Feast After Famine

Packing six people for a week in the Maine woods is a bit like mobilizing an army for war in the desert: hot-weather clothes for the day, snuggly warm bits for when the sun goes down and the cabin gets cold. 

I have mountains of clothes to wash, dry, fold, sort, stack and pack. But I also have to tidy the house and yard too because, what if I die on vacation? I'm going to be one shit of a bother then, what with the cremation arrangements, the funeral, the party back at the house. No one wants to scrub the toilet, dust the dresser and clean the mirror if they also have to call my friends and pick the songs the cantor will sing at Mass. 

So, I mowed the lawn, picked up the playroom, vacuumed under the beds, wiped the tops of picture frames and washed windows. And now I'm about to tackle the packing.

What? Doesn't everyone do this? 

I love when good people exceed your best expectations. It's like getting into your favorite college. Winning a full scholarship. And falling in love. 

All on the same day. 

Such was the case Monday at my children's yoga class. It's designed for 3- to 6-year-olds, so there are always games and stories mixed in with playful postures. The teachers talk a lot about peace and kindness, love and breath and all manner of hippy dippy things that make my heart go pitter patter.  

So, I thought it seemed a perfect union to get the class to participate in Karen Walrond's peace project. Remember Chookooloonks? The photo-blogger who's collecting peaceful images to send to the church in Florida, the one that plans a Quran-burning party on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks?

I floated the idea past the yoga teacher last week and she ran wild with it. 

I thought, maybe, the children would do a posture for peace or color some pretty pictures. But Shelley, god bless her, talked about peace from the start of class to the end. 

Sharing toys, helping neighbors, visiting other countries, listening to different kinds of music. They're all forms of peace, she told them. 

They blew bubbles for peace, colored and balanced as heroes for peace. That church and its members might never learn peace. But I know a class of youngsters who are well on their way.

Behold the awesomeness that is Shelley!

Yoga for Peace from Dana Damico on Vimeo.

My father showed up at the house this morning when I was on my walk home from the coffee shop. Which means, my hair was mashed from a restless night of tosses and turns, my breath smelled funky, and my clothes were wrinkled under a thick coating of dog hair.  On account of wearing them since Sunday night. 

My Dad was there to help me so I thought it best not to point out that he promised to call first. 

I knew that when he followed me in the front door, we'd find a maelstrom of crusty cereal bowls, naked children, sticky hands and other pleasant things. 

While he futzed with his motorcycle, I ran ahead in a frantic, utterly pointless attempt to tidy up. The clean-up effort started - and ended - when I kicked a rumpled T-shirt beneath the couch. Because really, what's the point? I can give the dog a Peppermint patty, but it doesn't change the fact that her breath still smells like hot, rotting garbage. 

This is my home. The wood floors feel a bit pasty in places, gummed up by errant risotto, jam splotches and, I don't know, accidental piss puddles. Most of the white door frames are muddied by dirty fingerprints from the door knobs down. Buttons are popped off couch cushions and a vague hint of shit fills the house most days.

This is how far I've fallen. 

Once upon a time, I kept an immaculate house. Then we got a dog, a very cute white and brown spotted animal who sheds the equivalent of three "Mop Dogs" per week. I let my standards slip ever so slightly (my mother bought me packets of lint rollers to pull me back from the abyss) but I managed to keep the house well-groomed. 

After the first child was born, colorful (UGLY!) toys came to live with us. The second and third babies came as a pair and I coveted sleep more than cleanliness. But I still maintained some sense that Kent and I lived as civilized adults in creative, uncluttered, well-appointed surroundings. 

We bought a white sofa and a white dining room table. We lived dangerously, man!

Two years ago, Tobias pushed the family to six and kicked my OCD on its ass. I don't have the energy. I don't have the time. I don't have the fight left in me. 

Which brings us to yesterday, and the new art installation at our house. It's called "Black Sharpie Meets White Dining Room Table."

I took one look at the permanent scrawls, clutched my hands to my face, threw my head back and screamed to the heavens. Like a wild animal about to devour its young. My tribe scattered to their rooms, and left me alone to scrub "Goof Off" and mumble obscenities. 

The marks remain. The house still looks like six people live here, including three who can't wash their hands or wipe their bottoms properly. I'm not gonna tell you I've found Zen with the mess because I haven't... and likely never will. 

I'm just going to try not to obsess over it. 

I learned something new this weekend: how to can tomatoes. My grandmother, the inimitable Josephine, would be proud.

Canned tomatoes, preserves and other treasures used to line the walls of her wet, dark, cobweb-y cellar. I've rolled gnocchi with my grandmother, and watched her bake her signature, to-die-for pies and cookies. But I never saw her can veggies or fruit. 

She lives in an assisted living facility now in western Pennsylvania so, when my garden went gonzo this summer and overproduced tomatoes like the end times were coming, I couldn't call her up and get a how-to. Couldn't borrow her tools or call on her decades of experience. 

Good thing for great neighbors. With fertile gardens themselves, proper pots, high-tech stoves and the pro-cooking skills that come from whipping up the kitchen with Julia Child. 

I spent Sunday afternoon with my next-door neighbor and two other women from the street learning how to turn our summer bounty into fresh winter deliciousness. We called it a "Canning Party," replete with wine and cheese and good cheer...

And a canning cat too, because, of course. 

"I think it's relaxing," said the culinary school star. It was. 

Relaxing.

Enlightening and fun. 

And rewarding too. God, I cannot wait for winter now. 

I traveled to New York City alone, to a conference where I knew no one. I recognized women I read, whose words and images I admire. But I didn't have a friend's arms to fall into for a familiar, reassuring hug. I didn't have soul mates to meet in the lobby for laughs, secrets, support. No one to steal away with for coffee, a slice or a stroll down Fifth Avenue. 

I don't know the difference between Blogger and WordPress. I don't want sponsors. I am not a brand.

My readers are friends, neighbors, and friends of friends with strangers thrown in. I know of only one blogger who reads regularly.

I sat at a table at the community keynote that quickly filled with charming, hilarious, obviously creative people. I looked at a card from one. "Your blog sounds familiar," I said. Women lowered their heads, turned their eyes and stifled laughter. "Oh," I said. "Are you famous?" More repressed chuckles. Silent nods. The blogger laughed with grace and humility.

I didn't know enough to know. 

I didn't go to the conference for parties. I really did go for the panels. And the city. And, truth be told, for quiet and relief from the mind-numbing grind of life at home with four young children. I was open to new friendship and sacred connections but I wasn't anxiously seeking either. 

And so, when I stood in line to meet a woman I adore, to have her paint my body, the word I felt in my heart and bones and beyond was "different." 

Not different "odd" or different "awkward." No judgment. Just "different."

But then a woman with sparkly eyes and a smile that shouts, 'shaZAM!!' asked whether she could take photos as Karen worked. "Hell yes," I thought, though I'm sure I mumbled nervous nonsense. 

I made a connection in that moment, with a stranger...

... who became a friend. 

I found support. 

Still different, just a little less alone.

Special thanks to Amiee of Mamieknits for capturing the moment, but more, for forging a bond.