes.
What I came to experience, is that there is so much land out here in America. There is so much beauty and so many incredible ways to live, one not better than the other. Just different. My compassion and awareness broke through border lines and into the vast wide open spaces of states I never dreamed of loving.
San Diego, CA – St George, UT
While there’s something unsettling about a long trip ahead with no “home base”, the forward motion helped to keep the anxious part of me at bay. I was forced to find anchors outside of my window and within the canyons of my internal world.
Jaws dropped in the backseat as we drove through our first pit stop: the Las Vegas strip. Coura wanted to eat the big M&M while Maisley yelled out “I want to live here!!”
We quickly upgraded from city lights to constellations in the desert sky as we finished our first, surprisingly simple drive from San Diego to St. George.
St. George – Park City, UT
James Taylor serenaded us up and over the majestic hills of Utah while we belted out: “In my mind, I’m going to Minnesota…”. Every time we hit a pot hole or felt our tummies drop down a hill, Mara squealed out, “Weeeeeeee!” from the backseat.
Rusted sandstone mountains with deep creviced shadows lined our pathway to Park City, UT. We swam at Homestead Crater hot springs when we arrived and stayed at a farm just outside of the city where we fed apples to horses in the brisk 15 degree air.
Park City, UT – Custer, SD
Maisley sat me down before our longest day – 9 hours of driving – and said that she was done with all this driving and not doing it anymore.
So, we learned a lesson that day about being able to handle more than we thought was possible.
When we crossed into Wyoming, a part of me sighed in relief. Have you ever watched a frozen river get lost in the prairie lands? Looked in every direction to find nothing but land and a few passer-by?
The road continued to rise up and meet us at every turn as we cruised through never ending solitude. Thankfully our “no flat tire” prayers held us through to the next morning.
Over-shadowing the anxious thoughts of aloneness was the sun setting over Wyoming’s endless rolling hills. A sequential cascade of pinks, purples and blues before true darkness settled in for the night.
Custer, SD – Sioux Falls, SD
Waking up the next morning in a tree house in Custer, SD restored my energy tank and excitement. Custer exceeded all expectations; the craggy mountains and pine trees, the buffalo on the ridge and big horned sheep on the road-side. Fresh mountain air.
As we set off for Sioux Falls, SD we found a nail had punctured the outer wall of our tire. After a few phone calls and grim outlook from the auto keepers of this tiny town, we finally found Anderson Auto to fix and patch the tire. Three generations of Andersons sat idle in the tiny office with us while we humored them with our questions and tales.
Our final long drive lay just ahead.
As we drove past a lookout in the Badlands National Park, I abruptly asked Ryan to pull over. The kids yammered on and screens played tired stories in the backseat while I ran toward the opposite. I laid my body onto the earth and melted into the utter stillness below me. I felt like I had traveled through time, if only for a few moments.
Sioux Falls, SD – Eden Prairie, MN
One of the main factors for road tripping rather than flying to Minnesota for Thanksgiving with my husband’s family, was to stop in Sioux Falls, the birth place of dad’s mom, Grandma Joan. As I get older, I crave to know more of who I am and where I come from. Particularly with the absence of my dad here on earth.
We walked past her old home site in the quaint historic district of this now trendy downtown. I loved being on the sidewalk where she ran to school and the city where she came of age.
While much of this road trip was actually fairly smooth, it is of utmost importance to note that the last hour of every drive was pure misery – we were almost, but not quite there. Everyone needed a snack and had to pee. I had my head on a swivel, throwing food and entertainment around like a ring master. But we did it, we survived, and I guess that’s what I will remember the most.
We pulled into the driveway of my brother and sister-in-law’s home in Eden Prairie and were met with a welcome sign and the most beautiful smiling faces.
(Our time with them is for another story, but we enjoyed 6 magical days of fun, playing, exploring and extraordinary hosting.)
Eden Prairie, MN – San Diego, CA
On the way back, we were smart, and flew home.
**My mind’s memory bank bridges the gap between these words and the photos we took, never quite enough to paint an entire story. **
One moment I am devouring my kids, dumbfounded by their brilliance and my insatiable need to snuggle them into oblivion.
The next, motherhood devours me whole — then spits me out, bitter to the taste.
When we had our third daughter, Mara, we were living in a tiny Airbnb. The railroad tracks ran just to our east and the Pacific Ocean was a stone’s throw to the west. Every night around 10pm the old bones from our 50’s cottage would tremble as the train raced by.
