Saturday, October 8, 2011
The Sit - Part 4
And now, I’ve arrived at the point of all this. When I went for that walk on Wednesday, and heard Herb’s voice in my head, wondering when Violet would be ready for The Sit, it left me thinking about what kind of person she’ll become. Up until recently, her personality has been more of a concept than a reality, something for us to project and predict. I often wondered in this blog if she would value the things that my wife and I do, if she would share our interests (at least until she was a teenager and goes insane), but deep down, doesn’t every parent assume that their children will do just that – share their interests, I mean? Doesn’t some part of us expect them to turn into newer versions of us, only better because we’ll help them avoid the things that messed us up? Maybe it’s just me, but regardless, Violet’s personality is now taking shape. She doesn’t like picture books, only books with flaps or shiny/furry things to feel. She likes apples but not bananas. When we went on her hike, I showed her the remains of a Queen Anne’s Lace flower. She has always been fascinated when I’ve shown her plants, but that day, she shoved it aside, more interested in my ring than the flower. “Oh my God,” I thought. “This can’t be! She not interested in wildflowers!” Silly, I know, but I calmed myself down. And then the question of The Sit came into my head, and I’m left wondering if she’ll be the kind of person who can see the value in just sitting somewhere for ten minutes, or twenty minutes, or longer. Will she be someone who can just sit and wait and see what might happen in her own head or in the space around her? I plan on working on it with her. I know it will take some time and that we’ll have to work our way up to ten minutes. We started today. I took her to Tulip Summit, and we sat on the ground in the fallen leaves. She was in the chest carrier, and she leaned back against my chest, looking up, all on her own, for a good thirty seconds, staring into the branches full of sunlit leaves, all yellow and orange. She pointed up to the trees, squinting, and I looked up, too. I don’t know what she was pointing at, maybe nothing, but before I could bring my gaze back down, she was arching her back, straining against the carrier’s straps and pushing against my legs with her feet. She wanted to move on. She had managed a minute. Not quite ten, but in that minute, something happened. Something I think I’ll remember. It’s a good start. Maybe we can add a minute every year.
321 days old
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Sit - Part 3
I noticed the color immediately, flashing in and out of view as the fox moved through the trees. It was several hundred yards away, coming toward me from the direction of the beaver pond, and it moved with purpose. It was too early in the year for it to have kits, so I knew it wasn’t headed for a den, but it trotted in a nearly straight line, fluidly moving around any trees in its path. I was sure it would spot me, the bright red parka I wore was a dead giveaway, but the fox’s head stayed down, its eyes apparently focused on the ground immediately in front of it.
It reached the base of my hill and turned right, skirting the foot of the slope, and then it stopped, pausing like someone noticing cash on the sidewalk. I could see the black whiskers on its muzzle and powdery snow on its back and tail. It cocked its head to the side, and I figured that it had heard me or caught my scent. In a moment, it would bolt away. I would have a good story for Herb and a good memory for me.
Instead, the fox leaped into the air and curled its body, arching its back into a downward, lopsided “U”. Its forefeet came down hard where it had been sitting a second earlier. Paws deep in the snow, the fox shoved its muzzle in after them. It had something, and a split second later, the fox extracted its nose and I could see a dark, furred body between its jaws - a jumping mouse or possibly a vole. The fox flicked its head once and then again. Maybe it was adjusting its catch or trying to shake the snow from its face. Either way, that’s when it saw me. It spun and took off, continuing in the direction it had been headed before hearing its prey underfoot. Within five seconds, it was out of sight.
But that isn’t what happened. No fox showed up. That’s what I hoped would happen. That, or maybe a deer walking by or a coyote loping along. The way Herb said those words – something will happen – it left me with the expectation of something big, something momentous and memorable. But nothing did. I sat there, listening and watching and thinking, my fingers and toes getting colder, the woods get brighter around me. Then, when the ten minutes were up, I got up off the bench and continued my hike.
