On Mondays I spend the morning volunteering in Zibbit’s classroom. Believe me: there is no better way to start your week than to spend two hours in the exuberant company of a couple dozen five-year-olds. If you ever doubt for a moment that you are needed on this earth, spend some time in a Kindergarten classroom.

“KARLI! Karli’s here, guys!”
“HI, ZIBBIT’S MOM!”
“Hey, hey, guess what, my goldfish died yesterday!”
“My zipper is stuck, Karli!”
“Can you tie my shoe?”
“My mom said we were going to go to a movie but instead we went to the grocery store because it was getting late!”
“Yesterday I watched ‘Max and Ruby’ ten times!”
“I’m hungry!”
“I have to go to the bathroom!”
“HUG ME!”

Yesterday I spent part of the morning manning the reading table. The children would come five at a time and spend fifteen minutes with me, looking through books and practicing their reading and listening to me read to them. The reading table has a different theme each week, and this week the tub of books on the table were all about snow. They read about a snowman who had lost his nose, a turtle that refused to hibernate so he could play outside during winter, and two penguins named Flip and Flop. There were also a couple of scientific books about snowflakes, one of them particularly beautiful with its close-up photos of hundreds of different kinds of flakes. I was looking through this book with one of the boys in the class when I came across this passage:

“You exhale roughly a liter of water per day into the atmosphere, and most of this water rains or snows back down again within about a week’s time. The total global precipitation is about 1,000,000,000,000,000 (one quadrillion) times greater than the amount of water you exhale, so your impact on the weather is pretty minor.

But even if you contribute only one quadrillionth of the total water content in a snowflake, that is still about 1,000 molecules. It depends on how well things are mixed in the atmosphere, but there are probably, very roughly, about a thousand of your molecules in every snowflake.”

Naturally, I was momentarily stunned into silence. I shushed the children and read the passage aloud to them.

“You guys,” I said. “This is beautiful.” They stared at me blankly, thoroughly unimpressed. When you are five, you haven’t let learned to feel insignificant in the world because when you are five, the world is still yours. It isn’t until much later (sometime around 7th or 8th grade) that you discover how terribly, terribly small you are. In middle school, when you learn about solar systems and careers and social hierarchies, you realize that no matter what you do or do not do, the world will continue to turn. You resign yourself to the fact that you are a grain of sand amidst billions of other grains of sand, and you just kind of lose your mind temporarily. You write terrible poems about puberty and God and you cry a lot and you hate your friends and you do weird things with your hair hoping that someone will finally notice you. Things stay awful for about a decade and then, sometime in your mid-twenties, you finally calm down. You begin to make peace with the world again, either through accepting your seeming insignificance or by creating a life for yourself where you matter.

But, at age five, you don’t know any of these things. You don’t understand why grown-ups tell you all the time how wonderful and beautiful and important you are, because you never thought to believe otherwise. Yesterday morning was so comical; there I was, having some sort of enormous spiritual breakthrough in front of a table full of children who were patiently listening to me teach them something they already knew. Of course there are a thousand molecules of me in every snowflake, they must have thought. Is this woman crazy? Doesn’t she know that I am everything, and everything is me?

I’m learning, my lovelies, I’m learning. Thank you for gently accepting my ignorance and teaching me what it’s like to be so plugged in to it all. Sometimes, dears, the taller you get, the smaller you feel. And if this happens to you as you grow, if you start to wonder one day whether or not you matter, go hang out with some five-year-olds. Let them love you, and tell them about the snow.

In a few weeks, my dear little Babs will be eight years old. It’s inconceivable to me that it has been so long since she was a baby in my arms, and equally inconceivable that I haven’t actually known her forever. My daughters’ birthdays are always a time when I think back to their beginnings, to the pregnancies and the births. I exercise these memories annually, going over all the details in my mind, to be sure that I never forget them. This year, I wrote some of it down. I think it is as much for Babs as it is for me… I suppose I want her to know that despite all the hard, crazy, baffling times we have had and will have together, she has always been wanted. I have always loved her, even before I knew her. I want her to know always how much I needed her, and what things were like for her mother before she came to be. Maybe one day she can read this, and know herself more fully.

