In the chaos of the mall kid-zone my two are off playing without shoes, and I’m sitting pretty still except for my left leg which is rapidly tapping for some reason.  It’s extra full and crazy, a face-plant or some other injustice leads to screams or tears about every four minutes.  It’s hyper-hypos circling and swinging like animals surrounded by echoes and smartphones and shopping.  We don’t all speak English, or speak.  Eyes are tired from trying to follow it all.

There’s the timid child, the acrobatic one, the extra angry boy fighting his dragons and three kids far too big for the kid-zone.  The big ones have taken over the ABC slide.  It’s sticky and verging on lawless.  And there in the side corner sits a 6-7 year old boy in full lotus meditating.   He’s sitting in the corner but somehow found the very center of the universe of Bellis Fair Mall.  I’d been watching the same child previously show signs of struggling with the disorder around him.  I noticed him grunting to himself and rubbing temples. At some point he knew he had to sit down and be.  And when I saw him being I took complete note and wondered–> why he do?  –>  who showed him do?  –> should I do?  –> do you do?  I used to know how do.

Others also took note of the little Bodhisattva in the calm pocket of the storm. His little being was large. And should I just smile or wince? Should I be troubled or learned?  Should I kneel or bow to the child who seems to right now know more than me/we?  Should we go ahead and get Orange Julius or just go home? Is there stillness in either place?  Do I do still anymore?

The boy has at least one answer. His eyes are closed but he’s still looking at me.  Face-plant.

I’m not saying I want my kid to go to the school in Lean on Me–>  no “welcome to the jungle” or chained doors, but I want Morgan Freeman for Principal.

As we take #1 to enter the public school system for day 1–>    I think/feel/see  +

I’m hoping in the years to come a Freeman or two will be up in her spirit-face to challenge her.  I’m hoping for some spirit lights to be left on. I’m OK with the tough teacher or personality to navigate and OK with bump(s), unforeseen tests and mediocre lunches.  I’d like the majority of her teachers to give a damn. I want her to be safe.  I want room within the walls to become who she is and no space to be who she isn’t.  Am I silly or wrong to hope for some pocket(s) of magic?

I want to help.  I want the “we got fun and games” portion of the song.  I want a volcano experiment gone bad and a story she hasn’t yet told.

In putt-putt & life it’s hard not to want to know what happens next.

Vancouver Island–>  here we come.

We know a little more or less this time ’round.

In the wee hours last weekend I found myself up at 1:30 (or so) and having trouble getting back to baseline and/or sleep I looked to my phone.  My phone told me that the much delayed golf Open Championship at St. Andrews was live, and my man Spieth was even out there.  I flipped on the telly to tune in for a few.  The wind was gusting hard in Scotland and me. The first thing I saw was the tournament leader go down to mark his ball and before he could it starting blowing away.  His playing partner Spieth was running to get out of the way of the rolling ball, I might have even seen a jump in there.  Athletic maneuvers usually reserved for other sports. Minutes later they again postponed play due to conditions.  It’s the middle of the night in the middle of my head in the middle of a tournament half a world away.  It’s golfers in stocking caps and ponchos. And it makes total semi-sense because it’s semi-surreal and I’m only semi-awake.

Sometimes I do,

but never forget.

Sometimes you have to pack up to get to a place to unpack your brain.

Even greatness needs a shoulder.

Photo by Kyle Terada

At 5:15 Sunday morning if you’re in the park with kids you aren’t checking out the elements, you’re part of them. Among the limping and squinty-eyed, beneath the birds who are still waiting to sing. There are those here who slept in their cars for the night, some who haven’t slept at all, and one motivated soul who went to bed early so he wouldn’t miss his A.M. jog. That guy is a jerk and the birds are cruel.

We are part of this. At Haggens Grocery (open 24 hours) humanity at 5:15 consists of the half-alive, half-dead, and half-stocking shelves. The airport and sketchy gas station are the only other things open. Everyone here didn’t start at the same time but we’re now all part of this collective grave-yard shift, searching for brown rice on aisle 5 and our brain in the deli. The meat and cheeses are not out yet and the newspaper is undelivered, but the bagels just arrived to warm the slumbering hearts of the freaks and phantoms.

And it’s early when you go back to the park to see the sun still only hitting the tops of the fir trees. Below, in the big shadow, lurks us.