This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz...

When I dance with William to silly childrens songs we whip around in circles on the floor. He throws himself back in my arms, trusting that I will catch him and laughs with sheer delight or if we just sway slowly to the music he stares intently at me and smiles, his nose all wrinkled up and his lips pursed in a funny little way as if he just never imagined that this much fun was possible and wants to make sure I feel the same. I always laugh too of course, I can't help it.

At The Good Shepard Convent in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where William and his biological mother lived from sometime before she gave birth until the day she handed William to us in the courtroom, the nuns told us that every Friday evening they played music for the women there and the new mothers would clasp their new babies in their arms and dance the evening away.

I think about that a lot for some reason. Strains of Sinhalese music filling the warm evening air, a roomful of women in colorful skirts carefully holding their little ones to their chests as they dance, probably some laughter and chatter shot through with the heavy weight of grief for the mothers who know they won't have many more chances to dance with their babies like this.

They have three or four months of Friday evenings...


Some pictures of the peaceful, beautiful gardens of The Good Shepard Convent where we spent a good deal of our allotted daily two hours walking with William:

Free

I have a deeply rooted fear. It's this: I am afraid to become complacent, to chant mindless cliches as life-truths instead of thinking for myself, to narrow the walls of my existence to such a point that nothing worthy or fresh can thrive within them. To become stagnant and stale. To not strive to grow and change daily. To not know myself and far more important than even that, to not strive for a richer faith, a deeper prayer life, a thriving vibrant inner life. I fear walking through life ignorant of the depth I desire and need. I fear someday not realizing this is a fear of mine. Of these thoughts not even crossing my mind.

At least when I struggle or rage against myself for my shortcomings and flaws, there is hope. When I smile blandly, sacrifice honesty for comfort and speak nonsense words that don't begin to skim the surface of life, when I become content to settle with less from myself, then there is none.

I struggle. I muddle through things. I fail a lot. I get disappointed with myself and I move on.

A human being can be so many things. It is impossible to be just a one word description. I am not only "kind", I can be rude and thoughtless. I am not only "selfish", I have moments of generosity as well. Characteristics can be learned and unlearned, practiced and suppressed.

I question. I do a lot of night-thinking, soul searching. I write things out to help myself understand my own feelings. I hope to remake myself daily, hourly, by the minute actually. To not point out that flaw of someone elses that I just happened to notice; to not judge others so quickly, in fact to not judge them at all; to try to be more humble; to define myself less and less by the world around me but instead by my faith and by God's standards.

I believe in a God of mercy. A God of forgiveness. I wonder at the love of Jesus who stands by an adulterous woman surrounded by a crowd of angry men who want to stone her to death for her sin and says "Let you who are without sin cast the first stone then." The crowd disperses and He says something to the effect of: they do not condemn you and neither do I so go and sin no more.

What I mean is that faith, rather than limiting me and narrowing my mind, makes it in fact more open. I feel free in the knowledge that every day I can fail. And every day I can try again to be better. That this is acceptable and human. Free in the knowledge that I have a God who understands this.

The Mystery

No.
You've got it all wrong.
It has nothing to do with me my dear.
I'm not speaking of some great, soul-searching mystery like:
Who am I? or Why am I here?

Rather, it has to do with you.
Why, why, why
By a river on a cold early evening,
In autumn-heavy, dull-dark air,
At that exact moment at that exact hour of that specific day...
Why were you exactly there?

I know it is a mystery but still I think the question fair.

Let Them Eat Cake Not Um, Other Stuff

Today the "negligent mother" award goes to me, please don't judge me too harshly...

But honestly, in my defense, is there no end to what a little boy will eat? The things he rushes to stick in his mouth and swallow before I can catch him? You'd think I'd be faster. Or smarter. But how could I have ever guessed that today his delicious bread and cheese wouldn't hold the same appeal for him as the cat's litter box? I'm sorry, but I simply can't stay that many moves ahead, my mind doesn't work like that. He's like a master player while I am left guessing at his next move like an uncertain beginner. But oh, the cat's litter. Someone tell me it ends here. :)

Stay away from the litter William and I promise to give you all the chocolate cake you can eat. Ever. Litter, grass, dog food, and other things I don't even want to guess at will never make you as happy as gooey chocolate cake will my darling. I swear I'm right.

