“Wilderness. The word itself is music.” --Edward Abbey

If there has been no mention of Eric here this past little while, that may be because we hardly ever see the man. He leaves by 7:00 am, teaches 5th graders, comes home for a super quick lunch, goes to the University to work his other job, comes home just before 8:00, eats dinner, helps put Anna to sleep, then back to the computer to do prep for next day's teaching and answer leftover emails and phone calls, usually until around midnight. Repeat. And then throw in huge conferences he's put together on Chinese literacy,  Beijing Publishing Press visits, and running teacher trainings, all of which stretch over both days of the weekend. We've been hanging on to the far away glimmer of Spring Break all winter--one glorious 7 day stretch over which we vowed to pack our bags and camp the whole week, talking to no one but each other.

But he just got the news that he's going to Beijing instead. (cue the sad trombone) 

Better news: My parents are the wonderful parents they always have been. They offered to take Anna for a couple nights so we could squeeze in a mini spring break this weekend.

We love Anna dearly (obviously), and we have been known to turn down grandparents' kind offers to tend. We like being with her, and we've made it so far doing most anything we want to do the three of us. But, with the exception of a few moments of genuine missing, and a lot of Anna quotes said in Anna voices, the weekend without her was much needed and wonderful, and we were so thankful we were all where we were.

We ran, hiked, backpacked, sat, read, slept. There is something, maybe it's the vast nothing, in the desert that is at once humbling and soothing to my little soul. The silence and exposed, the colors and the knowledge you are being watched, that you don't really belong here but have been given a few days to soak up as much as you can of this dry place.

Confession: we(I) forgot forks. We used sticks.

In the Spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. -- Margaret Atwood

We wanted today to be good, so Anna and I sat down on the floor and made a list of all the things we'd like to do. Then we made a schedule to fit everything in, edited out going to Idaho and the dinosaur museum, and colored all over it for good measure.

After sweeping, wiping, and cleaning out and off every last surface in her room, we climbed on the bed and read a few books. Maybe 30.  Then we realized we were late to story time at the library, so Anna pulled on her striped socks and her "fall boots" (we know it's almost spring, but she wouldn't put them on once when getting ready this fall because someone had called them "cute winter boots", thus they were promptly renamed "fall boots" and there hasn't been a protest since) and we were off.

We found an open spot on the ground, surrounded by happy, if tired,  moms, smiling at their tiny human staring at all the other tiny humans.

Then we picked new books, read some in the circle chair and saved some for when we got home, and made our way to the check out counter, one of Anna's favorite places in this world. In the parking lot, we both agreed it was a beautiful day, and we should probably go for a run and have a picnic at the park. Best part is that Baba was able to join us, so we picnicked and played as a whole family in the sun.

After her nap, we were on to tutoring Abel, with a side of Eritrean bread, then a walk to another park, where we slid and climbed and dug and swung until dinner time.

Also, I'm sharing Anna's cleaning outfit, in case you've been looking for a real effective one.

on being social

Most times when the door opens to apartment number 8, there is someone other than a family member laying on the couch or crouched in the corner on the floor with a tiny mug of coffee. There is usually also a platter of salted popcorn or hard cookies for the taking in the dimly lit room.

Once when we pulled up, a very small man wrapped in layers of clothing and black peeling shower sandals with socks was walking down the sidewalk. We said hello as I got Anna out of her seat, and began walking in the direction of Abel's apartment.  I didn't even realize he was following us until the door opened and he came in right along with us, saying nothing to anyone there, finding a place on the brown chair, eyes twinkling.

Of all the many things I've learned and loved working with so many different refugee families from very different situations, the way to be social must be my favorite. It may come from the years spent in camps, or the shared struggles between them, but whatever the reason, they simply like to be with each other, and do it daily. No need for any planned activity, family relation, holiday. They just come. And sit, and sometimes talk or bring their children or some orange juice.

I have known from a pretty young age that I wasn't really as good at people as my sister, the only one that mattered to me for a long time as any sort of standard. She was (and is) just so good at it. She loves it. And people love her.  Not that I didn't like people. I loved nothing more than to read about them, watch them, and be with my favorite friends. But strangers? And people I only sort of knew, talking about things I didn't think were really very important? Not my thing.

This week has been another opportunity for me to look at my social-ness (or lack thereof). With the viewing, the visiting family and friends, the funeral, there have been many conversations and reunions and people, and I found myself feeling these same childhood feelings. Watching my sister so genuinely happy and good at every one of those conversations, and myself wanting to go stand next to grandma in her casket, possibly invisible, just watching and listening to all these wonderful people talking to each other.

But something, many things really, at the funeral inspired me. My uncle talked about how my grandma truly sought to be well rounded-- to develop in herself skills and talents, even ones that didn't come naturally. It made me think of my Dad, also not a naturally gregarious fellow, who has become very good at conversations and outgoingness over the years,  due in part I think to church assisted/forced practice as well as personal intention.

There's times and groups of people with whom I feel very naturally a leader, very eager to talk or engage in conversation. Or put me in front of a classroom of kids and I can be completely calm and silly and in control. Put me in a grocery store, running into old neighbors who for some reason want to talk forever, or at a party, talking to sort-of-aquaintences, not so. And it's generally not that I'm scared.  It's just that I don't like it.  I do want to improve myself however, and realize I need to look at it less as a personality trait, my aversion to small talk, and more as a skill or talent thus far under-developed. So look out world! Super social Brinn, coming you way. Or at least one happy to talk to you at all times and in all things and in all places.

a tiny question

Too much, maybe not enough, of my day is spent thinking about how others are living, why I have so blasted much, what it all means and what to do about it. Gratitude, yes, to the point of it almost hurting and tipping me over into a guilty puddle of inert mush .

And then my little ship turns back towards that whole web of Woman, of what and how I am, what to become, what any and all of it means. Of not wanting and not needing angry, of knowing I have more, but feeling a missing limb, a missing mother. Where is She? Does She not care? Is She not allowed? Do we have it all wrong? Do I aspire to become Her-- uninvolved, unknown, too sacred?

Where are they?

Or should I just focus on the task at hand, the students and mail and melty snow mountains.