I don’t recall what Herb said when I told him about my first Sit. I don’t even know if I did tell him about it. If I did, he probably didn’t say much – he might have joked that I’d done it wrong or that I must not have showered and that’s what kept the animals away. He had a gift for finding and encountering wildlife, so I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that when he sat for ten minutes, animals paraded by. Maybe that’s what he meant by “something will happen.” But maybe not.
We never talked about it much. I did The Sit many other times – still do – and what I eventually discovered is that the “something” that happens, at least for me, isn’t necessarily something big or even something external. Take, for example, the memory I just related to you. If I had not done The Sit that morning, the hike would’ve just been one of dozens of enjoyable but unextraordinary hikes I’d taken at Beaver Meadow during my time there, hikes I’ve forgotten. That one, I remember. The Sit created an experience, a memory that’s stayed with me. Something did happen. On subsequent Sits, I’ve come up with great ideas for helping struggling or difficult students, mentally worked out problems with my wife and friends, thought up the idea for this blog, and yes, wildlife has made appearances. Up close and personal appearances, too.
The act of just sitting has made me realize how rare it is for me to just sit and do nothing except to watch, listen, and think. It’s safe to say that this is true for most people, and what makes me sure is that most times when I bring it up, the idea is deemed strange, a waste of time, or just plain stupid. Some take offense at the idea. Some are intrigued by it, but not enough to act on it. I can’t hold it against anybody. Even now, the first few minutes of any Sit feel strange. I feel uncomfortably self-aware, as if people were making fun of me. Once, I started my Sit along a trail and when someone happened to come hiking along a minute or two later, I hastily stood up, pretending that I had just been resting. What is that about? It’s silly for me to feel embarrassed or guilty for just sitting there, but it’s been ingrained. Obviously, if I’m just sitting there, then I’m not being productive, and that’s just wrong, isn’t it?
320 days old
I know I said I would have this wrapped up by tonight, but it's taking me longer to work it out than I thought. Tomorrow - the point!
It reached the base of my hill and turned right, skirting the foot of the slope, and then it stopped, pausing like someone noticing cash on the sidewalk. I could see the black whiskers on its muzzle and powdery snow on its back and tail. It cocked its head to the side, and I figured that it had heard me or caught my scent. In a moment, it would bolt away. I would have a good story for Herb and a good memory for me.
Instead, the fox leaped into the air and curled its body, arching its back into a downward, lopsided “U”. Its forefeet came down hard where it had been sitting a second earlier. Paws deep in the snow, the fox shoved its muzzle in after them. It had something, and a split second later, the fox extracted its nose and I could see a dark, furred body between its jaws - a jumping mouse or possibly a vole. The fox flicked its head once and then again. Maybe it was adjusting its catch or trying to shake the snow from its face. Either way, that’s when it saw me. It spun and took off, continuing in the direction it had been headed before hearing its prey underfoot. Within five seconds, it was out of sight.
But that isn’t what happened. No fox showed up. That’s what I hoped would happen. That, or maybe a deer walking by or a coyote loping along. The way Herb said those words – something will happen – it left me with the expectation of something big, something momentous and memorable. But nothing did. I sat there, listening and watching and thinking, my fingers and toes getting colder, the woods get brighter around me. Then, when the ten minutes were up, I got up off the bench and continued my hike.
I don’t recall what Herb said when I told him about my first Sit. I don’t even know if I did tell him about it. If I did, he probably didn’t say much – he might have joked that I’d done it wrong or that I must not have showered and that’s what kept the animals away. He had a gift for finding and encountering wildlife, so I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that when he sat for ten minutes, animals paraded by. Maybe that’s what he meant by “something will happen.” But maybe not.
We never talked about it much. I did The Sit many other times – still do – and what I eventually discovered is that the “something” that happens, at least for me, isn’t necessarily something big or even something external. Take, for example, the memory I just related to you. If I had not done The Sit that morning, the hike would’ve just been one of dozens of enjoyable but unextraordinary hikes I’d taken at Beaver Meadow during my time there, hikes I’ve forgotten. That one, I remember. The Sit created an experience, a memory that’s stayed with me. Something did happen. On subsequent Sits, I’ve come up with great ideas for helping struggling or difficult students, mentally worked out problems with my wife and friends, thought up the idea for this blog, and yes, wildlife has made appearances. Up close and personal appearances, too.