***

I spent the majority of my first pregnancy alone. Well, not really alone, there were the dogs and the cats (one of them pregnant as well) and, of course, there was the pygmy goat. There was something wrong with me (we wouldn’t discover until my second pregnancy that it was hyperthyroidism; incredibly dangerous to the fetus)- I was terribly, terribly tired all the time, incapacitated by exhaustion, unable to work or spend extended periods of time away from home. My husband worked full-time, commuting from our old rented farmhouse in North Bend to Issaquah and Redmond every day, gone from home for sometimes more than 12 hours at a time. I was eighteen years old.

Our house was situated on the front portion of the property, a rectangular stretch of acreage on a country road in the middle of a beautiful nowhere. There were fruit trees in the front yard, birdhouses, a gravel drive. On the right side of our house was a cow pasture, inhabited by a sullen-looking old milk cow and an emaciated white horse. To the left was an abandoned house surrounded by brambles, inhabited by a man from who-knows-where. He was ancient and sweet. He burned broken furniture in the fireplace for heat and ate canned food. I never saw him coming or going, but I would see him sometimes out in the yard, doggedly clearing the blackberry bushes from the front of the house. When I visited him he would offer me a drink of sour water from a tin cup.

Out of my backyard grew a mountain. If you looked out the back window of my house it was all you could see: masses of evergreens clinging to its fat haunches, rocky peaks jutting into the sky. Sometimes there was snow up there, a delicate sugar dusting. Occasionally I allowed myself to feel, out there all on my own, that it was my mountain, one more friend to add to my strange collection: a homeless man, my assortment of pets, two forgotten livestock, and a mountain.

The summer before my belly expanded was spent with my companions. I left the side door open and the dogs, the cats, the goat, and I would all wander in and out, sunning ourselves on the porch, observing the progress the homeless man was making with those blackberry bushes, watching the mountain. Can you imagine the sight I must have been? Such a young girl, all freckles and blue jeans and bare feet, wandering around that old place in the company of such an odd menagerie. I would sit, sometimes, on the porch, with the dogs at my feet and the cats flicking their tails from the shady space under my 1987 Chrysler 5th Avenue. I would rest my elbows on my knees and my chin in my upheld hands and I would look at my mountain and dream of far away places. Billy (that was our goat’s name) would inevitably get bored with our inactivity, drumming his hooves on the porch as he paced back and forth behind me. After awhile he would always turn, run towards me, and slam his horns into my back. That little shit.

Autumn came, and with it the visible evidence of my pregnancy: my belly began to grow rapidly. It was no longer warm enough to spend countless hours outside, so I would lie on the couch or on the bed with my shirt scrunched up under my swollen, tender breasts, exposing the tight smoothness of my stomach. I tried to imagine who lived in there. I would spread my hands out over the roundness, wondering what it was like inside; warm, dark, wet, quiet. Sometime around the 22nd week of the pregnancy I began to feel her move. At first it was just a bubbly flutter, but very soon I could feel her twist and stretch inside me. My belly would bulge and roll with each movement, like ocean waves. Every once in awhile she would get the hiccups and I could feel her whole body bouncing with their rhythm.

For the first time in my life I was soft. A thin accumulation of fat gathered under my skin and padded all of my angular places. My hips, usually so narrow and bony, now curved beautifully into my newly voluptuous legs. My breasts grew to an astonishing size and I would cup them in my hands and examine them, delighted with their sudden fullness. My belly became enormous, a globe that was increasingly difficult to compensate for. I was forever opening doors and cabinets into myself, knocking things off tables and shelves if I passed by too closely. It was incredible, and I felt, for the first time in my life, impossibly beautiful. I felt, for the first time in my life, feminine. Womanly. My body felt sacred. It felt like a holy place.

With winter fast approaching, the dogs and the goat now lived in a straw-filled shed in the backyard. Inside the house it was just Harvey (the black cat), Olive (the pregnant cat), and me (the very, very pregnant girl). I would make a fire in the wood stove and research baby names on the computer. I set up the nursery. I sang songs to my belly to fill time and the quiet space around us. I rearranged books on the shelves. I elevated my swollen ankles.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Even though I follow the giant blue arrows that have been painted on the floor, I still feel like I am wandering aimlessly. I have lost my sense of direction completely; it would be impossible to retrace my steps and find my way back to the entrance, so I just continue to follow the arrows and hope they will lead me somewhere I want to be. It feels like I have gotten lost in the maze of an unfamiliar house. I feel voyeuristic as I pass through display rooms that seem so lived in: curtains drawn, bedcovers cozily rumpled, candles and place settings arranged casually in anticipation of a relaxing evening at home. A couple sit side by side on a small red couch, brightly-patterned pillows clustered on either side of them like bookends, pressing the man and woman close together. A duo of empty wineglasses rest on the coffee table in front of them. This is their room, their house, at least for the moment, and I avert my eyes as I pass so they don’t feel intruded upon.

