cue willie nelson.

been on the road again for a couple of days.

we drove to New Jersey first; a ride that was supposed to take about four hours took over seven, as the fucking hell that is route 95 engulfed us and showed us what traffic can really do.

on the plus side, i found 14 state license plates during the madness.

we got to jersey city and stayed with two of our oldest and dearest friends.  walked in to a beautiful home and the smell of roasted tomatoes and garlic, which almost made me weep.  had a lovely dinner, played quick catch-up in between children running around wielding fake swords, being chased by a four-year old in a stormtrooper mask.

alex stayed up and talked to them until 3 am.  i took the bed with the two kids and spent the night alternately pushing them away, finding air with my feet under the covers, and listening to the sounds of the city.

so grateful for old friends who still love us, despite miles and years apart.  words cannot explain.

yesterday we woke up and drove to maryland.  found a whole foods in philly, admired countless murals in the beautiful sun.  took to the bridges and the smaller roads, hoping to escape tolls, then realizing later that they do it electronically around these parts.

last night we found sticky fingers and had vegan food without worry.  sweet everything that is holy, that boston creme cupcake made me swoon.  nicely done.  and the owner has a pit bull, and works for pit bull rehabilitation and awareness.  more nicely done.

we trekked into DC to see the sights at night, with Milo as our guide, since he had just done the trip in the spring.  saw the White House and the capitol building and all of these huge places where good deeds and bad shit go down every single day.  oh look, it's the justice department!  and over there is the Supreme Court, thank you very much.  and in front of the White House sits the anti-nukes vigil that has been peopled since 1981.  no war, no war.  the latest sign says, "we should attach the Declaration of Independence to all of our emails.  that way we know the government will be reading it."

Milo got in trouble with the police for climbing trees in the park in front of the White House, and Selkie got reprimanded by a cop for sliding down the side of the stairs at the Lincoln Memorial.  

so proud of my children.  if they are gonna cause trouble, let it be by finding new ways to explore buildings and climb trees that are meant to be climbed.

we stood where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I Have A Dream" speech, and Milo talked about how it gave him shivers.  he showed us the sculptor's face in the back of Lincoln's hair at the memorial, and i teared up reading the speeches on the wall.  all men are created equal.  thought about trayvon, thought about the men in guantanamo.  thought about the poverty we saw driving though DC.  thought about the majesty of being in the capitol, and what it means to be proud of this country we live in.

hard to reconcile it all.  but then again, maybe we're not supposed to.

drove home through the maryland night air, both kids sleepy in the back seat.  when we got to the hotel milo offered to carry selkie in, since she was so tired.  the generosity of my son overwhelms me at times.

we're gonna do a bit of DC today, then drive to virginia tonight.  making our way across.  heading home.  

misty.

it is so quiet here in vermont.  i can hear the tiny feet of the squirrels on the pine tree outside my window, and the country birds calling morning to each other is a cacophony in the silence.

i'm almost embarrassed to press the keys down, bringing such rough-and-tumble noises to the neighborhood.

in a few hours, i'll be embarking on my first spanning study at the institute for descriptive inquiry, laying bare this question: in a profession that is so personal, how can i balance inserting myself as a member of the classroom community without saturating the culture of the group with my own values, beliefs and personality as a teacher?

i'll have three days to work on this question with other educators, people i know and don't know, and it will all begin this afternoon with me giving them my personal history.  giving them the story of my life, or one version of it.  i'm a bit scared.

i know i am safe here, that what i bring to this place is sacred in its own little way.  i will try to present myself without judgment or inclination, and lay bare my teaching self for all to see.  naked in my paring down of thoughts.  

it feels like a weight right now.  

but then the open windows give me just the tiniest of cool breezes, and i hear the squirrels chasing each other up and down the branches while the jays tell them to stop fucking around, and i know it will all be okay.  i will be okay.  i am always okay.

the day moves forward, and so do i.

alone time.

just watched my family drive away from me, my daughter howling from sadness in the back seat.

i'm alone for a day and a half with my parents before i head to my conference in bennington, and my ears are adjusting to three people being out of this tiny house.  amazing how i can hear the air in my ears, that tinny, ringing sound that accompanies silence.

of course, my niece and nephew and mom are upstairs, so its not all that quiet.

still.

that's what i need to focus on for the next couple of days: regaining some stillness in my heart.  i'm not good at being away from my family, and yet i need it with all my soul sometimes.  i forget just how much i should spend on my own breath, letting me just bathe myself with what i have to offer this world.

last night my daughter and her friends went through our 1990 yearbook and cracked themselves up silly at the names, clothes and hairstyles from "the olden days".  we were told that the 80s were the worst time to get dressed.  they found our hair amazing.  they thought we were doofuses.

we were.  still are.  but back then, we had baby-fat cheeks and the fresh-faced optimism about the world and our lives.  thought love would last and nights would never end.  thought everything had the weight of a bon jovi song, and that we needed to know all the words all the time.

it was a long time ago.

i remember how, when i was 17, i was so scared to be alone.  i hated the idea, thought it meant that i wasn't loved.  i still have that somewhere inside of me, but i know better.  i have to find myself sometimes, take the minutes given to me and focus them inside of me.

i've had a blessing of a vacation in the past week: spending quality time with my favorite women, and now having a bit of respite to allow me some room before i go and pour my heart out as a teacher at my conference.  i'm very, very lucky.

