I find myself holding my breath these days. I'll be sitting on the couch or standing by a door, and all of a sudden I will realize I am not breathing. I have teenagers in the house. Two teenagers and one preteen. If ever I wondered if I could survive parenting, these are the years that will render the verdict. My son interrupts my train of thought just now to say, "Why did you have to birth all boys, Mom," as if he is reading over my shoulder. He is not, in fact. He simply knows somewhere inside himself that he and his brothers are quite capable of sending me over the edge.

I wake up most mornings quite hopeful--that I will stay calm, be reasonable, act my age. Yet, as the day progresses, my resolve is challenged and slowly diminished as boys rumble and roll around my house--defraying their energies in every possible direction, twinging and banging, slapping and grabbing, calling out in loud pre-manly calls, testing their viability as men-boys. As I write, David has been reduced to tears by Michael. They were just playing, you know. Wrestling, you know. Suddenly David cries out in pain and the excuses come rolling like waves on the sand out of Michael's mouth. Another five minutes of my day.

I know I am not alone. When we are in public, we require our children to stand tall, walk confidently, issue proper manners when necessary, be honest, be kind, open doors for ladies and seniors. They accomplish these things with magnificent ease--with only an occasional reminder--especially regarding the door thing. I have to believe that our parenting skills, lack as they may be, are at least teaching our children to maintain some sense of decorum out in the general view of the world.

But what is that quote I've heard? "Character is who you are when no one is watching." Ah, the rub of parental achievement. When the doors close, my house becomes an utter rumpus room, a battleground, a three ring circus, a place where communications are shouted from room to room and manners seem to be left at doors outside somewhere with the ladies and seniors. 

Are there others out there who are willing to say, "Yes, we unravel a bit when the world is reduced to the safety of our walls." I say safety and not privacy, though privacy is a factor. I am leaning to the idea that my boys, because they are still boys, are comfortable enough in the confines of this home to let their guards down, be a little wild, throw a few punches, knowing they are safe. Knowing that when the lines of acceptability are crossed, they will be roped in, redirected, made to do a number of push ups or settle into household chores. Knowing they will be reminded that home is a training ground where the boundaries can be pushed and sometimes redefined as they each progress through the seasons of childhood within these walls. 

By grace, I will start breathing regularly again in a few more years. By grace the house will stand and our history will congeal in a bundle of memories that ring in the walls, run down the hallway, and eventually step out the open door.

This poem came out one day not long ago when I returned from a walk on the beach. I found this shiny black stone poking out of the sand. I looked down at it, walked away, and then returned to pull it from the sand. I was struggling that day. As I walked along, holding the stone, turning it over and over in my hand, it occurred to me that our lives are much like the journey that stone had made through the surf to the beach. I know it did not start out as a smooth, round object. Somewhere, along a cliff perhaps, the waves beat hard and long enough to cause a chunk of stone to drop into the water. Or maybe its journey began on a rain swept mountainside, down a rumbling river to the sea. Over time, the jagged, rough object was transformed into a smooth stone. Much like my own life is being transformed daily under the watchful eye of my God.

Black Stone

This black stone pushed up 

Through the sand

Just beyond tide’s edge.

My feet step around it

Then draw back to reach a hand,

Feel sand grains beneath my nails

Pull the smooth round treasure from its bed.

I hold it without looking,

Sand and grit and wet

Impressing the skin of my palm,

Catching a corner of my mind’s eye,

In my field of vision

On the near horizon

Surfers ride thick dark swells,

Finding their freedom

On the California coast.

This day on the beach 

I am searching,

Flinging questions and sorrows 

Toward the wide open sky--

The face of God.

I did not come to look for stones.

I am walking 

With the roll of thunder roaring through my bones.

The troubled years shiver, 

Unsettled in their grave.

I am out of touch with hate.

But it is crawling around

Looking for a place of weakness

Underneath my skin.

The stone is cool against my palm.

I imagine its smoothing journey

From ragged cliff’s edge,

Through tumbling waves and surging tides

To find a place

On this beach

In my hand.

I shift my gaze

To shining hills of gold

To the changing line of ocean’s edge.

