keeping Yes

So I've spent days recently, thinking I need to say No more.

Or even, like, once.

You see, it kills me to say No to almost anything. If I do, then I totally agonise. I dwell. I pine. And then I often change my mind. Go running after whoever I said No to and say, Wait! Wait! Nix that No! I'm in!

Because I generally see Nos as doors slamming on Possibly The Most, Awesome, Adventures Ever.

I see potential adventures everywhere. They're hiding in every corner, you know. Just like ninja bunnies, waiting to jump out at you yelling, "Surprise! Here's the Most Awesomest Fantastic-est Adventure Ever! Bet you're glad you didn't stay home ironing your socks!"

The only real Nos I've said are the ones where Yes has been out of my control. I remember every one, and they still have the ability to make me sad.


But what with feeling so overwhelmed recently, so over-commited, I thought
perhaps I should say No to even one thing.

We should drop something, I thought. Anything. Just to lighten the load. Others do it—dear friends know how to say No. How hard can it be?

So, I said to my boy. "Howabout we drop some music? Just one class. Howabout Wind Ensemble?"

"Oh, no!" he said, "I get to learn all the percussion instruments then!" (And 'Oh, that would be a shame,' said my husband, 'That's a great class for him.')

Jazz Band? "No! That's the only place I play piano." (Ditto, said my husband)

Concert Band? "Please No!" (aka: That's crazy talk, Mum!)

Jazz Combo? "Double, triple No! That's my all-time favourite."

('Yeah, dude. What he said,' said my husband.)


(To be honest, my husband didn't quite say all that! :) He thinks my son's music schedule is okay, but he listened to how I'd been feeling and said, 'He'll be fine if he drops a class. Whatever you think is best.' He's lovely that way.)

Anyway, we decided for now that all music classes are safe.

That's cool, I thought; I can drop something else.


What about art?

My mind instantly said, No! Way! I love our art classes. I love the kids' teacher. We've been going for five years now and going there feels like Home. And after years spending a quiet hour and a half reading my book, I can now choose to join in, any time I ask. This is commonly known as a Win Win. Or, Joy Joy, in my case.

What about our two homeschool groups?

Oh, but there we see our friends. There I have a chance to catch up with other mums who make me laugh. There we sit in contented togetherness as the kids dash about like fireflies.

What about music lessons?

Well, that wouldn't make any sense. The kids love them. My son even said the other day about one of his teachers, "He doesn't even feel like my teacher, Mum. He feels like my friend."

All right then. Howabout sewing lessons with our neighbour and friend, with her son who is one of the kids' best friends?

Well, that doesn't even feel like a lesson; it feels like we're playing. On Friday after the kids finished sewing their first! ever! shirts! we took a break to all draw each other without looking down at the paper. We were doubled over laughing. How do you say No to that?

Writers Workshop, then; the one I've been running for nearly two years?

But the kids are on the edge of something wonderful—we're about to work on longer projects. They want to write books, these kids. They want to meet every week. They come in and words pour out. They inspire me. Every single time we meet up, I feel bigger, brighter, lighter afterwards.

So where does that leave us? Lego League.

Where every time we go the kids have a blast. Learn so much. Be independent. Invent, explore, brainstorm and play with their friends. Where the leaps in learning are huge, where they get to achieve something kind of beautiful together. Where the tournament day, the one they spend two months preparing for, is unbelievably cool.


You see how hard it is?

The hardest part, well…

it's actually the best part. It is the sweet silver lining.

I see how much joy Yes brings.

Almost every Yes brings us

Creativity.

Beauty.

Flight.


It brings us concerts, and art, and workshops, and impromptu hikes. It brings us visits with friends, hours at the library, going to plays, doing Something Completely New almost every week.

It takes us on camping trips and to meet new people. It lets us try new things on for size to see how they fit.

It brings us life learning.

And it gives us unexpected moments of total bliss. Like our sewing lesson on Friday. I almost cancelled that; I almost said, We don't have time. I almost missed being doubled over laughing at approximately 11am with dear friends.


But while seeing just how beautiful Yes is, for us,

this week I realised

there is room for No.

No doesn't have to break my heart. Little Nos can happen, and joy can still come.

We can say no, once in a while, to homeschool group. Stay at home or go to the library instead.

We can say to an invitation, "Not today; howabout next week?" when we've got a delicious project on the boil.

My son can miss a music class now and then, or we can do some rearranging so that one particular day isn't filled with 2 and 1/2 hours of lessons and rehearsal.

I can say, See You Later, to my computer, when my girl comes up to me and says, "Can we do something right now? Together?"

