To write at the table means doing more work than I am, as it turns out, already resisting. I could write at my desk, behind closed door in the guest bedroom I pretend is my office, sure. But even that requires more of me than I have the capacity am willing to presently give.
But I’m here. At the table. And as it is almost never empty, I must first take stock of and then clear what I refer to as detritus: a word I like and use often in relation to my home life and the children therein.
Loose material or debris resulting from disintegration, destruction, or wearing away. For example, horse feces and straw, later used to create manure.
Today, in the orbit of children readying themselves for the day ahead, a spark lights inside and I do not clear the way around me. Instead, I sit and take it in.
In [home] ecosystems, the role played by detritus is too large to ignore.
My copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice sits center, pilfered from the bookshelf in the living room by the daughter to whom I read pages of Little Women, some nights. Occasionally, I lay next to her in bed, marveling that a body lengthens and grows: a universe expanding which was once contained. Later, in the dark, her breathing slows and she slips into sleep while I count stars that glow on her ceiling.
Beside it, a book about bugs: hard surface used to write in the car. Loose leaf sheets of college ruled paper lie in a disheveled pile where she sat, last night, at this same computer. The one, most days, I open to find her user login screen and work in progress waiting, not mine.
Earlier, she’d scribbled notes in soft pencil for an essay for eighth grade English class while I talked, driving the kids to church. March 2019. Sensitive to light. Vision loss. Couldn’t read or write. She absorbs the story, wide-eyed. “I know I was there, mom, but I didn’t know that.” Other voices clamor from the back of the car, asking questions: “When was this, Mom? Why don’t I remember it? You were blind?”
How can you recall this when you’re just seven, four, and two years-old when it first happens, and Mom is in bed again in the dark, an eyemask cocked sideways over one eye like a pirate? My Mom’s Difficult Journey, indeed. I’ve metabolized it all, the pain and the uncertainty, and when I tell it now all the years later that it took to heal and since, they marvel.
Before bed, I read her closing words on the laptop:
I am so proud of her for pushing through and staying strong for us even when it was hard and painful.
What began as a LEGO building competition with his siblings on Sunday is now the youngest’s tableau along one whole side of the table. His imagination, fit with time and freedom, builds worlds I get to live in, complete with accessories: Mandalorian helmets, light sabers, starships, and Jedi cloaks.
Among his wreckage are ringed sets of multiplication flash cards, a case of number blocks, and the typing coursebook opened to the latest lesson. A stack is made of Prismacolor pastels, a box of Q-tips, and Kleenex. Another year of fourth grade workbooks and spelling flashcards rest nearby.
I frame it in my mind, this one snapshot among so many just like it in which the table tells a story. One man’s mess, another’s treasure. At the start of this new school year, I feel the weight of knowing that what I’ve been building — what we’ve built together — these last five years, will shift yet again.
So I leave it all and I look and I probably make of it more than I should. Because otherwise, where will that leave me? Or better yet, what?
Goodness, even who?
Detritus also contributes to habitat creation.
These structures offer protection and breeding grounds for [life].
One kid has the choice to clean this up for chore money, usually for the family dinners our present schedule makes not entirely impossible, but near to it. Now in sixth grade, adjusting to more homework and middle school football, chores have naturally fallen to the bottom of the list. This is the way.
His piles find their place on the kitchen island instead, the other valve of this home’s beating heart. We sit on stools together at night, assorted bags of padded gear and books at our feet, folders in front of us. He solves problems and I coach, both of us struggling at times to be good at either.
Decomposition is the means by which new life grows from what remains.
What was hard, before, for us, is still difficult sometimes. I will always be the first to tell that truth, because I’m not willing to settle for less than what I believe can be. This path has opened the possibility for us to learn to walk side-by-side, instead of always defaulting to going head-to-head.
It is good to let some things die and let others grow in its place.
I imagine the caustic nature of some days becoming an echo we harken back to with amusement. Even now, we laugh. When he leans in with both arms and barrels his head into my chest for a bedtime hug like I am the sled to his offensive linesman body, I know it deep in my bones. We’re doing okay.
What’s left is my own. The planner and the kids’ rehearsal schedule and this computer and the pouch my dental hygienist slips into my hand at the end of my semiannual cleaning. Into the back pages of this year’s calendar, I write down my next appointment. St. Paddy’s Day. I’ll make that shepherds pie and wear my emerald green hoodie. We’ll come round again, and I know this routine, but none of us will be exactly what we were.
I still live in the margins. I still bleed highlighters dry in everyone’s colors but my own, the blue still crisp as the day I bought it. Where once I struggled against those constraints, I’ve come closer to rest, even when we’re almost always in motion. Stretched thin, at times, we learn to recognize seasons now for what they are always doing: changing.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll clean up the table for dinner.
But for now, I’ll write, feeding from this life the best way I know how.
These are the things I’ve found worth forwarding on to the people I love this month. Click through now or enjoy later at your leisure; I’ll try to only share what felt worth my attention.
’s recent piece “In defense of interstitial time: How to grow life in the in-between moments” gives so much food for thought along with a handy printable PDF list of activities you can turn to in life’s “in-between moments” instead of your phone.
I love composer Michael Giacchino’s work (if I started listing my favorites, we’d be here all day), but I was blown away by his work on The Fantastic Four. With a 100-piece orchestra and 100-person choir recorded in London’s Abbey Road Studios, it feels human and hopeful in a way I didn’t know I needed, and I’ve had it on constant rotation since being in the theater.
This month has put mom’s meal prep machine back in full operation, and these are the two standbys I make every week: no-bake protein balls and high-protein overnight oats. They’re easy enough to memorize and adjust to your preferences after awhile!
Missing Scotland, I turned to a list I’ve made of books set there by which I might return. Starting with Charlotte McGonaghy’s Once There Were Wolves, I was immediately hooked by her style. Once finished, I read through two more of her books in less than a week: Migrations and the newest, Wild Dark Shore. Deeply moving and absorbing, these were each easy five star reads, for me, but as always, your mileage may vary!
Now, what if you “forward some mail” my way?
Tell me what you’ve loved this month!
What can’t you stop listening to?
What’s a book you couldn’t put down or a recipe you enjoyed making?
What’s new in your world?
I’d love to hear from you, so hit the button below or reply to this email.
Until next time,
Thanks so much for sharing, Kristine!!
Yes to all of this! Our table always seems like it's telling (an incredibly messy) story, and I get frustrated with it, and then enamored with it (and I often take pictures of it, as part of our history).
I just finished reading/listening to "Zarina Divided" by Reem Faruqi. It was wonderful. "Don't Let Him In" by Lisa Jewell was one of my favorite thriller summer reads.