To cloud shrouded scenes

Of long ago memories almost disappeared.

My own story tumbles and turns 

Through mountains to valleys

By rivers that run to the mouth of the sea.

The eyes of God are watching now.

Even the rocks cry out.

Elizabeth Mitchell

I am the mother of three boys.  Two have reached the teenage years, one is hovering at eleven, watching his brothers from a child's point of view, wondering if he will be as tall, as self confident, as teenager-ish. 

Daniel came into the world on a rainy Tuesday mid-morning. I remember holding him, looking out the window of my hospital room, and watching the rain beat against the pane. I remember thinking all the world had changed, forever and for good. My baby boy in my arms--warm, comforting. 

Michael arrived at 10:09 p.m. after the passing of a sunny, early-June day. I stayed home for most of my labor, hoping to avoid too much time in the hospital bed. We left our house at 9:30 p.m., arrived at the hospital at 9:51 and Michael was born 18 minutes later. I remember looking at the clock as we entered the emergency room entrance. The doctor never made it to Michael's birth, and a midwife who happened to be on the delivery floor came into my room just in time to catch my beautiful blue-eyed boy.

David is another story that I will leave for another day. My precious miracle, born at 29 weeks gestation on another rainy Tuesday in February, almost three months early, weighing 2 pounds 9 ounces. He is a miracle. There is no doubt. Sometimes, when he is in a precarious situation or if he is heading out the door on his bicycle and I stop to pray for his safety, he says to me, "Mom, if God wanted me dead, he would have taken me out in the incubator." His words of assurance that he will be okay are not minced or lacking confidence. I love that boy.

Here is a small poem about Michael that just came out a few minutes ago. Sometimes my poems are quite simple and to the point. This is one of them.

Michael

I remember these little hands

That used to reach up to me.

I would bend down,

Place my own hands along his sides

Lift him to my hip

Kiss his forehead.

Now my son is tall enough

I can lay my head on his shoulder.

His blue eyes survey the room,

Looking for mischief.

I have a story to tell. It is a once upon a time tale. It is a here and now essay. I’ve wandered in and out of seasons--at times I’ve left my mark and at times I’ve vanished quietly away from the story without a trace. But every piece of the puzzle counts. Every piece of the puzzle unfolds into who I have become, who I will be. Writing is my outlet. Words on the page are the place where the working out of my days becomes concrete and traceable. 

Sometimes my stories come out in poetry. Here is a piece of my story. A memory. 

Dust LInes

Crossing Nebraska 1978

The full moon shined

Pouring light on the nighttime world.

Along the highway’s edge,

In the dark of night,

A field lay open to the wide looming sky.

From the corner of his eye he saw it--

Slowly at first

Coming into view--

This old pick up truck

Rumbling across the dirt 

With a lonely trail of dust gathering 

In the moonlight.

The image remained

Fixed forever

In the back of his mind’s eye.

“If I ever made a movie,” he declared,

“I would be sure to have a scene like that,

 Just an old pick up cutting across a field,

 Raising up dust in a long, straight line.”

Now the moon rises in the distance

Behind the hills.

Far away, I can hear the rev of an old engine.

My mind drifts back to a time

When dreams of dust lines

Ran deep across our vision,

When the world lay out flat and long--

Waiting to be sucked in and blown out

By a couple of friends

Shooting toward the horizon.

Elizabeth Mitchell

Morning arrives and I find myself staring lazily out the window. My view of the Rock is obscured by the gray blanket of fog filling up the sky. So, I have entered the world of blogging. Not really sure what I want to accomplish in this. 

I hear my sons in the other room making more noise than I am ready to deal with on this slow-moving morning. I have a blister the size of Africa on my big toe from walking in shoes too small for my feet. I do not like the pain of raw skin. Even the bandaid hurts.

I suppose my purpose in creating this blog is to force myself to write. Whether anyone ever reads anything I write is not so important to me. I just want to record my small corner of the world.

My sons have interrupted my morning. Not a complaint. Just a reality. It is the most difficult thing as a writer to find blocks of uninterrupted time. So this short entry is my first post. Not much, but a start.

It is July 2, 2009 and I have offiicially begun to blog.