I can let things go, in small day-to-day ways,

to fit in the Yeses that mean the most.

So that when my girl asks, "Can we make a cat suit? Can we write together? Can we build a house for my toys out of real wood?" I can say,

Of course!

So in celebration of the joy No 

and Yes 

can bring,

here is a taste of what both 

brought us this week:

art by a boy and by me

(and by a girl, but she said, Don't put it on your blog, Mum!)

me drawing him

him drawing me

finished shirts!

swinging at Lego League

planning with the team at Lego League

presenting a speech at Lego League

a writers workshop party

watching a play (created entirely by kids)

a game of Creationary 

and running around at Relay for Life

while a dad played with the band.

Lovely, no?

I mean, yes!

:)

taking flight

So we were on our bikes yesterday

riding into a cold wind, on a wild blustery day, pedalling madly to keep warm.

Riding past the ocean, riding past the wind-kicked waves, past the dudes stripping off and putting on their wetsuits for a surf (a surf!!), past the low green hills, past the dude releasing pigeons from the back of his ute…

My girl stops.

My husband and I stop too

and we watch the birds 

wheel into the sky

wings flapping madly, turning this way and that, cruising a little over the sea and back, as they get their bearings,

then off they go and away, westward and home.

My girl says, 'Can we go talk to that man?'

That man in the distance, over the grass, by his truck. The stranger, releasing pigeons into the blue.

Huh. I would never have thought to go and talk to him. I would have stood back and watched him until the cold got too much, 

then ridden on.

But my girl wants to go over and ask the man questions. She wants to know what he's doing. She wants to know all about the pigeons. She wants to get close. She wants to learn something. 

'Can we, Mum?' 

Well, can I? 

How far does my Yes stretch? To walking my bike across the long field, feeling self-conscious… ? Will he mind if we talk to him? Will he be nice? We might disturb his pigeon business. We might disturb the birds. Who in the world goes across a sea of green to talk to a pigeon guy? 

The wind whips up. My girl looks up at me, sun-squinting. Waiting.

(Well, we do. Is the answer). 'Of course!' I say.

So we walk, and my son emerges from the low hills, coming back from the call of the bmx tracks there, and says, 'What are you doing?'

'Going to talk to the pigeon man,' we say. 'Want to come?'

'Of course!' he says. 

We four walk, bikes rolling by our sides. 

And the man turns when I call, 'Hello! Can we ask you about your pigeons?'

'Of course!' he says. And smiles.

His name is Les. He's kept pigeons, 'Not long,' he says. 'Just since 1967.' 

Sure, he races them. How far have they flown? Oh, from Rockhampton in Queensland, across Bass Strait from Tasmania, home from Keith, South Australia. 'They're home in a day,' says Les proudly. 'Or less.'

They don't always come back. 

'That one,' he points a thumb at the cage beside him, at one of the heads bobbing up and down, 'was got by a hawk, but I stitched him up.' 

We hear about the hawks, the electronic signals in the air, all the things that'll stop a pigeon from coming home.

We hear about pigeon racing, and did you know it's huge in Belgium? Like, massive. They don't do greyhounds or horses. They do pigeons. 

'I didn't think it was much of a spectator sport,' I say.

'Not at the beginning!' says Les. 'That's the boring part, that's the part for us fellas. No, they all wait at the end for them to come home. People'll bet millions of dollars on 'em. A man in Japan spent $180,000 just for one pigeon.'

'A winner?' I ask.

'He thought so!' Les grins.

You can start with a hundred and fifty pigeons and end up with none by the end of the year. You can't get attached. You just make more pigeons. 

And all this time, Les is reaching back and releasing pigeons, three at a time, into the light-drenched sky.

The birds have figured out the way home from watching their friends, and fly like arrows. West.

'They'll be home before me,' says Les.

Hopefully all of them, I think. Wind-blown and blissed. With their minds alert, their feathers and bones and minds alight.

'Thanks so much, Les,' we grown-ups say, 

and shake Les's hand. 

And as we leave, and wheel our bikes over the grass, the kids remember, and 

call out over their shoulders, 

Thank you! 

Thank you!

Les smiles at my girl, my boy. 'My pleasure!' he calls back. 

We ride and grin. 

'Wasn't that awesome??' we say to each other, to the one riding in front, the one riding behind.

Oh, it sure was.

And we wouldn't have this moment, 

if not for my girl.

Asking, thinking, wanting, looking,

and for us living, 

more and more, bigger and bigger,

in a land of Yes.

linking with lovely

Owlet…

music = Spirit

After two nights of concerts,

I feel filled with music.