I don’t need any kitchen items, but the blue arrows lead me there anyway. Stacks of overturned colanders become mirrors as I walk by, my image stunted and distorted, dozens of not-me’s. I could try cutting through here, bypassing the textiles and going straight to the art and decor section, but the twisting path that the arrows have led me down has left me dizzy and confused. I don’t trust the signs that tell me where I will end up. I trust only the blue arrows. Besides, I have suddenly realized how very much I need this navy mat. It would go perfectly on the floor in front of the kitchen sink, and it is only a dollar-fifty. I put three of them in my cart.

I walk underneath a string of dimly lit paper lanterns and find myself in the room of lights- my favorite place in the store. There are hundreds of lights here; lamps line the shelves and sprout from the floor and chandeliers hang down low from the ceiling. All of them are lit and glowing, every single one, and yet the room is never too bright. It is soft, the light in this room, almost reverential. It could be a room full of candles. The effect is at once serene and intense, perfectly overwhelming. It is very, very beautiful. Couples walk hand in hand along the rows of lights and families gather around the shelves speaking to each other in low murmurs, everyone’s faces gently illuminated and angelic. We all linger here, slow-footed and hushed, in awe of the loveliness that surrounds us. This room, this feeling, is how I imagine heaven. All of the wandering, all of the confusion caused by arrows that seemed to lead nowhere, suddenly feels worth it. Everything finally makes sense. I could stay here forever.

11/10/09

The furnace has broken down, and I am sitting at the computer wrapped in blankets and blowing on my fingers every few minutes to warm them with my breath. Despite the steadfast flame burning in the living room fireplace, it is a chilly 58 degrees in the house. A terrible homecoming: I spent last week in Maui, and even 10,000 dizzying feet up on the top of the Haleakala volcano it was warmer than this. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing in life is free. Is this the frigid price to be paid for spending five languorous days swimming in an ocean as warm as bathwater? Someday, years from now, when life is lighter and breathing comes easier, I will move somewhere hot and humid. I will spend my days barefoot and I will take a siesta every afternoon. I will carefully chart each new freckle that appears on my skin until my body becomes a star map, able to be navigated only by those who become familiar with my constellations. I will invite my neighbors over for cold drinks in the mornings and I will tell them I was never meant for that place that I came from. Like the geckos watching round-eyed from the corners, I am cold-blooded. Without the gentle insistence of a sun-warmed afternoon, my heart is reluctant to pump on its own.

Sitting here now, bundled against the cold inside my own house, I crave the air in Maui. I love the salt-smell of the coastal towns and the thick, living smell of the air in the jungle. I went on a hike through a wet, tropical forest and stood on top of a ridge looking out over trees and a river, a small town out in the distance, and just beyond that the luminescent ocean. The air was so soft and full it felt like I could just lift my feet and float away. And nighttime is even better: island smells come to you like a secret, the breeze telling you stories of water and flowers and a thousand other things you can’t see in the darkness.

*****

11/16/09

Daniel thinks Lola is depressed. “Yola,” he calls her when he comes to visit.

“YO-la, baby, why so glum?” he asks her, bending over to peer into her face like a concerned father. She blinks once and looks away, resuming her window vigil, a flick of her tail the only indication that she has heard him at all. Lola’s life must be difficult, I think. I tell my children that the reason she ignores everyone is because she is convinced that if she moves from her favorite spot on top of the armchair, gravity will cease to function and the chair will float away. I tell them she has to focus. The truth is, she just hates us all. Her disdain is not subtle; she observes our activity in the living room from the corner of her eye, irritation clouding her furry face and causing her whiskers to twitch at every sound. Eventually she adjusts her body so that her back is to the room, her face only inches from the wall. I check, sometimes, to see if she is sleeping, but she never is. She is always awake, her small body held tight and rigid, staring silently at the blank wall. Daniel tells me to close the fireplace grate when I leave the room to prevent her from throwing herself into the flames when I’m not looking.