The act of just sitting has made me realize how rare it is for me to just sit and do nothing except to watch, listen, and think. It’s safe to say that this is true for most people, and what makes me sure is that most times when I bring it up, the idea is deemed strange, a waste of time, or just plain stupid. Some take offense at the idea. Some are intrigued by it, but not enough to act on it. I can’t hold it against anybody. Even now, the first few minutes of any Sit feel strange. I feel uncomfortably self-aware, as if people were making fun of me. Once, I started my Sit along a trail and when someone happened to come hiking along a minute or two later, I hastily stood up, pretending that I had just been resting. What is that about? It’s silly for me to feel embarrassed or guilty for just sitting there, but it’s been ingrained. Obviously, if I’m just sitting there, then I’m not being productive, and that’s just wrong, isn’t it?
I know I said I would have this wrapped up by tonight, but it's taking me longer to work it out than I thought. Tomorrow - the point!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
The Sit - Part 2
At Beaver Meadow Audubon Center in North Java, NY, there’s a the trail through the woods that meanders past an old cabin and up a small hill to a shelter. The hill and the structure are collectively known as Tulip Summit. Seven Tulip trees used to crown the tiny hilltop, but only five remain. A crooked bench greets hikers, and it was on that bench, early one January morning thirteen years ago, that I remembered my friend Herb’s words about The Sit: “If you sit somewhere for at least 10 minutes, if you can be quiet and still and wait that long, something will happen."
I was on a dawn snowshoe hike, headed for the section of the preserve known as The Old Woods, a place with old growth trees and a good chance to see raccoons snoozing in lofty hollows or big pileated woodpeckers excavating trunks for their breakfasts. TulipSummit
The first thing I realized was how unnatural it felt just to sit still, with no other purpose in mind beyond the sitting. I’d sat still to watch wildlife before, for long stretches of time even, but at those times I’d had a purpose, a focus. Now, I had only the hope that something would happen. It felt wrong, as if I was wasting time, but I had nowhere to be, no one waiting for me. If I got up and moved on, I had only my own impatience to blame. In the first five minutes, I glanced at my watch no less than ten times. Despite telling myself not to, I would look without realizing what I was doing.
But after the first five minutes, I started to relax. I heard the dead leaves quaking in the nearby beech tree, tinkling like chimes. I noticed the tufts of windblown snow that had collected in the rough patches on the trees the night before, the blue tint of the morning light. There were mouse tracks running from one of the bench’s legs to a nearby limb sticking out of the snow. It was from one of the tulip trees, and I could see a few clusters of tulip seeds protruding from the snow’s surface. The mouse must have been using them to pad his winter larder.
From the bench, I had a good view of the surrounding woods. The “summit” was only a small bump in the landscape, but the sloping sides and the bare winter branches in every direction allowed me to see a good ways off. And that was why I could see the fox.
I'll tell you the rest (and what this has to do with Violet) tomorrow!
I was on a dawn snowshoe hike, headed for the section of the preserve known as The Old Woods, a place with old growth trees and a good chance to see raccoons snoozing in lofty hollows or big pileated woodpeckers excavating trunks for their breakfasts. Tulip
The first thing I realized was how unnatural it felt just to sit still, with no other purpose in mind beyond the sitting. I’d sat still to watch wildlife before, for long stretches of time even, but at those times I’d had a purpose, a focus. Now, I had only the hope that something would happen. It felt wrong, as if I was wasting time, but I had nowhere to be, no one waiting for me. If I got up and moved on, I had only my own impatience to blame. In the first five minutes, I glanced at my watch no less than ten times. Despite telling myself not to, I would look without realizing what I was doing.
