Time to yourself is precious when you are a parent.  Especially stolen hours in nature on a Christmas afternoon.  There is nothing like clearing your head of the city and all it’s various stimulus.  This time of year is all about willow.  We are wallowing in it, at the beaver dam, on the coast and in our secret sag ponds.  The low winter sun brings out the willow color spectrum in a manner that takes my breath away.  If I were to be a plant the willow would be a tempting incarnation.  Not to mention that if I were lucky enough I might even be immortalized as a basket.

Spending four days in Butano Canyon last weekend was incredibly visually peaceful.  The light there is not just filtered it’s layered.  Take this naturalized hydrangea bush.  A hydrangea inside a bamboo grove, inside a redwood forest, inside a rocky canyon, inside dry hills, inside coastal mountains…  You get the idea micro climates nested in micro climates, paintings nested in paintings, the ultimate in refined light.

A la The Wiz, “…and the color is red”!  Red has been a mounting preoccupation with Seth for the last few weeks.  Red had been his second favorite color, but I think it has now moved to number one on his spectrum.  It all started at the construction table at school.  While the other kids were busy hammering in corks and connecting odd bits of nail and wood together with wire, Seth was studiously engrossed in red.  He got a hold of the red sharpie used for writing names on construction projects, and spent 45 minutes coloring “emergency cabins” for the boat he was constructing with Naomi.

A few days later he announced that he was going to give his vintage rusty milk truck, “a fresh new coat of shiny red paint”.  He went about the business of getting the paint and carefully detailing the quaint but decrepit vehicle.  I must say it does look much better, and the variations of paint mixed with rust are divine from a textural perspective.  After this initial truck sketch, he moved on to a more ambitious project that involved painting and construction.  Perhaps the process of painting and watching varigated red texture appear got his creative juices flowing.  The result was the “control center” for his “train”.  The control center involved meticulous painting, and well engineered placement of every last paint brush in leveled sand.  I overheard him tell guests, “not to touch the controls they are permanent” and chuckled at his serious demeanor.

I chuckled too soon, because things got really serious a week later.  Gramps and Mattie got new bedside tables and proclaimed their old castaways were “up for grabs”.  Seth inspected both tables and pointed to the smaller one announcing, “I know…we can paint it red”!  This called for real paint, so I got out the bottle of acrylic that I used for the fund raiser signs.  There were a few days between when the paint was located, and all the while Seth kept me on target, “When can I paint the table red?  Is tomorrow when I paint the table red?”  When the time came he was the consummate professional, setting out newspaper, digging up a smock and brush, fully taking control of that side table’s destiny.

It didn’t end there.  The next day there were doll pins to be painted, his fire shirt engine needed to be red, a chair from his art table was in dire need of a makeover, and one of the flower pots simply *had* to be red!  I can completely understand this love of color.  I have spent my entire life in love with one color or another.  I read so much meaning and emotion into colors that my rational mind is constantly threatening to disown my emotional mind.  That said, there is nothing more gratifying that bedecking an object in your favorite color.  So much joy will be gleaned from a glance at this red table and chairs, even if they only serve the banal purpose of fire desk and fire chair for Seth’s new fire station.

The other day Seth proudly told me, “Mommy I am the artist that paints in red”.  I swooned.  I mean come on art school mommies, you know the feeling, the moment when your child manifests vision and implements.  It is the moment when you see them gearing up to take the leap from concept play to considered project.  It’s the instant when the thousands of hours of whimsical process pay off and the meandering path becomes a true direction.

Perhaps I have more of a stake in the growth of an artful child than other parents.  Innately Seth is a man of mechanism.  I can live through 20 more years of engineering if there is the spark of color, the willingness to paint on the side, some vehicle for us to communicate parallel experience.  I am sure Seth will not be quite so extreme, but it is my deepest fear.  So, I meditate on this month of red, cultivating the hope that we can move through life sharing the indulgence of hue appreciation.

Seth is on a rule making bender.  Tonight he said, “mommy, I make the rules in this bathtub, and you are not washing my hair”.  I didn’t think much about this till he started pouring water over his head, and proceeded to wash and rinse his own hair.  I guess the hair washing was not the issue…it’s just me ~ sigh.

I recently heard a bit on NPR about young men in East Oakland who attend groups after school where they recite/perform their hip hop.  The group is coached by a professional hip hop artist.  These young men are encouraged to tell their stories in the hopes that the act is therapeutic.  This process in official terms is called narrative therapy.

I immediately thought of Seth when I heard this.  Seth tells stories all the time.  He often wants stories told or retold to him when he is trying to workout something that caused him distress.  Above is a photo of Seth and I at the Whale Museum.  He wanted me to tell him the story of how the whale died.  He asked me to tell him this story multiple times.

The following sequence depicts the story of how the purple “fire bird” was quelled and brutally eviscerated by the fire truck.  Now I don’t ever spend time thinking about putting out things that are on fire, or eviscerating things, or how blood flows from a body, but Seth does.  I lost my notes on exactly what he said during this process, but it was pretty graphic.