(William after a delightfully gooey chocolate mess of a cake)

The Quietest Of Times

"Such evidence I have of indifference
Were surely enough to break the coldest heart.
But this heart is not cold, it has never been cold.
It never, never, never has been cold."
- Stevie Smith (Voice from the Tomb 3)

Sometimes we need quiet. Sometimes we need to step back from the world, to pretend to ourselves and to others that we don't exist. We think: You may see me, but I'm a ghost. I'm not here. My heart is breaking. My pain overwhelming. I can't stand up. I can't be a part.



Sometimes we need isolation. To be alone in a room. To be alone to mourn. To be able to hear our true selves; to hear God in silence. To allow ourselves to scream silently the questions to which there are no answers. Questions children cry when they've fallen an scrapped their knees. Why does it hurt? Isn't there anyone who can make it stop? There are times we need to experience all this.

And when you become a temporary ghost, it's convenient for others not to notice you just as you hope (and as you secretly don't hope) they won't.

But after awhile you begin to fall in love with your own intake of breath again. You begin to look in the mirror and see you are tired, that you need to be taken care of. You begin to smile again at strangers but when they don't smile back you think: maybe I have been a ghost for too long, maybe no one sees me. But you don't lose hope so easily anymore. You begin to see magic and loveliness in your life again, sometimes for days at a time. You cry when you remember how you allowed yourself to tear your own spirit apart with sadness, with words calculated to destroy. You begin to heal and take baby steps, clumsily moving into your own waiting arms. You could laugh with relief. You can stand on the edge of a group at ease with each other and call out cheerfully, with confidence: can I join you? See? Here I am! I no longer love isolation! Then you smile at the wonder of the passage of time and the way a soul becomes strong and giddy on hope.

You begin to understand that isolation and solitude are not the same. And with this understanding comes a freedom brought about by the pleasure found in being both alone and in the company of others. There. You say: I've found my way back to life. I'm rich. I'm content. I'm living.

(Grace's Parasol by Janet Hill)

A Baby Raised By Wolves (Portrait of a Thirteen Month Old Boy)

Or bears for that matter. Or...us.

I admit there are days that I think William acts like a boy raised by a pack of wolves. Yes, his manners are sometimes just that bad: loud belches and other noises best left to the imagination at the table or spitting on the priest when being blessed at communion time in church. He is by far the loudest child I have ever encountered. That being said, these things are all done with great enthusiasm, wild laughter and a spirit of silly fun. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse though. He certainly delights in his mischievous behavior and seems quite oblivious to the excellent manners that I, being a good Canadian, am eager for him to learn.

He has mastered the fine art of guttural growling for a few months now but more recently has begun to growl in response to the word "no". He understands no but something in him rebels against our daring to say such a thing to him. For a while every time we said no in a firm voice, his eyes would narrow and he would turn what he imagined an intimidating glare upon us and a deep, churning growl would come from his throat. Then he would settle back satisfied he had made his point. But we bravely persevered. Now when we say no, he seems more resigned but still gives a quick sullen low growl and more often then not, stops his offending behavior. Hey, we'll take whatever small victories we can get around here. ;)

What else? Ah yes, he has added another excellent piece to his conversational repertoire. At the table over breakfast one morning in a state of high excitement over the taste of jam on bread, he slammed his fists down on the table, eyes blazing fearfully and shouted out what sounded like "Mother Calcutta". I can imagine that by using that along with "hyena", "mama", and "dada", he will be able to create a marvelous sentence. Maybe he'll be a creative writer or a charismatic speaker or the dictator of a small country when he grows up. We can only dream...

I should add though that even in the midst of the craziness his waking hours entail, there are quiet moments of absolute sweetness as well. Soft baby boy sweetness, with his small head resting against my shoulder as he wakes up slowly from sleep or watches his mentor, Mowgli from the Jungle Book, on TV. Sweet little songs he sings while playing or sitting in his stroller. His beautiful, crooked little smile and the way his face lights up when he sees Per or me. Chubby little arms around my neck. So you see it isn't all wildness although some days it feels like it.

And this William, is a silly, tongue-in-cheek, imperfect attempt at describing your energy, playfulness, stubbornness, and sweetness. This is you at 13 (and a half) months old.