But after the first five minutes, I started to relax. I heard the dead leaves quaking in the nearby beech tree, tinkling like chimes. I noticed the tufts of windblown snow that had collected in the rough patches on the trees the night before, the blue tint of the morning light. There were mouse tracks running from one of the bench’s legs to a nearby limb sticking out of the snow. It was from one of the tulip trees, and I could see a few clusters of tulip seeds protruding from the snow’s surface. The mouse must have been using them to pad his winter larder.
From the bench, I had a good view of the surrounding woods. The “summit” was only a small bump in the landscape, but the sloping sides and the bare winter branches in every direction allowed me to see a good ways off. And that was why I could see the fox.
I'll tell you the rest (and what this has to do with Violet) tomorrow!
319 days old
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Sit - Part 1
Remember my friend Herb? I wrote about him in a post back in July, describing a yearly camping trip I take in his honor. He taught me most of what I know about the outdoors, and that’s where he comes to mind most often. I thought of him today, during a early evening hike with Violet. She’s still at the stage where she loves to touch anything and everything within reach; leaves, bark, flowers, berries – her fingers strain and stretch to reach them all. Some I pause to let her fondle and explore, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide – a picture of concentration. I try to point out animals to her – a chipmunk scuttling through the trailside leaves or a chickadee perched close and eyeing us up, but they’re usually too small and too fast for her to zero in on. I know she’ll be able to soon enough, and when that thought went through my head, it was immediately followed by Herb's voice, asking the question, “When will she be able to do ‘The Sit’?” Once, on a hike together in some wild place, he told me, “If you sit somewhere for at least 10 minutes, if you can be quiet and still and wait that long, something will happen.” The idea intrigued me and I still remember the first time I tried it – I’ll tell you about it tomorrow…
318 days old
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Linda's first words as I walked through the door last night were...
I know I’m a parent now. I have boogers all over my pants.
317 days old
Monday, October 3, 2011
The End is Nigh
My calendar hangs on the wall over my desk, and recently, I flipped it to October. My eyes happened on the small rectangle in the upper corner, the one giving me a miniature version of next month’s rows and columns of dates. There was November 20th. Second Sunday from the bottom. Until that moment, thinking about that date – Violet’s first birthday, the end of this blog – left me wondering how I’d fill up all the remaining posts, but seeing it there on the calendar, so close that it stares back at me every time I sit down to type a post, I feel a mildly surprising surge of panic. When I started this blog, it was for me. My wife’s pregnancy was flying past, and I wanted some way to hold onto it and to everything we would go through once Violet arrived. But over the past four hundred and some odd posts, the purpose has changed. This is now more for Violet. She is potential personified, and everything I type here feels like some sort of insurance against the future, whatever may come. With so many people I know, there are things I want to say to them but never do. I might forget, or wait for the right time that never comes, or I never find the courage to speak, but it’s easy to write to an idea, especially when that idea is the only daughter I’ll probably ever have. With that much on the line, it’s easier to get down the important, the goofy, the sentimental things I want to say to her. Maybe I won’t get them all down, but I’m starting to feel desperate, knowing that soon this window will close. I know I could continue collecting thoughts here after November 20th. No one’s holding me to that date, but the idea of following through on what I said in that first post – one post a day until my kid turns one – and giving this chapter of her life and mine a definite start and stop feels right. Come November 20, I’ll print it all up into a book and put it somewhere safe. Maybe I’ll wait to give it to her until she’s older. Maybe not. But it will be there, no matter what happens to me - death, or stroke, or just the possible crankiness and inevitable forgetfulness of old age. She’ll be able to read all the things I wanted to say, all the things I wanted her to know, and she’ll be able to read them whenever she wants, long after I’m gone.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Bloody Lip
It happened. I knew it would. I’ve said so in previous posts. I sat next to Violet as she played on the floor, and, as so many guilt-ridden parents have said before, I turned away for just a second. She made a slight movement toward me, and she was off balance, falling mouth-first into my knee. I felt it and heard it, a hard hit. There was no need to wait for a reaction, her eyes immediately pinched shut, a crimson flush flooded her face, and her mouth opened with the most horrible of all children’s cries, the silent, wide-mouthed howl. I picked her up and held her until she started breathing and her cries were audible. I pulled back to look, and saw, for the first time (and I’m sure it won’t be the last), Violet’s blood. Just a slight trickle on the center of her lower lip, but enough to make me want to call Child Protection on myself.
