Where In the World?

Last week Brooks left for a business trip to San Francisco. Knowing he would be gone all week, Brahm sent him with one of his Lego Storm Troopers just in case Brooks felt lonely and missed him. Being sensitive to others is not unlike Brahm. Two of his gifts are a strong sense of compassion and empathy for others. Brooks understands this. In fact, he knows just how much he and his son are alike in this way. So it shouldn't have surprised me (though it did) when this series of photos showed up a few days later for Brahm.

Bay Bridge Tunnel

Bay Bridge

Union Square

The Embarcadero

Taxi Drive

Down Town

Brooks is in Las Vegas this week. He didn't leave empty handed, either. Oliver sent him with a Lego Snow Trooper and Brahm, a sheriff (with handcuffs - a non-negotiable travel accessory, I'm told). We can't wait to see where they'll turn up this time...

Hodge Podge

One of the best things I ever did in my garden was plant the strawberry patch. I expected small, pithy berries but instead have been completely surprised by the large, juicy ones we have picked all summer long. Bless Brooks for letting me tear out a strip of the front lawn where the berries now grow. It's the only piece of land we own that gets a full twelve hours of sun at the peak of summer. That's probably why they have done so well - that and all the TLC the boys and I have put into it. They have rewarded us with more fruit than we can handle - enough for pie, freezer jam, cereal toppers, salads, ice cream and fresh eating.

One thing I notice about myself is that I'm a very tactile person and enjoy a creative process that starts from scratch. This means that nothing makes me geek-out more than picking the strawberries right off the plant, washing and hulling them right into a pie shell that started out as a bowl of flour and butter. This recipe here calls for a cream cheese filling (a block of cream cheese, 1/4 cup of sugar and a couple tablespoons of sour cream or plain yogurt), a layer of sliced kiwi and a crown of berries covered in a corn starch-based glaze. No one here turned down a slice.

A month ago or so the boys and I were home camping out in the living room. This appeases my conscience some since I hate actual camping and they love it. We built a sheet tent, stuck marshmallows on sticks and "roasted" them over a fire we conjured from construction paper. All of the sudden we hear a storm pick up outside and were astonished moments later to see hail the size of gumballs coming down all over the neighborhood. Of course the boys run out and gather as many as they could while I'm giving Brooks a play-by-play over the phone (I love how he humors me by listening when I call him at work with stuff like this). Weeks later and I think there are still a few rolling around the bottom of the freezer.

















And finally, Brooks gets his 9th consecutive "Dad of the Year" award by building these wooden artillery units with the boys. I came home from work one Saturday afternoon to find them all busy with a jigsaw and a sander only to proudly emerge a couple of hours later with what you see featured below. What's not featured is what Brooks later built - a wooden pistol with which to arm himself. Smart dad.

Memo to Children

The garlic press is not for Play-doh.

Conditioned Response

Everyone is born with a gift. At least that's what I was telling Oliver the other day. He was fascinated by this concept and wanted to know what his gift is.

"You have the gift of resilience," I tell him. I observe that he is able to let a lot of things roll off his back and when they don't, it's not very long before he's back to himself again. I notice other gifts in him that we didn't talk about that day: he has a hearty spiritual constitution, laughs easily, has a very curious and keen mind and is able to persist long after others have given up.

Fast forward about a week. Grandma Briggs had loaned us her Outback while our car was in the shop and we were on our way home that night after returning it to her. Even though our car is running, it certainly has seen better days. I really enjoyed driving the Outback for the week and wondered how I could possibly put lipstick on the pig that is our own vehicle. Wanting an upgrade but not wanting to invest, I ask Brooks, "Do you think we can go to a junk yard and find some leather seats for our car like the ones your mom has?"

He laughs and says, "Yeah, if you want them to be all cracked and nasty."

"But your mom's car is the same year as ours and her seats are perfect."

"That's because my dad has religiously applied leather conditioner to them over the years to keep them in good shape."

"So how about you start putting fabric conditioner on our seats to keep them in perfect condition for me?"

This is funny to us primarily because I'm the reason the car interior, including the seats, is so pathetic. It's just me and the boys who use it 90% of the time so I take no pains to keep it presentable since the mess only bothers me once things start to smell. It's also funny because Brooks is nothing like his father when it comes to being fastidious about maintenance - not cars, not lawns, not anything - so the good-humored ribbing doesn't escape his notice.

"OK, I'll put some on right now," he jabs back and lifts his cheek to make a huge farting sound.

This really gets me laughing but not as much as what happens next. Oliver (who apparently has been listening the whole time) is duly impressed because behind me I hear him comment to himself, "Now that's a special gift!"

Then and Now

Capitulation

Found clipped to the pencil holder by the computer:

"I surrender! Stop the smug madness."

Who Am I?

Yesterday I'm looking down in the pan of tempeh and spinach I'm sauteeing for lunch and have a disturbing moment of self-awareness.

"Hey, Brooks!" I shout to the next room. "Can you come here for a second?"

A moment later he's standing next to me at the stove. I turn off the burner and face him.

"Look at me," I say. "I drive an aged Subaru station wagon, I have dreadlocks, I am at present eating a soy product in a recipe I got from Whole Foods (a destination arrived at in said Subaru wagon), I wore Chaco's to my massage therapy job today (a destination arrived at via combination of bicycle and public transportation). I employ the use of reusable shopping bags and bottle food grown organically in community gardens."

He stares at me waiting for me to come to the point.

"Bro-oks!" I demand, clearly distressed. "What has become of me?"

"You're hard-core, Jenny." I understand from the way he says this that this is common knowledge. Common to everyone but me, that is.

I have to sit down. After a moment I counter, "Then why don't I identify with those kind of people? In fact, why do they bug me just looking at them?"

He jumps at this. "I don't know, Jenny. What's the universe trying to tell you?"

Great. He's doing to me what I often do to him when he's having a strong reaction to a person or event. It's my belief that these kinds of triggers mark some unresolved issue that, if carefully and honestly considered, will usually reveal exactly what it is followed by an opportunity for resolution. I want to be irritated with him at first but then the curiosity over the underlying issue distracts me.

"Hmm," I answer, more to myself than to him. "What could it be?"

The answer to this particular question isn't long in coming. I have deeply held, albeit outdated belief, that the work of determining my path in life is best left to someone or something else that knows what's best for me but that that person or thing is almost never me. I have evolved over the last few years to the point where I can actually trust my judgment and inspiration to guide me. I am also learning that it's not necessarily a question of which path is best or right (a belief that often paralyzed my decision-making process) but rather which path resonates with my authentic self and respects the rights of other people at the same time. To make my own decisions without deferring entirely to outside sources has been a challenging journey full of insecurity, false-starts and poor choices. I have felt resentment that the ability to act for myself has not come easily. When considering my reaction to people for whom it seems it does, I realize I feel jealous. I envy their ability to charter their own course in life, even when it may challenge tradition or societal norms. This surprises me because when I ask myself whether or not I am free to do the same, the answer is yes. Even though I am currently living more or less in harmony with this idea, I guess I haven't quite married the old and new way of being; all external signs point to yes while internally I may still be struggling with no.

Hmmm. As my friend Bekki says, this is good information.

It's now Sunday morning as I write. It would be pretentious to say I have this figured out or that I even know exactly why I'm writing about it. Brooks comes into the living room where I am and pauses in the doorway. I look up at him and say as much. With his signature reassurance he says, "Just let it be what it is. Just let it be."