The end of summer sun filters through the needles of the big pine tree, throwing shadows on the green weeds in front of me. The cicadas trill out, calling to each other in their waning days. The clear sky spreads overhead, stretching out to the autumn season so close that you can taste it in the cooling air.
“Did you ask if you could splash him? You need to ask first,” I insisted.
A twig of a tree stands in our yard, a few buds just starting to form. In the future, those buds could become branches. But now, they’re nothing but green and brown nubs off of a slim trunk.
It’s hard to believe that one day we’ll be eating pears from that tree. In fact, we may not. Deer may nibble the buds or disease may fell it.
And yet we planted it anyway.
To me, Lady Liberty and the words on her base should be what America strives for.
To me, America should be celebrating the beautiful diversity of our country. It should be celebrating that people come from different backgrounds and experiences. It should be recognizing that people look and act different from each other and being amazed at how wonderful that is.
“It doesn’t really matter whose fault it actually is, we need to clean it up together,” I said to my kids, talking about some mess or another. I heard those words come out of my mouth as if I actually believed them. But I did really want to believe them.
I am a blame monster. If there’s blame to put on someone – even myself – I am on the case. I used to think that if you could blame someone for a problem, they would learn their lesson and not do it again.
Problem solved, right? Uh, no.
A silver-gray hair flowed from the top of my head down past my ear, ending right at my shoulder. “Huh,” I said, looking in the mirror and shrugging. It’d be cool if it was eventually a skunk stripe like Rogue in X-Men or glittery like Luna Girl in PJ Masks.
Perhaps my ambivalence about gray hair seems strange, considering that women are supposed to hide any sign of aging. But there’s a sense of strange gratitude – I expected a hell of a lot more of them by now. Like many things on my 37th birthday.
Big world events – like COVID-19 (coronavirus) and climate change – can drive us to despair. I’ve semi-seriously joked that my anxiety about climate change has at least prepared me for this outbreak. But I’ve also learned that there are a couple of ways to react to these big world events, some of which are mentally and emotionally healthier than others.
In a study by a Swedish University that I found in my book research, researchers found that teenagers reacted to climate change in three ways: “emotion-focused,” “problem-focused,” and “meaning-focused.”
Writing a book is a lot like birthing a baby. Both require huge amounts of work to bring into the world. Both have unending unpredictabilities and surprises. Both are deep works of love.
And today, I’m celebrating both. It’s my book release day for Growing Sustainable Together: Practical Resources for Raising Kind, Engaged Resilient Children and the anniversary of my older son’s birth.
“I’m laughing cause I read that book. She’s 14 now and she’s okay,” a woman commented to me. She gestured at the book in my hand, an advice book about parenting challenging kids. Absorbed in my own thoughts, it took a second to realize she was even talking to me.
