"Seed Moments"

My favorite writing professor (who was also intimidating as hell, but that's another story) at Loyola once said that the best "starts" for stories are moments...things you witness in real life. And then the story flows from there...often in the most random of ways. He called these observations/moments "seed thoughts". I loved this idea so much, and of course...being not only the eager beaver student that I was, but also the great fan of writing in my pastime, I bought a journal to carry with me on the L. I would see things, from the profound to mundane, and jot them down. Sometimes I would use them for stories...sometimes not. But noticing them, I think, is what helped me develop my instincts and love for writing.

And so, in my regular, daily life, I notice things. I notice a lot. My principal at Meridian Middle School once told me that my single most valuable skill as a teacher was my ability to observe and reflect. My point is not self-congratulatory, but rather this: I can't help but be so acutely aware of my environment, that sometimes I'm overwhelmed with how to capture it all. And honestly, it often is the reason I am forgetful or even late for things.
I'm just...always...processing.

I started this blog, thinking that it would help me hone my thoughts and observations in a meaningful way...and some days I think I've accompolished just that. But other days, when so many things have happened in the life of this family of mine that are blogworthy, all I want to do is just sit and be in the moment. And then the moment is gone, and I wind up reverting to my usual sarcastic, often bitchy, babble and wit.

Then there are days when I observe something, particularly with one of my boys, that captures just how I feel that day. Seemingly insignificant, yet not in the larger context of my life.
Today has been a really good day, for many unimportant reasons...mostly just the flow, and relative ease of it all. But what has stood out have been those moments where I feel so proud of and right in the role I'm playing.
This time I'm spending...even as I walk hand in hand with Benjamin through the halls of a middle school (where Ms. Margaret's class is held)...and am every-reminded of this other part of me. And yet, even though I often feel a pang of jealousy as I see teachers grading papers in their classrooms (never thought I'd miss that part), or when Benjamin asks me "what are those kids doing?" when they're just simply lining up in the hallway with their bright, fresh-faced young teacher...even in those moments, I'm grateful. It's something that I clearly recognize as a choice...and know that for some, it's not the right one. But what I seem to have so much gratitude lately for is this ever-increasing awareness I have of myslef...perhaps it's the yoga, who knows. But I'm feeling more and more at home with who I am and the choices I'm making.
And if I'm being honest, I'm not just grateful for what this "time" is giving my boys...but selfishly, what it's giving me.

In our house right now, it's silent.
Brian is working in the basement, but I can't (which is unusual) hear his "work voice" bellowing from the lower level. Benjamin is napping (hooray--yesterday he boycotted!), and is in hour 3 of a much needed slumber. Windows are open, and you can hear the faint noise of kids walking home from Lakeside School...but other than that, it's quiet. I'm here, in the kitchen, putting price tags on garage sale items, and Jonathan's in the TV room, "reading" his books. I hear him making cute noises...so I just go and stand in the doorway to the TV room, and hope he doesn't notice me. I watch as he stands at the coffee table and turns the pages of The Snowy Day slowly...and laughs to himself, perhaps recognizing some of his favorite parts of the story...and then I watch him point his stubby, sweaty little index finger at the bathtub scene in the story, near the end. And he mutters, in a language only I can understand..."busshhh teef!". As in, of course, "brush teeth".
And then he made himself giggle so much that he actually bent over the table and did that croaky noise that kids make when they laugh too hard. All the while, completely unaware of my presence.

So I smiled...and just noticed it.
In all of its precious, and fleeting, simplicity.