The other one, Olive, is fat and friendly. She is an indiscriminate snuggler, spreading herself heavily across any available lap regardless of the lap owner’s personal cat preferences. Olive prefers to nap in high-traffic areas, lying spread-eagled on her back, exposing her fuzzy drum of a belly. She seems to intuit my path in the house, her sleeping form blocking my way to the kitchen and then tripping me moments later as I round the corner on the other side of the house on my way to the bathroom. Olive’s love is given freely, immediately, eternally. She lets the girls carry her from one room to another, draped limply over their shoulders. Every morning I find a collection of gifts at the foot of my bed that she has gathered for me during the night: a stuffed toy, a rubber rat, a shoe.

I wonder- distantly, without allowing myself to think too much about it- if my cats represent the stark changes in my personality. Olive, the Old Me: loving, naively affectionate, ridiculous. Lola, the New Me: resigned and reserved, heavy with loathing, distant.

*****

11/20/09

I have a new therapist, a sweet young woman who has not yet mastered the therapy poker face. I tell her about my week, my daughters, my job, the twists and turns of my mind, and her face becomes contorted with emotion. I can see her compassion for me filling her as if her face were made of clear glass. It pours in and fills her trembling chin, her pursed lips, her flushed cheeks, until finally it moistens her eyes and I worry she will overflow there. But it feels good to be talking about things again.

I read a news story recently about a man who called the police because an animal of “unknown species” was wandering around in his backyard. When the police showed up, they found a dog that had been incredibly neglected. He was covered in dirt and matted fur from snout to tail, little doggie dreadlocks obstructing his vision and making it difficult for him to walk. By the time the local humane society had finally cleaned him up, they had removed 9 pounds of mud and fur from the 11-pound dog. This is why therapy is important. Sometimes, when we are left unattended, the gunk just sticks to you and tangles everything up. It takes a pair of caring hands to free you from the weight of a built-up life.

The clients come and go, like lovers. Some seem to like me very much, but then they go away and don’t come back. Others, I can tell, don’t like me at all, and yet they stay and stay and stay. And some I detest, I abhor, I don’t want to spend another minute in their presence, but I am paid to be kind and attentive. I drench them with my sweetness, speak to them in honey-tones so thick my tongue can barely move, count the moments until they leave, and then they do leave, but not until they have pre-booked their next appointment. Clients- like lovers- are a breed I do not yet understand.

But every once in awhile, everything goes just as it should. Yesterday a woman made an appointment to have her hair shampooed and styled. I am used to these women. They require tenderness, someone to be gentle with them and make them feel like they are still a whole person, even though it’s difficult for them to walk up the stairs to the salon. Even though they can’t wash their hair on their own anymore. I have learned to silently place my arm just underneath their elbow as they ease themselves into my chair, making it seem like a natural part of the appointment rather than a spotlight on their unsteady feet. I’ve learned to offer tea or water to ease the dryness in their mouths, and I’ve learned to ask questions that matter to them: their garden, their family, their troublesome hip. I like seeing these women because it feels like the completion of a circle; these are mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers who need- in a gradual reversal of roles- to have someone wash and love and coo over them. I don’t mind being that person.

The woman who came in yesterday was incredibly frail. She couldn’t climb the stairs at all so I walked with her around the side of the building to the second-floor entrance, and as we made our slow, shuffling way along the sidewalk, she asked if I wouldn’t mind holding her hand. Her nails were long and perfectly rounded. Inside, she dropped heavily into my chair and I gave her a glass of cool water so she could breathe again. I fastened the drape around her neck and we chatted quietly until she had recovered enough to walk over to the shampoo bowl. She told me her skin wasn’t as young as it used to be, and as my hands worked the lather over her red and bumpy scalp I said a silent prayer of thanks that God made me into the kind of person who isn’t bothered by that sort of thing. Young skin isn’t the only kind of skin that needs to be touched. While I was rinsing her hair an ambulance screamed by on a nearby road and she winced. “I hate hearing that sound,” she said.

When she felt beautiful again I removed her drape and walked with her back around the building, then helped her get settled in the front seat of her car. She thanked me, and I knew I was loved. Everything felt complete, then. It’s like a child with a music box; the child wants desperately to hear the music play, and the music box yearns to sing. The child turns the key, the music begins, and a perfect moment has been created.