Like someone opened the top of me, and poured the sound in.

last night's concert

After two nights of listening,

beside a man who lives, breathes and loves music…

After two days of laughter…

After two days and nights of 

adventure, love, and togetherness 

(with my three True Loves—man, girl and boy—

and my very own mum too)…

my husband pretending to be a dancing bird at the Australian Museum today… :)

my girl drawing (of course!) birds of paradise at the Australian Museum…

my boy reading about some serious carnivores…

my boy getting lunch at my favourite soup kitchen in Sydney (Betty's)…

my girl, just after she skipped up to me…

Us.
Last night.

…I can't stop 

singing.

And 

smiling!

And with music pressing at me from the inside out,

words are rising up too, wind whipped and whirling under my skin;

they

push at me with their little fingers. 

Write me, write me, write me

they whisper.

And I want to.

And I want to ride my bike and careen the biggest hills with no brakes.

Listen to music. Make music. 

Sing all day.

Skip and spin.

And grab at every minute of the time I have and the time that's coming and say,

Let's. 

And I wish I could share with you 

ALL the music I have been moved by…!

Music truly is the Spirit, dancing.

yes to life!

Sun is shining!

Sky is blue!

Birds are singing (I'm certain, even though I can't hear them) in the trees. Grass is green, right here (not just on the other side :) ). It's not cold, it's not hot, it's Just Right.

And life is sweet.

How can it not be, when there's been a bike ride (already!) and now there'll be lunch (I hope someone makes it for me) and the kids are bouncing (up and down and up and down the stairs, telling me everything the cat and kitten are doing, "Mum! The kitten just jumped on the cat! Mum! The cat was licking something in the sink!").

And we're off on another adventure in a couple of hours,

on this sunshiney day, with, I swear, not a single cloud in the sky.

Tonight I have a date. A real date, in Sydney! With nice clothes on  (I bought some yesterday for that very purpose. It was my first clothes shopping trip in um, a really really long time), and food out, a handsome fellow by my side, gorgeous music at the Opera House, and a stay overnight in a part of Sydney I love (in Glebe, for those who want to know).

And the kids are having their very first ever sleepover at their Nana's place in Sydney, and are so excited they're like squeaky toys. Or maybe like those toys that won't stop singing. Or those toys that make you smile just by seeing them.

My cup is running over, spilling, splashing, bubbling, grinning.

But can I tell you one more decadent thing?

We had a date last night too. (Thanks to the most wonderful Nana there ever was, kid-sitting twice in two days).

We saw these three women (together called Seeker Lover Keeper), singing lush harmonies, smiling at each other, just golden with the joy they felt, sharing themselves in a dark room, surrounded by a hundred listening souls. It was a delicious concert, like chocolate pie or maybe a mango sorbet, or something the kids made for your birthday.

And tonight we're doing it again, only with jazz. With perhaps a little less smiling, more intense blowing of saxophones, and intricate melodies spiralling out like an Escher print. I can't wait.


I don't think life can get better than this. Right now. Four people going on their own, particular, glorious adventures, together and independently, seizing the day (and hugging it), taking life with both hands, taking off into the Wild Blue.

Do you see us? We are the four jetstreams, printed fuzzily, dizzily, on the paper of the sky.

There…

do you see us?

There he is, there she is, there he is, and

here I

am.



:)

where Yes brings you

Shall we go to the beach today?

Why, yes, I think, we shall…

You want to meet some friends there for a picnic and a walk and a play with the dogs?

Oh, yes!

I do!

and I do,

and I do,

and I do.

Now you are here…

would you like to pause…
and watch the light, see how it fills you…
and breathe the space in…?

Yes, please.

And then?

Well, after whole lot of playing and eating and walking and dune climbing and twig-house building…
it's getting late, and a bit cold. And, Oh. It's time to go home.

So we begin the walk back to the carpark and see this here,
a poor lost thing.

Whatever should we do?

Claim it,
of course!

And, well, do you think we should walk it a little, so it feels less lonely?

Yes, that would make it happy, wethinks.

And then, 

shall we take it to the carpark where perhaps it can be found and taken home to its family? 

Yes, of course, of course.   (and imagine the tears! The smiles, the hugs, the where-were-yous, and thank god you're home and the smiling policeman with his hat in his hand)

But then the thought comes to us all…

we can't leave it here. It's getting cold, and dark. This is not the place to leave an Innocent who has lost its way! 

Shouldn't we be the ones to bring it home? Shouldn't we do the right thing by this forsaken trolley and take it back? 