I would close my eyes and imagine I was living in New York City; specifically the vibrant neighborhood of Harlem. Probably near something called the L train (don’t quote me). An entire life outside, vibrant and awake, a city humming in perfect chaos and continuity. Every cuisine from around the world is right at my doorstep. I am both never alone and perfectly anonymous. I am an artist living in a tiny loft (it’s all I can afford) in a state of uninterrupted creativity. I mosey about like a local and come home to my cat (I don’t even like cats).
A world apart from mine, but a part of me. Or maybe in some version of this life, it was me.
However, if I’m living in a parallel universe somewhere, I know that I’m always longing for the tethers and love of this one.
Having a garden is good for someone who is both wild and also likes a little control. I dream of owning an orchard one day, a jungle of vines growing and dying; something I can tend to that matches my inner chapters. I am always looking for ways to be seen and belong (aren’t we all?).
There’s a phase at the end of labor called “transition”. This marks the peak of intensity right before the relief of a baby being born. This is the moment where many women report wanting to give up and echoes of “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE!!” have been heard across hospitals, homes and generations.
However, the idea of “transition” extends past the finite hours of labor.
I’m always on about birth and death as my greatest teachers in this life so far. Every sequence and pattern in those near opposites I find almost daily as I work my way through life.
The blips of rage-inducing tantrums that I think will never end. And yet, like the waves of birth and grief: it will pass, it will pass, it will pass.
The mental anguish of judging and fear every time a hard emotion comes.
It will pass, it will pass, it will pass.
Starting a new project and feeling wracked with doubt and overwhelm.
It will pass, it will pass, it will pass.
There is really no birth and death as singular events, but rather rhythms and themes that continuously unfold. We are born and we are constantly being born. We experience death and are forever revisited by grief.
In the washing machine of hard moments, I remember: relief is near.
I wonder what it feels like to cozy up with my arm and entwine with my hands. How does my warm body wrapped around the entirety of you feel? What is it like to be comforted by the sight and the scent of me; to watch me leave?
Tell me, does the ocean wonder how her waves feel to the shore?
I am not responsible for every bad mood Every freckle that appears (Should have put on more sunscreen) Every failure and every success. I am responsible for me For who I am and the choices I make. We are separate Me and her Different people with different childhoods. Though sometimes it’s hard to see the lines between us when She came from me, through me. She never walks, only skips. While other children pop about like dandelions, she’s an orchid – miraculously beautiful yet meticulous to care for. I cry because of how hard it is to parent a highly sensitive child, especially when you’re a highly sensitive parent. If only I can remember again why I am here; to be the earth below the river of her life, guiding her to the ocean of herself. To be the earth below the river of my life, guiding me to the ocean of myself.
I was always praised for being fast and efficient – At work, at school, walking, even going pee Go go go go Get married, have kids, buy a house – Get it done. Then I stepped into the garden and all I kept hearing was slow down. This was very irritating. I’m better when I’m fast More worthy and certainly more valuable. But then, The wheelbarrow tipped over and I accidentally pulled out a row of beets I thought were weeds. Slow down she whispered Slow down Slow down Slow down.
The summer of ‘22 — A clearly punctuated gift of time. A chance to remember life more vividly; Come September, different from June. Hopefully more refreshed or experienced, at least saltier.
Endless magic at the Zoo at night. Diving boards at the local pool, Sandlot style. Bonnie Raitt and flies in the kitchen. Rising Appalachia in the redwoods. “Live your life time” at home. Dog days coalescing with covid fevers. A treasure hunt birthday to start and an ice cream truck one to end.
Despite lots of activity — the summer activity list still hangs in dismay. Feeling like the days were up eaten by — breakfast after breakfast snack regular snack lunch whining afternoon “we’re sooo hungry” snack “gross” dinner Bedtime pb&j and bravery water
I wonder if all summer dreams are meant to be fulfilled or rather, to float wistfully around as unreachable promises; seeding hope for next year or even the one after.
After my dad died, I remember my mom saying that she just wanted her boring life back. The one where they went to the same Italian restaurant every Friday and kissed every night when he got home from work. The one where she would fall asleep on the couch while they watched yet another bad movie they found on Netflix. The boring life that was brimming with comfort, laughter, sarcasm, kindness and love at every turn.
I think about this often.
Sometimes I am guilty of feeling bored with life. I long for more excitement and adventure. Mundane moments leave me itching for something more. My freedom is loud and my desire to live, like carpe-diem-squeeze-the-juice-out-of-every-minute kind of live, gets antsy.
But what if this “boring” life is the dream? What if this iteration of time is the one I look back and long for? The one where “you mak the wrld btr” written in freshly learned handwriting lives permanently on my chalk wall.
I guess two things can be true; I can always want more for my life and I can feel a mountain of gratitude for what’s right here; a lifetime of beauty in the sometimes boring.
Altered Latitude 