as a teacher, i invite children to 32 seconds of stillness every day. we listen to an old woman in japan sing a lullaby about carp. sometimes children sit. sometimes they curl up on their sides. sometimes the lean right next to me. sometimes they lay on top of me. sometimes they spend half their time running to turn off the lights. sometimes they spend the entire song gathering blankets and pillows for themselves.

we almost always do another 32 seconds…she sings for us again…and then, then there is maybe one second where we are all still at the same time. bliss.

i have an image that has landed in my mind regularly for years. i imagine the world getting pulses of peace. a simple moment where everything is Right. i believe in it. i want it. i wonder if it has ever happened. i wonder if it is happening the moment the thought comes. the possibility of global rest makes me giddy.

finding this poem tonight brought those two things to mind…now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. ahhhh…

Keeping Quiet
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

porch.
half circled by children
tinny banjo uke sound
coffee hot
sunglasses found
fog just lifting
sun just shining
strangers biking past
flowers hiding in buds
birds calling
more birds calling
roosters practicing crows
hens cackling

then house.
dim
cool
airy
swept
ready

good morning, morning.

i loved being pregnant, smooth and round, noticed and full.
i loved labor, predictable and interesting, surrender calling me and hot water.
i loved birthing my babies, like fish flapping and cool breeze, eyes closed but seeing it all.
i loved nursing, tingling and release, sustaining and sweet.

more and more i understand why. they were times when so much made sense. they were times when my body did work without me even trying to help. they were times when focus was inevitable, pain was normal, naps were essential, water tasted amazing, bumps and lumps were the beautiful evidence of life.

i love these children who came through me.
further more, i like them.

as these people grow older, i find myself watching them more. they don’t need me like they used to. i’m a bit farther back so i can see the slight raise of their eyebrows, the way they move their arms when they walk, the moment they notice a bird in the tree, the information they discover on their own, the technique to tie their shoes, where the water hits when carrying a full bucket.

to say i’m grateful to be their mother feels like i’m only scratching the surface.  like showing the vastness of the ocean with a thimble of water, the magic of a forest with a single leaf.

but under the surface is the quiet, deep knowing of the gift it is to simply watch the moments of their lives happen. happy mother’s day.

the simplicity and bounty of eliza’s birthday party seems in horrific contrast to the events of the world.

but i want to be at ease living in both worlds.
or maybe it’s walking down the middle of the two;
dipping in and out while coming back to center.
the hungry and the overfull.
the pure life energy and the dullness of lacking.
the carefree moments and those of fear.
the fire burning because we wanted it and the rubble that is left.

dipping in and out of all of life is where it’s at.

and on this day the backyard is where it was. eliza invited school friends for a backyard party with the chickens and the lambs.

these kids all attend the walton school and many of them live on farms.

when wanting to catch a certain chicken they didn’t call for the “brown one,” the called for the “buff orpington.” they didn’t call for the “black and white” one, they called for the “barred rock.”

they were kind and never complained about playing outside even in cool damp weather.

neighbor bunnies came and were almost impossibly cute.

having one child say, “mrs. epp, this is the best food i’ve ever had” made me feel like i was in another time period.

 

it was a family event:  naomi tied strings on all the donuts, micah and a friend hid eggs for a hunt, jerry grilled burgers and impromptu grilled cheeses, i was “in chawg because i know how to explain things so kids know what i mean.”

and when things resorted to piggy back rides, i felt AGAIN like it was another time period.  
such simple fun.

the day began and ended with gratitude for the joy. thank you, friends.

if yesterday’s gift of ice-enclosed reality wasn’t enough, when the sun rose with no clouds to cover it, our land shimmered.

the before-school chicken choring turned to ice exploring. i resisted getting my camera, chose to soak it all in with them. committed myself to seeing it without a plastic lens. but then our friend found something i didn’t know was possible:  a piece of grass sticking out the ground directly beneath the garage awning was all fat-worm like.

“that’s it kids, i’m getting my camera!”

micah kept the youngers off it and then the seeing through another lens began.

mama, a frozen acorn!
listen to this (ice falling off a kicked fence)!
no way!

the final moment before loading up my son for our daily just-the-two-of-us trip to school, he sent the basketball into the net.

and it stuck. his laughter was a day-changer.

and while i don’t tuck the film in a paper envelope and write my personal information on the provided lines or close myself in the dark room at the high school with the smells that can only come from there, i do have the few moments of taking out the memory card and connecting cord to computer to see what i thought i saw.

by the time preschool started, the cracking and dripping began.

with leg strong and nimble, we kicked our way through a 15 minute ice demolition celebration.

by the afternoon there was cracking and melting that mimicked a rain shower.

it’s like we know the earth is alive!  indeed we do.

frozen
adj

1. rendered immobile
2. motionless or unyielding
3. preserved
4. kept at a fixed level
5. impossible to withdraw

welcome, april 10. i didn’t expect you like this.

i read some weeks back the notion that prayer is talking, meditation is receiving.

a few days ago i heard the stories of peter listening first instead of talking first.

today i read that sometimes it is best to stay silent and smile.

many already know this without knowing they know it. i’m just learning.

so, with a silent smile, i share with you images of a new place to me.