Which is when one bright young thing says, "And then we can claim the reward!"

Ah, yes, the reward. Four pairs of young eyes gleam.

The grown-ups have a think. Could we tow it? Nup. Can it fit in the back of the van? It would be a squeeze and where would the dog go? Hmmm. It's a really long way to walk. None of us have ever done a thing like this. But, look at their faces. We all turn and see the joy waiting to burst out, 

and my friend (who thinks Yes with every bit and breath of her and I love her for it) says, 

I think they should get to walk it back. Don't you?

Well, how could anyone say No? When the afternoon is clearly itching for adventure, when Yes is just lifting itself up with the most immense flapping of wings…?

So, we say, Would you like to walk this little fellow home, then? 

Why, Yes! chant the children. We would!!!

So they do. 

While two grown-ups drive two cars, plus a bit-too-small-for-a-big-walk girl, and two dogs to the supermarket to wait
(almost 3 kilometres away),

the rest of us 

embark on a magnificent, 

transcendent Adventure.

Jobs now self-assigned,
you see before you: Pushing, Left Pulling and Right Pulling.
Working beautifully together!

almost there…!

And when we arrive,

sweaty, grinning from ear to ear,

just bounding inside and out?

It feels the way Yes should always feel.

We did get a reward (Twenty bucks! We're rich!) 

But you know I don't think it was the money.

The reward for a life lived (as much as you can! as much as your heart can stand!) in Yes,

looks like

this.

the first

Yesterday was the first day of March, the first day of a new season, the first day of the rest of ever. And so on! :)

I made a resolution yesterday. First, I thought, "Hey, what if I posted something here every single day of the month? That'd be kind of cool!"

Then I thought, "I'm going to do it. I really am. This is the first day of writing every day. It'll be great!"

Resolution made. Great feeling—made me feel bold and euphoric. Suddenly, here was an excellent and mighty Plan. I wanted to hug it for its awesomeness. And that's the thing about Plans—they're amazing for making you feel great the minute you've made them/written them down/declared them to yourself (and possibly the world). Have you noticed? You make the Plan. You feel gladness, rising. In that moment, not only is the plan made, but the plan's achieved. Pure gold.

So then, the day moved forward, with all its regular beauty. There was writing, there were games, there was a visit from Nana, there was happy maths. There was a writers workshop and Thai food. There were cuddles with the kitten and the cat. There was dog walking and talking and singing and smiling. So much smiling!

Then it was night. It was late, suddenly, and the kids were only just going off to bed. I thought, "Right. That's cool; I'm tired, but no matter. It's almost time to write my first post of the month. The one that will kickstart my Mighty Plan! Any minute now…"

But then it was 9.30, and my girl's chest hurt, she had an itchy rash, things were unravelling. She was so tired, but couldn't get to sleep. You know those nights? They kind of suck, because you actually want to sleep. But your body/mind/self won't let you.

And then she was crying and new worries appeared, the way they do, when your mind opens itself up to Sad.

She said, "I wish you could stay with me Mummy. Please, could you stay?"

And all these thoughts quickflashed past:

Oh, but I want to go downstairs and write! 
If I lie down with my girl I know I'll get sleepy. 
What about my resolution? 
Okay I'll lie next to her until she falls asleep then I'll go down and write. 
But she might wake then and wonder where I am and if I promise to stay I should stay. 
But what about my blog? What about the Mighty Plan??
…… 
Well, what about it? 
Here in this moment my girl is sad. Here, in this moment, a girl wants her mum. Wants the closeness, the warmth, the safety, the love. Just wants it. Can't explain why. 
We all have those wants. I still have them. I still want my mum, and I'm OLD.

So I lay down beside my girl.

She said, "Are you really staying?"

"I sure am."

A few minutes later, I got up. Went and brushed my teeth, got into my jammies. I committed. Got back into bed.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Just got ready for bed. I'm in my jammies!"

What a smile. She scooched closer. She wrapped my hands in hers. She breathed in deeply, breathed out. All the sorrow gone. It was beautiful.

And five minutes later, at the door—a boy.
(A boy who had chosen—just after we made our Big Family Bedroom a month or so ago—to return to his room. Because of 1. the heat, 2. the heat, and 3. Dad's snoring…!)

He said, "Are you staying up here, Mum?"

I said, "I sure am."

"Can I lie here with you for a while?"

"Yep. You can sleep here, if you like. For the whole night!"

"Really???"

"Really."

Then there were three in the bed, scooched up, pillows joined, heads close, all sorrow gone.