She’s fine, of course. Her smile was back in less than a minute, and the blood stopped soon after. No big deal, right? Just one of the many bumps and scrapes inevitable at this age. But what made my guilt linger was the small part of me that thought, "Hey, now I have a post for tonight!" and regretted not taking a picture. Maybe it’s good that this blog’s almost complete.
315 days old
She’s fine, of course. Her smile was back in less than a minute, and the blood stopped soon after. No big deal, right? Just one of the many bumps and scrapes inevitable at this age. But what made my guilt linger was the small part of me that thought, "Hey, now I have a post for tonight!" and regretted not taking a picture. Maybe it’s good that this blog’s almost complete.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Never Judge a Parent Until You've Stood at the Crib in the Middle of the Night
“If it works for the family, then it’s a good solution.” My friend (and fellow teacher) took that stance during a brief debate we had before school on Thursday. One of our students has some challenging sleep habits, and I don’t agree with the family’s solution. Out of respect for their privacy, I won’t go into details here, but to my mind, their solution only works around the problem. It doesn’t solve the underlying issue. “If it was me,” I countered, “I would ask myself, ‘What does this solution teach my child? Is it helping solve the problem for the long run or is it a temporary fix?’” My friend reiterated his earlier statement, going on to say that being a parent has greatly increased his definition of acceptable parenting moves; that the problem will likely work itself out no matter what the family chooses to do. I wasn’t convinced that it would be for the best.
That night, Violet woke up crying at 11:30 PM, 2 AM, and 3:30 AM. One of those times, the memory of which one is too blurry to be certain, I stood at the side of her crib, trying to soothe her. I rubbed her back. I spoke to her softly, reassuringly. The words of our pediatrician and in so many of the books I’ve read ran in bold letters across my brain. Do..not..pick..her..up.. Do..not..pick.. her..up. Picking her up reinforces the behavior. It does not encourage independence.
But I was so tired. I pictured myself standing there for another ten minutes as she continued to cry, then going back to bed, staring at the ceiling, awake and listening to more crying. It might go on for twenty or thirty minutes, maybe more. Or I could just pick her up. She would calm right down, rewarding me with that most wonderful of gifts, a sleepy smile in the dark. I would lie back on my pillows with her on my chest and she would drift off in just a few minutes, and I could place her gently back in the crib and return to bed, both of us happy. And that’s what I did.
That night, both of us learned something about me.
314 days old
To all those who have left comments over the past week or so, forgive me for not commenting back until tonight. There was a glitch on the blog that would not allow me to leave comments. I believe it is now fixed.
That night, Violet woke up crying at 11:30 PM, 2 AM, and 3:30 AM. One of those times, the memory of which one is too blurry to be certain, I stood at the side of her crib, trying to soothe her. I rubbed her back. I spoke to her softly, reassuringly. The words of our pediatrician and in so many of the books I’ve read ran in bold letters across my brain. Do..not..pick..her..up.. Do..not..pick.. her..up. Picking her up reinforces the behavior. It does not encourage independence.
But I was so tired. I pictured myself standing there for another ten minutes as she continued to cry, then going back to bed, staring at the ceiling, awake and listening to more crying. It might go on for twenty or thirty minutes, maybe more. Or I could just pick her up. She would calm right down, rewarding me with that most wonderful of gifts, a sleepy smile in the dark. I would lie back on my pillows with her on my chest and she would drift off in just a few minutes, and I could place her gently back in the crib and return to bed, both of us happy. And that’s what I did.
That night, both of us learned something about me.
To all those who have left comments over the past week or so, forgive me for not commenting back until tonight. There was a glitch on the blog that would not allow me to leave comments. I believe it is now fixed.
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