Letter #30

October 5, 2016

Kansas City, Missouri

Dear Babette,

Hello from here.  It's been a while hasn't it? I would like to blame summer and so I shall.  It's impossible to write when one is merely trying not to melt into a dripping puddle of death.  Alas, we have survived and must make preparations before we are required to endure another one of these, stuck in the middle of the country summers.  So far my list is A) Move to Iceland or B) Spend summer in the Northern Minnesota, either one will do.  I shall become a peddler of antiques in a sleepy, little shop with unpredictable hours along the coast and we will all cram into a tiny rented room across the street from the glorious, rocky wonderland that is Lake Superior.  

Today, during the morning break from lessons, I rearranged the dining room and when the kids walked back in they said, "Oh, you're moving things around. Okay."  Because, as they already know or inherently understand that moving furniture can happen if it's a Monday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or Saturday, Yes, even a Tuesday, or late on a Sunday evening, much to the husband's chagrin.  A really good, inspiring wind may cause it too, the kind that floods into windows and whispers a call for change.  And then if there is the possibility that anything at all has been in the same place for too long, yes, even me, you get the picture.

One of our favorite artists just released a new album and on the first day, Matt left me a copy he made for the van.  After listening once, I sent him a simple text, "#6."  He replied with, "obviously."  Later, he told me that he was also anticipating a text that would read, sell everything, burn it all down, we must be off to see the world now. That's something that happens here too, quite often. (Approximately every 13 days.)

Here are some of  the lyrics, 

I wanna be free as the winds that blow past me
Clear as the air that I breath
Young as the morning
And old as the sea

I wanna lose myself in the Scottish highlands
The west coast of Ireland
The Cornish breeze

I wanna rest my bones in the Spanish sunshine
The Italian coastline is calling me
To be free as the birds that fly past me
Light as the fish in the sea
To be wise as the mountains
And tall as the trees

So yes, obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

I printed a few photos from a weekend trip to Charleston, when a weekend trip to Charleston was a possible, five hour drive.  There is a one of my cautious and true son, who was unsure of the waves, so he found a long, winding pool leftover from high tide and with a collected bit of driftwood, he ruled and splashed in his wild domain.  It's dark and light, reflections and shadows dancing in perfection.  And then the girl who ran into the cool December waves, soaking the hem of her dress, her face, and hair and roared into great soul of the universe.  I watched from the dry sand with our youngest in my arms, trying to keep her warm.  I saw it all and let it sink deep, deep into my heart, filling me with new life.   There is nothing in this world too heavy or great that a pure, primal roar into the great soul of the universe can't remedy. I could tell from the look in her wild, radiant eyes that she knew this too.   Feeling the waves is like feeling God, she said.  I may have mentioned that a time or two and I pray that my children will know that if the entire world is drowning in darkness, crashing to the ground, then get to the water and you will find strength anew.  

Yesterday we went hiking and the first highlight of the morning was a moment of anger when my son threw his favorite guitar/walking stick to the ground, were it smashed into three pieces.  With high emotions we walked and I calmly suggested there may be another stick in the woods.  Because, hello, the woods.  And in time, we stumbled upon a suitable replacement and sorrow turned to joy.  Did I want to point out my obvious wisdom, perhaps yes?  It's a stick and we're in the freaking woods, which are full of sticks, sticks everywhere, a million sticks! So please, calm down.  (Truth be told, I said it in my head and congratulated myself.)   

Our hike was delightful. We found the place were the water trickled down the mossy, green rocks and we climbed big hills as the sunlight poked through a veil of golden leaves.   We were covered in dirt and tiny prickles stuck to C's,weary, little legs scratched at my skin as she sat on my shoulders. Leading the pack, the boy with his walking stick was saying something I couldn't quite hear for the sing-song girls between us.  And then a break in the noise let me catch his words, where he was thanking God for the woods and for helping him find a new stick.  

I keep thinking about how beautiful and ordinary that part was, all of us sweaty and alive and breathing, just marching down the path.  There were probably a few bugs or spiderwebs in our hair and our water was gone, but there was cause in a small mind to pause and give thanks for finding a new stick in the middle of the great, big woods.  That's something, I think.

After I moved the bookshelf under the large world map, I saw a glimpse of something with fresh eyes.  I gathered bits of dried flowers hanging about the house and draped them as frame.  I taped those pictures of my children in the sea over Antarctica, because if we need it, we'll find it.  And I drew a dotted line from our pictures to the Atlantic coast of South Carolina and marked, YOU WERE HERE.

Maybe one day, I'll regret this act of personalizing a world map, but I can't imagine I will. You can find dozens of them anywhere.  Perhaps, making that tiny mark was a declaration of my soul on the roaring waves.  Even when I can't hear them, I feel them crashing in my truest places.  As Barbara Brown Taylor would say, it's an altar in the world, you were here and I was too and we were together.

You were here. I was here.  We lived and breathed and splashed in the water.  We played pirates in the sand.  Our noses turned red with chill, but we stayed until the dark lines stretched longer than the light.  We introduced babies to the sea and our giant souls found a piece of home in a foreign land.

We climbed hills and slippery green rocks, dusted spider webs from our faces and moved at the pace of wood turtle on a hill covered with fallen leaves. 

And all the other things, insert your lists here, mark them with an X.

Find holy ground in the beautiful and ordinary moments of your living and breathing.

We work tirelessly and care endlessly and dream wildly and do all those things again and again, repeat.  Whispering truth that flow into the streams that feed great, big souls.  Marking tiny X's in this enormous world.  

And so, Babette, my dear friend, I think my people want dinner tonight and that's something I should probably consider too.  

Send Bennett our love and send us your pumpkin pie recipe.

All my love,

Olivia