Ten minutes later, there were four. All of us, the whole family, falling asleep at the same time. Here in the togetherdark, which is never ever scary.


And my blog post for the first of March? The one that would start my Post-Every-Single-Day-of-the-Month Mighty Plan? Didn't happen. My excellent resolution? Blown out of the water!

And I slept deeply and I slept sweetly. And woke to my childrens' smiles.



.

closer

For whatever reason, my kids are needing me a bit more right now.

Is it because I've been feeling just a little low and a little overwhelmed? Caught up with the sorrow in Queensland, full of the rain, feeling just a little (or a lot) overtaken by how much there is to do in our house…? Then there is the coming year. How will it go? Will I still run my Freedom Experiment? Will I trust enough, to truly embrace what that means? Will I manage running two writing workshops? When will we fit in music classes now my son is in a third band and there's going to be pottery classes, and the kids want to learn Italian? What about helping the Lego League team get to Europe? Will my boy be all right when the team goes off without him? Will I be all right?

So much, too much is in my head…It feels a bit tangled and some days my brain feels fuzzy. Not always, but enough that I think the kids might be feeling it. Perhaps they want me closer because of it.

Or, perhaps it's got nothing to do with me and everything to do with the creepy shadow puppet show we saw in Sydney the other day. Where the dude thought it would be excellent kid entertainment for the shadow scientist to do a lobotomy with a big serrated shadow knife, and transfer his shadow brain to the open shadow head of someone else. Woohoo! Yay! Perfect entertainment for kids 5 and up. My kids have each told me about the nightmares they are having, and they are 8 and 10 years old.


ANYWAY. This post is not about all that.

(Really? Don't we all want to go down the path of "Oh, the world is so difficult!" today?

Well, I'm not sure about you, but I know I don't!)



This post is about something else.

It's about what to do when both your kids say, two, or three, or four nights in a row:

"Mum, I wish I could sleep with you tonight," and, "I always sleep better when I sleep with you and Dad," and "Why can't I sleep with you?"

I reply with all the things I think I'm supposed to say.

"You'll sleep better in your own bed. There's not enough room for both of you in our bed. I want to have my own space—you're too big! And I can't sleep in your bed with you because I'm too big and none of us will get any rest."

(And underneath there's that feeling of, "I mustn't let them sleep with me; they're too old! And what a slippery slope that'll be, what if they get used to it, and both want to sleep with us for years? What if they're 3000 years old and still here?!"
…Ah, such helpful what ifs…always so reassuring…)



Then I pause. And I think, and I ask myself:

What if I just said, Yes?

Why can't I say, Yes? Why can't they both sleep with us when they want to?


Oh…my inner voice is saying: There's not enough room!

Well then, why don't I turn the big bed sideways and put in a spare bed? Easy.

Oh…now my inner voice is saying: One family shouldn't sleep in the one room! That's crazy talk!!

Well, why not? When the kids want and you can and you are so privileged it's actually an option not a necessity and it makes so many people sleep better and feel so happy, then why not? 

Who made these rules we think we need to live by, anyway?

I know I didn't, but I still feel the need to adhere to them. 

So, okay. This is what I'm saying to myself now:

Our kids want to sleep with us, sometimes. When they have had a rattled day, when the dark is too big, when what they want is to hear another person breathing in the same room. When they can reach out and feel my hand, just. there. and know everything is going to be all right.

Doesn't everyone want that, some days, and sometimes?

It's a human instinct, something we've tried to logic out of ourselves, but it's always there. A need for closeness, a need for contact, connection. It's a beautiful thing.

…

Am I listening to me? Hello?

…

Well, actually, yes I am.

Which means,

I'm thinking now that I will say, Okay.


I'm thinking that instead of, or as well as, cleaning one bathroom…

I will turn one big bed around. I will get our spare bed from the study and put it next to our bed. I will say, "Hotel Us is open for visitors, if you want, when you want!"

Who knows what that will mean?



Well, I might think it's crazy tomorrow!

The kids might say, "Mum it's too bright! Too dark! Too hot! Too noisy 'cos Dad's snoring like a Wildebeast!" The kids might wriggle. They might kick me in the back. They might steal all the available space and my husband and I might end up dangling off the edges. We might be usurped and end up, each of us, in the kids' beds, in their rooms.

Oh, all these things and more MIGHT happen.

And they might not.

I say, Let's see!


Because tomorrow and the next second and the great big possible future are, all of them, different times from now. And I haven't lived any of them yet!




(oh, I donated to the Queensland Flood Relief Appeal today. It wasn't so hard to do…and it felt right all the way through to my bones.)