“Each color lives by its mysterious life.” —Kandinsky

It’s early and silent—three tender souls under one roof still are checked into another realm of slumber and dreams. I’m lying on a bench in our living room, gazing up at the tops of trees just coming into the light. The temperature is still very low from the night and there is a slight breeze that has begun to awaken the highest of branches—first so gently and then with an occasional gust bringing all of the branches together rising up in a momentary dance with the air. These few brief moments of noticing stir in me many aspects of my being—raising dust and moving around the parts of me stuck in the dark corners, bringing those facets back into the fold. Even from the other side of the glass where I am warm and removed I can sense the aliveness of the trees. I am wondering if I were living in a city still whether the sound of subway wheels clanking—multitudes of intricate faces passing me by—would move me the same. We are all made up of stardust, they say—even the trees, even the subway cars. We are all just orbiting around each other—each of us composed of this same magical dust. We brush by each other—at times like silk, a gentle caress. Other passages are abrasive—like brick on brick. I wonder what we will remember—what will remain—of these passings by.

Orange—I’ve decided—is the color of the soothing of souls. It is the color of warmth and comfort, of holding and forgiving. It is the color of new-beginnings—like green can be. Orange was Adrian’s 3rd-year favorite color, behind red and “lellow.” It’s funny, I’ve never before been drawn to the color orange like I am in this season. Now, I take it in with my eyes—with my whole body—like an elixir, soaking it up in the setting sun, in the images I work with, in the ember glow of a wood stove fire on an icy cold day. Our walls are grey, but—orange—orange is present when we come back into our home in the afternoons. It’s in our play. I feel orange in the preparation of a hot meal and the endless coloring, puzzle making and reading of books. Orange is Adrian licking the peanut butter and jelly off of his bread as I look on. It’s Jonah telling me a very long story at bedtime in a whisper—his voice still high and lilted—giggling out into the night air. Orange is cradling my heart—making it hardy—as I sift through old ways winnowing out what is worth keeping and discovering what must go.

My newly 7 year old son Jonah, who’s favorite color is blue—though and through—has decided that he would like to be a zookeeper when he gets bigger—a rescuer of animals hurt in the wild. He has elaborate plans for how his facility will be and prefers not to speak of any other options for his future so as to prevent distraction from his single-minded focus. He is seeking as much information about animals as he can get his hands on. I imagine a circle drawn around him—filled in with all that he is dreaming of. I see the circle as moveable and expansive—breathing—as his world grows larger and larger. For a long time, it was decided that Adrian—nearly 5 now—would also be a zookeeper with Jonah. I was surprised recently when he shared that he was going to be an artist instead. First he’d asked, “can you be just an artist?” I told him you could. There was a time in which I thought that I needed to decide between being an artist and being a writer. There was a time in which I thought that I needed to decide about who I would be.

If you would like to receive Journal Entries and Newsletters from Meghan, please share your e-mail address below.

“Freedom is from within.” —Frank Lloyd Wright

A meeting with Jonah’s teachers at his lovely, pink straw bale school house fills my early morning. A babysitter is home with my boys and I steal a little extra time to stretch my legs and my soul at the local YMCA. It’s a rare luxury these days, time alone on a treadmill mid-morning. I have forever loved exercise but lately my spare time seems to be filled-up with errands and long ignored doctor’s appointments—or with just finding a quiet place to sit and breathe. On the treadmill now, images of Jonah brought to life by his teachers swirl around in my head. I’m thinking about how they say they have noticed his depth, his wide-eyed observations of the world. I’m thinking about how they say they have noticed his “goodness” and how he—like all of us—is also interested in discovering the other, varied sides of himself, the varied sides of life. I am reminded of my own struggle to be accepting of the many facets of my being and how I would never want for Jonah to feel the need to live up to an unreachable standard—a need that I have been working to shed for nearly two decades now.

Nostalgic and poetic lyrics speak to me through my headphones and I am transported away from thoughts of Jonah—away from thoughts of my entire family who are almost always the main occupants of my heart and mind. On this day, I am no longer exercising at a YMCA in rural Maine, looking out at a wooded, still-wintery scene but back in New York City instead. I am meandering through the city with my dear friend, climbing over the Brooklyn Bridge. I have no diaper bag in tow. It’s September 11th now and I am stepping out of my apartment looking at the ash on my street and wondering if I should flee. I am meeting with a another friend in her Upper West Side apartment, plotting to save the world. I am looking for love in all the wrong places. I am schlepping giant paintings on the F train to fringe art shows in Brooklyn. I am being photographed on a tire swing, under the Manhattan Bridge—feeling like a dolphin. I am taking a leap of faith and buying an apartment, buying my first set of real furniture. I am dressing up as Pippi Longstockings for Halloween and staying out until dawn. I am picnicking in Central Park on my 31st birthday, falling in love in a better, more final way. I am so very, incredibly free and yet so incredibly filled with longing.

I’m walking on the treadmill and as these images flood my mind—and my heart, and my soul—I am wondering how that girl from long ago can be the same person who is now the mother of my two boys. I am wondering how that free-spirit with her total disregard for bedtime can be such a force of reliable rhythm for her children now. How can that young woman who teased her then boyfriend—now husband—about his constant need for an itinerary now be the one often in need of more certain plans. How can that girl, then on a constant roller-coaster of emotions now be the one kneeling down before her boys—often creating a lap for two—offering comfort and stability. I am wondering which parts of that girl have been tucked away and which parts of her have permeated her (my!) life today.