of course, there is still the fact that my parents are with me.  maybe i'm not alone as i'd like to be.  

i'm good at hiding, however.  although, since i've been writing this, my mom has yelled out my name three times, asking for me.  "do you need me?" i asked.  "no!  i just miss you!" she responded.

breathe.  breathe.  breathe.

know this.

i spent the weekend with a few of my oldest and dearest friends in the whole world.  we sequestered ourselves in alyssa's beautiful house, occasionally venturing out into the real world, but for the most part we just sat together and talked.

there is something inherently gorgeous about the small talk that occurs among lifelong friends.  the second-nature of the joking, the ability to finish each others' sentences without feeling trod upon, the endless laughing. . . this is the framework for something that is so decidedly pure i can't tarnish it with too many words.

i will say this: i may not be the most spiritual person, nor the one with the most connection to my inner light.  i may not be the funniest or the most fulfilled or the happiest or the most daring.  

actually, i may be the most daring.

no matter who we are together or who we become when we instantly find ourselves holding each others' hearts in close proximity--breathing the same clean-rain air, hearing the same cicadas hum--no matter what it looks like to the outside world: to me, this time spent with these women is holy.  the time spent with them is a reminder of all that is good and powerful in this world, and why we are simply here on this planet.

holiness in the form of red-wine induced, mint chocolate mousse-inspired conversations that weave in and out of time zones, past and present, morning and evening.  laughing until we cry, holding our stomachs in solidarity.  we were in the church of old friends, and i was falling in love again with four women whom i have adored since i was a teenager.  

they remember me, they see me for who i am.  and in them i see nothing but grace, beauty and blessedness.  

today, there is only pure gratitude.

drive-in movie.

so here we are, stranded at the drive-in.

its amazing that the mendon drive-in still exists; that there are still families piling into cars and carting their folding chairs and vigorously spraying their children with bug spray while hoping it doesn't get on

the chili-cheese fries that they just bought from the snack bar.

those people are still here, my friends.

i remember the drive-in from when i was a kid: snuggling down under blankets when it was chilly, waiting out a rain storm, those incredible speakers that sort of fit on your car window, my brothers and i running around the parking lot before the movie started.

my father remembers his drive-in from when he was a teenager: 25 cents for each person in the car, making his friend Inky get in the trunk so it was cheaper, then taunting him when they finally parked, only cracking the trunk to throw him a bottle of soda.

classic.

in the midst of all of the whirlwind of drama around me--home, family, country, world and otherwise--it is times like last night that root me to the reality of my very, very good life.  sure, the movie wasn't the best (turbo--although it had a great finale) and the girl was tired and sniffly and the boys ate the huge bag of popcorn we bought in about five minutes and the camp chairs were really uncomfortable and alex got bit a bunch of times despite bug spray and the children next to us cried a lot, but still.

still,

this life of mine.

scenes from this place.

groton public library.  

boston, 5 am.

silent, indeed.

blueberry season.

madness.

for trayvon.

i can't seem to let go of his face, that sweet gentle smile and eyes full of life.  i keep finding pictures of his mom and his dad, reading their words about their son, not fully understanding the pain they feel but still not being able to ignore what it is.

he was my son, too.

i say this from my safe house, from my white skin, from my blue eyes.  i say this as a middle-class woman, still married, with a job that i live by and believe in with all my heart.  i say this as an outsider to  many lives, but as an insider to the reality of this country.

i say this as a mother of a white boy, secure in the fact that there is no reason to fear him walking down the street.

and i say this wondering what it is i can do, what i can possibly provide for my privileged child to help him understand his place in this world; the fact that he will be chosen first, be looked upon with pride, be seen as a great possibility instead of a liability or a statistic.  

he will be just fine.

but today i realized that i have a job to do, a new kind of parenting that i have been entrusted to provide.  trayvon's parents would ask me to.  his community would ask me to.  i have to do this, in order to combat the institutionalized racism embedded in myself, in my family, in my world.  i have to, in order to make things a little bit more right.

the job is simple: tell my son like it is.  let him know of his privilege, and tell him about his surroundings.  explain how far back it goes.  speak the names of the boys lost, and tell him of their stories.  show him pictures of trayvon and oscar grant III.  tell him what they liked, how they played, what their favorite things were.  make them real.  

and then enable him, engage him to make change.  have him stand for what is right, and have him aware of his own thoughts.  talk to him out loud, be bold in my opinions and be brazen in my faults.  let him see that racism is inherent in all walks of life, let him see how it hurts, let him see how it destroys.

let him see how shallow, how small a person can be who believes skin color denotes behavior.  show him how much fuller an open heart can make one person's life.  

this is what i can do for my son.  this is what a white mother can offer in this time of strife and sadness.  this is what i can do--walk the walk for trayvon and all of the boys lost.  i can only hope that my heart's beat contributes to the healing that we need, and helps me to see myself more clearly.

sweet boys.  may my tears for you meld with your peoples' tears, so that we have the evidence in front of us that speaks to how entwined we are: water from our bodies that mirrors each others' sorrow.  we are the same, i am your mother, i am your sister, i am yours, and you are mine.

only together, no other way.

 for my son, for my other sons, this is the truth i know tonight.