Snippets and Fragments

... an unorganized collection of thoughts from an average Monday.

.i.

Riding the blue line today, with S and Jon, there was a middle-aged woman in our car, keeled over in her seat.  Her cup of water had spilled all over the floor, and her t-pass, credit card and phone dangled loosely from her fingers.  She was perched precariously on the edge of her seat, and with each jostle of the train, slid further and further head-forwards toward the floor.  A few times she slid down to the floor.  And then regained her seat.  And slid again, face inches away from the floor.

Unresponsive to my inquires if she was okay or needed help, I moved over next to her and braced her up in her seat, one hand physically holding her up in her slumped position, as half the car fixated on her situation.  A middle-aged businessman joined me, holding her up.  Another traveller called for assistance from the T police, his language not harsh, but not humanizing, talking about, rather than to. At which she suddenly became far more alert and assertive that she was fine, even as she continued to slide, face-first from her seat.  And I think, it's a fine line between giving assistance, helping, and putting others below us, us superior, together, fine, them needy.

.ii.

On our way to lunch, we stopped in Copley Square to visit the memorial there.  It's the first time that I've been down on Boylston Street since the marathon, and it was both completely normal and eerily strange.  I haven't cried since that Monday, but today I wanted to.  Lining the square, people have left their patriotism, their Boston pride, and their possessions - their words and solidarity - small ways of saying, "I'm with you" and "you're not alone."  A child's Spongebob Squarepants coloring book, a Yankees jersey, running shoes, volunteers jackets, scarves from competing premier league clubs, so many letters, crosses and prayers - affiliations aside, all that mattered was "we're here together and I will give of what I have, who I am."  A sign of solidarity and unity.  Odd, beautiful, gaudy and lovely, touristy and Boston-y.  Everyone taking pictures, writing, leaving, leaving behind, remaining.  The photo taking, the whole touristy part, made me angry - made me warm inside - made me sad - made me remember - made me cry - made me feel solidarity - made me thought-filled.  I don't know.  All I know is that I feel.  I remember.  I am not alone. /still thought-filled.

.iii.

It's very hard to enjoy a quality adult conversation - or for that matter, eat spare-ribs - with a 3 month old in tow.  But I wouldn't trade it for anything, even as I wipe BBQ sauce, beans, and spit-up from every article of clothing I wore today, all of which vaguely smell like baby-pee.  Never before have I known such joy in the smallest things, the most simple things, or the most exhausted moments.  I just might occasionally splurge on a babysitter when it comes time to eat in restaurants.

.iv.

There is a gift - a real gift - that fathers give to their children.  The gift of courage, of boldness, and of bravery.  A father teaches his son or daughter, "it's okay, you don't have to be afraid, you're safe."  A mother teaches this too - but in a different way (although, be it acknowledged, we are not bound to fall into these generalities).  A father's blessing is one of courage - freedom to do, and not be afraid - whereas a mother blesses her children to be - freedom to be who they are, and know that it is delightful.

My husband is a wonderful father - and I've always know that he was and would be.  Tonight S, in his bobble-headed wiggling, bobbled rapidly and banged his nose against Jon's collarbone, hard - screaming a scream which can only be identified as pain, fear, and gut-wrenchingly shrill.  It hurt.  He's okay, but it hurt.  And as Jon held him and rocked him, comforting him, yes - his words were those of empowering, emboldening... courage.  You are so strong son, and so brave.  I love you.  You'll be okay, I'm here.  You are so strong and so brave.  It is a gift to have a father who can speak these words, live these words, teach these ways.  S doesn't know it yet, but I hope and pray he will see that gift as a gift. A freedom to soar, to run, to fly - without fear.

Fathers are important in these ways - not for demonstrating strength in any particular one way, but because in their good strength, however it is manifest, they demonstrate and give courage, they empower bravery.  In bad strength,  they often rob their children of it.  But is that really strength at all?

.v.

There is no five.