By the end of the saga the “fire bird” was dead and bleeding.  Seth spent along time doing this last red part.  As he ran the brush across it he kept saying, “soft, soft” as if he were comforting the spot of paint.  I guess why this all interests me is because little boys seem to think about killing, death and other dramatic subjects.  I am trying to give Seth the mental room to work out these issues.  Whenever I overhear a bit of “narrative therapy” I try to listen so I can get and idea of what is going on in his imagination no matter how gruesome the content.

It’s raining today, but on Tuesday it was sunny.  We hitched a ride with Martina and hit Natural Bridges running.  When it’s 75 degrees on the beach in January it’s hard not to take advantage of the unexpected weather and play hard!  The jist of the day looked something like this.

The children came and went, but Teacher Laura held strong at the edge of the surf.  Every time children switched in and out of the chain the dynamic changed.  I was particularly fond of this moment because it showcases Seamus in his shining role, as mayor of the 3/4s class.  Seamus is a natural at facilitating social interaction.  His grandfather like charm combined with his bemusing stories make him a lovable leader.  Everyone is at home around Seamus.

Teacher Laura has a knack for getting right in there and playing with the kids.  This is helpful, because it gives me a chance to disengage and observe from a distance.  So often I am in the thick of it with Seth, asking questions, answering questions.  Instead I got to wander around with a camera and a clear head.  I guess I should have paid more attention to the incredibly sweet collaboration in front of me…

But instead I kept looking at this…

Lily.  Lily in her own world.  Occasionally she stopped to look at the action, but the frolic was not for her.  Lily is an artist at work.  She tries to engage, but often it seems that the very act of joining the other kids is too much for her artistic temperment and she cries out in dismay.  I get the feeling that Lily sees things I don’t see.  Maybe see’s a world I used to see when my life was ruled by imagination.

I want to join her in play.  I envy her contentedness there on her own.  Often times I find myself on the fringe of “real life” in my own artistic world.  Given a moment alone I revert to my inner Lily, and I too get grumpy when society demands that I disengage.  I try to tempt her with a bumble bee that I found in the wet sand.  I find that bugs are about the only thing that Lily will stop what she is doing to look at.

Not today.  I will have to be content outside her shell for now.  Perhaps someday she will let me in.  Maybe when she is older and makes artists books with enigmatic metal medallions.  Maybe later when she…I love to speculate about the future paths and careers of the kids.  It’s in my nature, my imagination is not all gone, just channeled.  I often catch an essence and can’t let it go.  I am compelled to spin the yarn, even if it is my own private projection.  You can take the Barbies out of my grasp, but you can’t take their stories out of my psyche.

Another “own world” one is Charlie.  Charlie is self propelling.  His own drum is so loud that he can’t really hear you, so don’t take it personally if he does not even register your existence.  I came across him burying his nose in sand.  He seemed to find it funny, although no one was there to watch.  It’s nice when children find humor all on their own.  Self entertainment is a good trait, and key to self preservation.

I love this shot.  I don’t care how cool you are Charlie will win you over with his completely unpremeditated antics and clear soul.  Charlie is what adult comedians strive to be, a straight shot to the funny bone, it’s in his marrow.

Well, back to the rain.

Love + Mommy Alis

Dear Seth,

From time to time you seem interested in letters. Sometimes when you get in the bath you tell me, “mommy let’s work on my letters”. After a few minutes the stick on letters are abandoned for stick on roads and other more actionable bath toys. I know you keep a secret diary of letters at Beba and Rada’s, a notebook that you illuminate with crayons like a little monk. For the fleeting moments that you train your mind on letters you are very studious. Last week was the first time I have ever seen you write your name, at least the E the T and the H. I’m sure in your mind you have been writing the letters of your name for quite some time, they just didn’t look like letters to us.

Most of your comrades have a better handle on lettering than you. This is ok because I like how positive you are about the repetition of mastering letters. You keep at it with a steady hand. You take the task seriously, but don’t let it over or under shadow your areas of expertise, such as mechanical work, building, and lecturing. You seem to give letters even attention. And yes, my heart soared last weekend when you ran to the Southwest sign and yelled across the baggage claim rotunda, “Look mommy! This word has all the letters from my name in it!” That is really all I can ask for. A small, intermittent feed to my heart, letting me know that someday you might come to love symbols, words and language as much as I do.

Keep up the good work! + Mommy

Yes I admit it.  My heart is with little boys these days.  The whirlwind that is Seth, Chas and Ford has inspired yet another blog The Boy’s Almanac.  Steph the boys and I are trying our hand at the projects from the American Boy’s Handy Book by Daniel Beard.  Please take a look and let us know what you think!

This photo was taken by extreme sports photograper Arun Frances.  Don’t hesitate to visit his website and check out the action.  Thanks for the glam shot Daddy Arun!

Dear Yousef,

I am looking forward to our lives unraveling together. It will be my pleasure to see your personality grow from your content little heart. I can’t wait to see how smart you will be, how agile, how you will say things and present yourself to the world, but right now I just want to tell you how much I love you.

Welcome + Auntie Alis

No words can describe the weight of a newborn head in your hand.  It is the truest of all sensations, the basis of all meaning.

Proud mother leveraging technology to spread her joy. And how fabulous does she look!