A few weeks ago my husband and I had a morning to ourselves and visited a few art galleries in Portland, ME. There was one studio that caught my eye from a distance—it was the vibrant colors of the paintings in the windows, colors in my own palette, that drew me in. We made our way toward the gallery and stepped inside, discovering an artist at work amongst his many paintings for sale. He and I had an instant camaraderie—we shared my maiden name. He was around 80 years old but his eyes were as shiny and tickled as a twenty year old. We chatted for a few minutes and he asked us where we were from. We said we were from “here.” He said, “Hmmm. I would have thought you were New Yorkers.” His comment made my heart sing a little. That life in New York—that decade plus a few years—unfolded me. It made me into the woman that I am today. It made me into the mother that I can now be to my two precious sons.

It turns out that artist—my namesake—is looking for someone, an abstract expressionist like myself, to take over his studio so that he may go away for a while. It did cross my mind that maybe our meeting meant that I should be the one. Ultimately, I knew that it was not for me. Crossing paths with him did reinvigorate something within me though. It reinvigorated my need to not  fall in line. It reinvigorated my need to live unabashedly and to allow my children to do the same.

Looking around my home and at the way in which I live my life, I see that girl has been making herself known in the best way that she could between diaper changes and nursery school pick-up. I see her in the colorful drawings pinned-up in nearly every room. I see her in the picture collage on our hallway wall. I see her in the wild imaginations of both of my boys. Still, as my little ones grow, I hope to unearth her further and share with them a little more of the fun that can be had when we set ourselves free.

“The soul is healed by being with children.” – Fyodor Dostoyevsky

When I awoke this morning my back was throbbing and my heart was heavy. I shuffled about washing each of the many dishes that hadn’t come clean in our dysfunctional dishwasher. My husband read to our children and I welcomed a bit of time to experience myself and dive down into what was causing me pain. It was both physical and emotional. I washed a mountain of silverware. I fed my sweet kitty, wishing there were still two. I took a shower. And then I discovered that my baby Adrian – oh so quickly transforming into a little boy –was ready to nurse and possibly return to sleep having been awake since the first glimpse of sunlight. I picked him up marveling at his new ability to communicate. He has recently named nursing, “deet-deet” and his blanket is called “night-night.” When I asked him if he wanted to sleep he shook his head up and down a resounding, “yes.” We climbed the stairs. I nestled my face into his soft cheek and neck. He fought me as I changed his diaper and kept telling me, “deet-deet.” I felt my heart softening when I looked into his eyes. Who could be unhappy looking into those deep, hazel eyes? When I finished I turned on his air-filter and closed his shade. A sliver of light shone through on us, the side of the shade propelled forward by an air-conditioning unit in its path. I sunk into the rocking chair, Adrian delighted to be nursing. I found his still-plump baby hands with mine and admired the dimples at each of his knuckles. Children are so beautiful, I thought. I traced my hand along the silken skin of his arm coming into the brilliance of this moment, thinking too about the power of my children to ease my troubles. I don’t mean this in the unhealthy, they-alone-need-to-make-me-happy kind of way. I mean it in the, “how can I be in the midst of such beauty and not feel the presence of God, of something so much bigger than me?”

I found myself thinking also of the scene I’d witnessed the day before. Visiting friends at their cabin on the water I swam alone out to a giant rock about fifty feet from the shore. My friend aptly described it as, “not far but still a world away.” I’d felt so alive swimming out to that rock through crisp water. I found my footing on a slippery surface then made my way to the top of the rock and finally stood, taking in the scene surrounding me. I was technically standing on a rock in a pond but it felt more like I was in the center of a very large lake or even a river, the water passing me by like a current. I was also surrounded by tall Pines and stood for a moment mimicking their reach, arms raised upward toward the giant, bulbous clouds above me. I relaxed into the moment and finally stretched out on my back on the rock soaking in the sun’s powerful rays now poking out from behind the clouds. I gazed over at the shoreline, at my family, at my friend’s family. It was such a lovely site – each child in their own unique place of development. One decked out with snorkel gear and a life jacket knee deep in water, another sitting in a kayak popping her head in and out each time lighting up the shore with her smile. I experienced such joy thinking back to this scene. I found myself lifting from the fog that I had awakened with. Slowly, gradually I found a shift occurring inside of me. I didn’t want to miss any of this – not even one moment of these beautiful children and their brightness. The thoughts that were making me feel low suddenly began to seem less significant, surmountable. Adrian was asleep in my arms now. I rose carefully, nestling him over my shoulder. I walked to his crib and put him down, quietly giving thanks for this beautiful creature.

 

“It takes a very long time to become young.” ― Pablo Picasso

One of the best ways in which we may lift our children up in this life is to show them that the world is beautiful. We may show them shells and sunflowers, lazy days and wild adventures, delightful foods and sounds and sights to see. We may show them love and respect for self and others too. If we hope for them to go out into the world and do something profound (whether that means living a simple and happy life or making a grand discovery), they must first see the world as a safe place. And the world is a very good and beautiful place. If our children have this opportunity early in life then one day when they witness the things that may not be so good, they will know what is out of place and this will be powerful knowledge in their grasp. This is not an original thought but one that I have come to use as a valuable guide  for deciding how to present the world to my children. And for me, oh what peace I have found in the hours of digging my own fingers into sand and dangling seaweed on sticks, the endless driveway chalk drawing, dough mixing and long bedtime gratitudes. I think I may benefit most of all.