November
It is later than I thought. Here it is nearly the end of November, no snow in sight. A visitor appeared outside my partners window. A hawk. Stood on the fence a mere 2 feet between the window and its new perch and stared for a while. Or so I was told. Today, sitting in the front room that is now serving for short knitting projects and writing - I see this same bird outside my own window. I'm feeling guilty because I have not put food out for 2 days.
Here they come, the tiny babies of summer are still unaccustomed to the chill (for them) in the air and are fluffed up and huddle against the now full feeders. What is it that makes squirrels, mice, and other forest animals gather food in advance of winters shortage? What is it that makes us, the opposable thumb clan, bring in fabric and yarns, paints and pots, stack books by the bedside and post blankets on the arms of the most comfortable of hibernating places? Our ancient circadian rhythm tells us that the hours of daylight will be less, the need for warmth more, and the scarcity of those things we love the most - fruits, summer vegetables, nuts and our outside environment will be unavailable for long periods of time and only scarcely tolerable for short periods. We are alike and alien at the same time to all those beings that persist and exist outside our window panes.
My daughters are on the other side of the ocean this year. All children contained within the contiguous 48 states. All moved into or getting ready to move into their own apartments. Freedom, responsibility, a place of their own. I have the need to send box after box of canned goods, recipes for garbage pie and borscht. I want to send them dried fruits and homemade preserves and jams. In short, I want the soup pot that doubled as a canning pot to be filled with winter soups and bowls stacked by the stove as one or another came by to fill their stomachs and my heart. Feeding them, or anyone, makes me able to sleep at night. I cannot fill dreams of grandeur, or fantasy. I can not build them homes, or make for them a place to carve out their lives. So I will send a smaller package than I intended. Telling myself that I can then do so with more frequency than if I sent a crate to them. One child I will worry about, but I will wait. I tell the stars at night that my love for them is as uncountable as the number of sparkling lights in the heavens on a clear and perfectly dark night. Another child lets me into his world - occasionally - and I know that he is "feeling" the world. He loves music - he plays I am told , guitar. Ah, someday maybe I will hear him play.
Children are a lifetime of feelings. Love, disappointment, pride, encouragement and holding on as tightly as the letting go must be completely. The training wheels are all that remain permanent records of their time. A day, a year, a month - it matters not how many hours they are in your life. They stay there, always, everywhere....
I've learned to make soup in a 2 cup pot. It was a sad discovery. Tonight I will remember you children of my heart, of other wombs, in other states. I will make a pot of hamburger stew and raise my cup to love....and you.
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