My Winter Song to You*

 

Even a lax - perhaps lapsed - blogger like myself is seized with the need to mark the  year's end. 

I was trying out ideas for a year's end post all week, wandering through the path of the year laid out in my mind, picking up pebbles of thought and waiting until my pocket felt full to burst. Then I would pick out a a nice round stone and  tumble it around until it emerged as a sparkly, perfect jewel. The secret gem right under my nose that would explain it all, right  in my breast pocket. 

Because it always has to be right under my nose and perfect. 

I got ready to leave the house early this morning, on tiptoe so as not to awake my infant grandson. I was anxious to get out the door for my quiet time, physically hungry for the dawn light and a large cardboard cup of coffee in my hand. If I made it to the coffee shop before 7:00, I would almost be guaranteed a seat at the counter, my back to the crowd, the light pouring into the windows and onto my face.

And then I heard his cooing and gurgling and giggles. He was already in the living room, sitting on his father's knees and his face lit up in a grin as wide as the world when he saw me. I kissed his velvety head and sat down with a thunk on the wicker ottoman. I made silly mouth noises and raspberries, his favorite, and  said the words I have said to  him the words I have said to him a million times since July in my silly, high-pitched sing-song voice, "I love you". 

He squealed and pounded his right hand onto his leg in infant applause. 

 

Love is so alive in this house. 

 

I did not pick him up because if I did, I would not be able to put him down. I would melt into the warmth of his purring  embrace, his drooly mouth, his sticky hands, his bright eyes, and his toothless grin. Let me go now, I told him, and I'll be back.  I need to be there  before 7, I told his father, or it's too crowded to think. 

He tilted his head at me. "It's 7:25".

I had read my watch wrong: I had thought it was 6:25 as I congratulated myself for my early take on a long day. 

I should be an expert at this point in my life in balancing the blocks and making all my towers stand upright and balanced, but one always crashes to the ground with the subtle tilt of the earth's rotation. I am auto-pilot most days, getting from point to point on a tight schedule. Rushed, hurried, short of breath, near to tears, exhausted, tense, thin-skinned.

The baby just smiles and squeals and follows me with his eyes, waiting for a connection to grin and laugh. He has become our  our new axis, and we gather around like  satellites, bumping and glowing and buzzing  our love to him and, in turn, each other. He is the balm of our souls.

In the peace of this week together, in the cold, sunny days and the colder dark ones, I have sunk down into babytime, clocks unnecessary as he wakes and sleeps, and eats, and plays. The days melt into sitting on the floor, rocking him to sleep, walking the rooms, changing diapers, and taking pictures. The pleasure of two hours lost to holding him as he naps. The call to early bed so we are fresh for his early rise. 

With peace, comes self-enlightenment.  I have so neglected my writing. Not just this year or last year or any year, but in my life, all told. I have used every excuse I can muster: lack of time, lack of money, lack of mentoring, lack of privacy, lack of focus. But really just lack of commitment. 

I do not know what this year will bring.  I am ready for it, as much as any of us can be. I am truly content to remain here and there, at work and play, alone and with, in the nucleus of our family, traveling between two homes, missing one or the other,  gathering the kids into one place with one or another always errant, feeling well or ill, and 

My new year's commitment is simply this: write, paint, read, love.

Oh, love, love, love. All round me. 

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* Winter Song, Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson.