Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Volcano!



Recommended Listening: Forever Young, Bob Dylan

May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung

Last week, as I chased Brody into my once upon a time bedroom, Muzzy, my teddy bear, looked back at me from behind the bars of the old Jenny Lind bed.  I stopped for a second, looked at my old friend and then handed her over to Bro.

Ah!  A special moment we’ll always share.  Brody took Muzzy, gave her a huge hug and the two have been inseparable ever since . . .

Actually Brody, a sensitive three year old who reacts strongly to deep voices and aggressive looking woodchucks kindly, but quickly offered her back.  Muzzy is well loved, with a flopping neck and weathered eyes that are now, gulp, pupil-less, and though not as scary as clowns, well on her way to starring in some kind of revenge of the toys B-flick. 

As the rose colored glasses that protect my childhood were pulled down ever so slightly by my son’s patented honesty, I placed Muzzy back on the bed, my face descending into a pathetic pout.  I patted my old teddy’s head, her little neck bobbing helplessly back and forth and whispered, “She was my best friend.”  Brody for his part did not hesitate with his response: “And then I came along and yelled ‘volcano!’”

Brody seems to be aware that there was a time before him, though I am pretty sure he feels it had few, if any redemptive qualities.  In Brody’s mind the world of PB, pre-Brody if you will, was a twenty-first century Dark Age, where people just sat around with pupil-less teddy bears, covered in a heavy layer of volcanic ash.

Were we aware that our teddies were scary?  Probably not.  Were we hot from the volcanic ash?  Perhaps.  [READER BEWARE: I have been informed time and time again that we do ALL OF US live next to active volcanoes (the dormant ones being not nearly as much fun)]. 

Before Brody no one ran from volcanoes, and no one understood that yogurt was and never is NEVER, NO NEVER a valid substitute for ice cream.  There was no “incredible,” just a rather ho-hum “as it is” and once in a while a “whatever.  If you’d like.”

And so in these spring days of new life and runny noses, my mind has wandered toward the countless clocked steps Brody and I have already taken together, the world Brody and I have charted. 

First the steps were mine alone, two feet, as I introduced him to a world I love deeply.  It is a green leafy world.  The world of spring and quiet mornings.  A world of heroic daffodils and hungry squirrels.

He was seven pounds, and I carried him everywhere.  Around the block we saw arrogant tiger lilies and laughing daisies, never making it past the stonewall and the cranky German Shepard before one of us had fallen asleep. 

From two feet we moved to the stroller.  Two feet, four wheels and an endless array of warm summer days.  The walks were now longer, and often consisted of the slow hum of Brody slowly falling into his afternoon nap.  “What’s up Bro?”  “Hmmmmmmmm.”  “I guess so, Bud.”  “Hmmmmmm.”

And then spring came again, before yielding to that second bright summer when four feet appeared.  In those earlier days two of the feet often stumbled: then there were four feet, two knees and two hands.  In the moments following his stumbles, we returned to two feet again, but just as every child is a miniature hero, persevering where the best of us might just give up, four feet would appear once more. 

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift

And then summer comes to an end, and a new world begins.  Just as my life seems to awaken in the spring, it is one of the great ironies in this world that children seem directed toward the fall. 

In September, Brody will begin preschool.  He has met his teachers, and tells me how we will all have a great time together.  He doesn’t understand (because I have not yet told him) that I will hold his hand up to the door, and then two hands will unclasp, two hands will drop and I will have to let go.  He will probably be a bit uncertain at first, but knowing my Bro it won’t last long.  Four feet, two going one-way and two another. 

For my part, I hope that he resists time’s cynicism.  I pray that his foundation is sturdy enough to weather callous gestures and careless cruelty.  Those things in life that trip us up.  That pull us away.  That weather the perfect little self we once were so comfortable with. 

May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong

He is brave and kind.  He thinks the world protects ladybugs and loves Mt. Merapi.  Paradise is a place of endless volcano videos within a Monarch butterfly sanctuary.  He never follows, but loves intensely.  He dislikes names other than his own.  He fights for everything, because he believes in everything.  When I say, “Make this small,” he says, “Little boys don’t make things small.”

I probably have not corrected him as often as I should.  His words are kind and thoughtful, his actions a mirror of his expectations.  He is strong willed and independent, and though I find myself sighing more than I would like to at times, I remember those words from “Forever Young”: May your song always be sung, and the writer in me, that spark that believes that all people have a place of sincerity, that we are all poets, allows him his space to compose 

I have asked him to listen, but I have never demanded his obedience.  Sometimes it has to be “because I said so,” but oftentimes we find our way together, Bro, his daddy and I.

The upside of this is a precocious, talkative three-year old, the downside is an at times jarring fashion sense.  Able to dress himself now, Brody takes great pride in picking out his own clothes.  I remind myself that Brody’s choices are no more concerning then when his dad dresses him, and let it go with that.  He wants colors and stars.  Polka dots (moons) and shirts with baseballs and mountains.

A wild yellow shirt arrived in the mail today, and I sighed before handing it over to the little jumping boy beside me.  "I told you it was great, momma.  Look out sun!"  He is the cinematographer of his life, and everything is Technicolor.

May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you

The trillium are growing again, their little pointed leaves strong and remarkable.  Did you know that they were the first flowers to return to the ash-ravaged side of Mt. St. Helens, now almost 22 years ago this May?

I had originally thought of volcanoes as forces of destruction, and so in tune with the destructive nature of my son.  But today, thanks to Brody’s countless books on the subject, I realize that volcanoes are, in many ways, agents of healing.  As things pass, life survives--creatively, miraculously and necessarily. 

Brody came into my bedroom last week and told me that Daisy had “metamophed.”  I was confused until I saw my littlest golden walk into the room wearing the too small bee costume she had worn as a puppy.  Goldens wear humiliation well.  Her little tail was wagging, her bee wings moving back and forth as though she were ready for flight.

“Daisy’s metamophed.”
“Metamorphosis?” 
“Yup.  That’s what I said.” 
“It probably doesn’t fit her too well anymore, bud.” 
“Yup.  She’s bigger now.  I’m 38 inches.” 
“You were once 19 inches.” 
“I don’t think so.”

Life is remarkable.  It is without limits and everything has the potential to be more.  Dogs can be bumblebees, volcanoes as perfect as butterflies.  I can’t say that I am always able to see it anymore, but with each step he takes, he pulls me along beside him just a bit.  Two feet jumping, two feet running, four feet disappearing into the grass.

“And then I came along and said, ‘volcano!’”

May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung . . .