After I wrote Things that freak me out, I remembered that Zoe wanted to take a walk before we loaded the truck for the dump run. We decided to take baby V, my feisty, curious and adorable little niece. Zoe had made a point to connect with V, had figured out how to give her a respectful sense of
freedom and yet set boundaries.
The three of us walked together down the long gravel road on my parents' 18 acre property in San Miguel. Casey the dog ran ahead. The house my parents built about eight years ago sits on top of a hill surrounded by oak trees and small vineyards, including 27 rows of Petite Sirah and Muscat Canelli on their northwest slope.
The sun was out but the morning fog was still hovering, making it bright but with visibility so low that all we could see was the road just ahead and behind. V would veer off and run into the plowed fields and look over her shoulder at Zoe with her mischievous little face. Zoe would run and catch up to her, gently pick her up and turn her around. "We are going this way, V," and take her little hand and walk her back to the road.
"It's really beautiful here," Zoe said.
I told her I was freaked out. She said she was having a hard time figuring out how to connect with my parents on this visit. I told her Me, too.
"Maybe it's the circumstances, Mom," she said. Afterall, we were there to prepare for a CPS inspection, which meant scrutinizing my parents' house and all its contents through a harsh lens in search of poisons and unlocked firearms and other hazards.
"Yes, no doubt," I said, but added that all the accumulated crap was really getting me down. The way my parents hold onto things.
Zoe said, "Ultimately it's all about nostalgia." I added that a dimension of nostalgia was letting go of potentials. Keeping things means the potential of using them in the future. Letting go means those things will never be used. They have no future. You hold onto the things you hope you will need. Maybe it was about the fear of death.
We remembered how my grandparents lived through the depression, and though my parents climbed up into comfort, like their parents they continue to hold tightly onto things just in case. It's something inside me, too: a fear of scarcity.
I told Zoe I was really sad.
"It seems normal to be sad and disappointed by your parents and their choices, Mom," she said. Baby V ran ahead, chasing the dog down the hill. Zoe lovingly ran after them, not yelling at them to come back, just letting them run. It was safe. It was the middle of fucking nowhere.
Alone in the bright fog I started bawling. When we caught up to each other again, Zoe said gently, "You can keep crying, Mom. It's the human condition. It's good to cry...But then, when you are done, you can come up for air and see the benign reality. I mean, look around." The sun was burning through the fog revealing the rows and rows of orange, yellow and red grape leaves close by and on the rolling hills as far as you could see.
"Many more human beings are leading much harder lives right now, and in the past and always will be. When you are ready, you can put on another lens and see the beauty." We started walking back up the hill towards the house surrounded by the young willow and sycamore trees my Mom planted.
"To be honest," Zoe said, "I've had more than one session in which I've cried deeply about the sacrifices you have made, the life of the artist you didn't get to lead because of them. Then I feel better, and can see that this is your life."
I was speechless. Just the sound of our feet on the crushed granite. Baby V and the dog ran ahead. Zoe put her arm around me and we walked back. I was able to see the benign reality.
The three of us walked together down the long gravel road on my parents' 18 acre property in San Miguel. Casey the dog ran ahead. The house my parents built about eight years ago sits on top of a hill surrounded by oak trees and small vineyards, including 27 rows of Petite Sirah and Muscat Canelli on their northwest slope.
The sun was out but the morning fog was still hovering, making it bright but with visibility so low that all we could see was the road just ahead and behind. V would veer off and run into the plowed fields and look over her shoulder at Zoe with her mischievous little face. Zoe would run and catch up to her, gently pick her up and turn her around. "We are going this way, V," and take her little hand and walk her back to the road.
"It's really beautiful here," Zoe said.
I told her I was freaked out. She said she was having a hard time figuring out how to connect with my parents on this visit. I told her Me, too.
"Maybe it's the circumstances, Mom," she said. Afterall, we were there to prepare for a CPS inspection, which meant scrutinizing my parents' house and all its contents through a harsh lens in search of poisons and unlocked firearms and other hazards.
"Yes, no doubt," I said, but added that all the accumulated crap was really getting me down. The way my parents hold onto things.
Zoe said, "Ultimately it's all about nostalgia." I added that a dimension of nostalgia was letting go of potentials. Keeping things means the potential of using them in the future. Letting go means those things will never be used. They have no future. You hold onto the things you hope you will need. Maybe it was about the fear of death.
We remembered how my grandparents lived through the depression, and though my parents climbed up into comfort, like their parents they continue to hold tightly onto things just in case. It's something inside me, too: a fear of scarcity.
I told Zoe I was really sad.
"It seems normal to be sad and disappointed by your parents and their choices, Mom," she said. Baby V ran ahead, chasing the dog down the hill. Zoe lovingly ran after them, not yelling at them to come back, just letting them run. It was safe. It was the middle of fucking nowhere.
Alone in the bright fog I started bawling. When we caught up to each other again, Zoe said gently, "You can keep crying, Mom. It's the human condition. It's good to cry...But then, when you are done, you can come up for air and see the benign reality. I mean, look around." The sun was burning through the fog revealing the rows and rows of orange, yellow and red grape leaves close by and on the rolling hills as far as you could see.
"Many more human beings are leading much harder lives right now, and in the past and always will be. When you are ready, you can put on another lens and see the beauty." We started walking back up the hill towards the house surrounded by the young willow and sycamore trees my Mom planted.
"To be honest," Zoe said, "I've had more than one session in which I've cried deeply about the sacrifices you have made, the life of the artist you didn't get to lead because of them. Then I feel better, and can see that this is your life."
I was speechless. Just the sound of our feet on the crushed granite. Baby V and the dog ran ahead. Zoe put her arm around me and we walked back. I was able to see the benign reality.
What an awesome blog post, Kim. Zoe is amazing, and so are you. All of you guys are.
ReplyDeleteI hear you about the clutter and hoarding but I also think there's something beautiful about holding on to potential. I think it's more problematic when one lets go of it altogether...it's sort of like giving up hope for a better future, and I don't think anyone should do that.
Like anything it's about balance and for some the balance is really hard (if not impossible) to strike for some.
I'm sorry I'm not there to help you guys out this weekend. Love you and am thinking of all of you! xoxo <3
As our children step into a role of adviser, we may chose to observe with both wonder & pride.The benign reality indeed.
ReplyDelete