Posted on December 1, 2014 by Jennifer Wolfe
Home
“How did you fit everything in that orange backpack, sweetie?”
The sun streamed in through her sliding glass door. It was mid-morning, and she already looked like she had never left for college. A wet towel hung over her pink desk chair, and her fuzzy sky-blue bathrobe still lay carelessly tossed on the floor. Her closet doors were flung open, and she rummaged around as she replied, “I don’t know. I didn’t pack much. I’m trying to figure out what to take home.”
My breath caught in my throat. Home? She is home…at least, I thought so. She was nearly born in this house, in this very room. She slept and woke and laughed and cried and lived, all right here. At home.
I gazed out the window, searching the landscape for the right way to respond. Keep it casual, I thought.
“Right. It’s gotten a bit colder there, hasn’t it? At home…” I remarked, casually walking out the door so the sunlight didn’t catch the tears pooling in the corner of my eyes.
This post was inspired by the novel The Mill River Redemption by Darcie Chan, about two estranged sisters who are forced to work together in order to uncover the hidden inheritance by their mother. Join From Left to Write on December 2nd as we discuss The Mill River Redemption and enter to win a copy of the novel. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.
Posted on November 27, 2014 by Jennifer Wolfe
Thankful she’s home
I went to four grocery stores yesterday. She wanted fresh fruit and raspberry Greek yogurt-things she cannot get in her dorm cafeteria. Lucky we live in California – no struggle finding fresh produce, so I bought a bounty and brought it home. I was a woman on a mission, in search of the perfect pineapple, sweet berries, crispy Pink Lady apples, a juicy mango, ripe kiwis and tender tangerines. I found them all, along with ingredients for tomato tortellini soup and fresh bread. And that’s just for the first night!
She’s home, I’m thankful, and we’re happy. Peace settled over our roof just knowing that both babies were safe, sleeping soundly in their own beds. They’re never too old to have their mom worry about them; never too grown to be my babies. It’s a first for me – having her come back home, from her new home. I’m not sure just how to navigate all this – I kept her room just like it was pre-college, not disturbing her high school photos or clothes left in the closet. I restocked her bathroom, put on her favorite polka dot flannel sheets, and found some deep red lilies to say, “Welcome home”.
I realize this could be the last time she’s home for Thanksgiving; it seems to be one holiday that is easily discarded during the college years, too close to winter break to make the drive or purchase the plane tickets. I know home will likely shift with time, as she creates her new life and relationships and creates spaces for the world to wrap its arms around her in comfort. I’m aware that these fleeting moments are all we have, these fragments of our lives that come together, enfolding us in the safety and gratitude and love of home.
p.s. – It’s never a bad time to reflect on all we have, the richness of our lives, and the gratitude for all the memories we have. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’d love to share some past thoughts on giving thanks, the comfort of home and pumpkin bread, the perfect dog buddy, baking bread, and gratitudes that last over time,
Sending love and thanks to all on this special day, and hoping you all revel in the precious moments spent at home with those you love.
Posted on November 21, 2014 by Jennifer Wolfe
sunset in Bend, Oregon
“Some doors close gently, others slam shut, shaking the house to its foundation. Some stories unfold predictably and others careen toward surprise endings. But as I think of the women I know, I realize that we are all confronting endings in our lives. We are all on journeys of one kind or another, trying to figure out where we’re supposed to be going and what we’re meant to be doing. I’m certainly not the only one asking, Now what?”
~from “Magical Journey” by Katrina Kenison
Posted on November 19, 2014 by Jennifer Wolfe
I don’t recognize any of the faces at pick-up. It’s been two years since kindergarten, and I stand in the hallway like the nanny in our small town of well-dressed, Volvo-driving mommies. They chat like old friends, tossing the occasional glance my way. I know there are checking me out, wondering which kid I belonged to. My outfit screams working mom, but without the pumps and pantyhose. They can tell I’m not white collar. Part of me secretly loves the confusion I’m causing. Part of me wants to cry.
Their little brown heads pour out of the room. I scan Hello Kitty and Bionicle backpacks and watch as one by one they run to their moms and then scramble to the play structure. Most days that’s where I find him, as I breathlessly ride onto the blacktop. The bungee cord on my bike basket secures tote bags overflowing with papers to grade and an empty travel mug, The other moms smile at me – that half-friendly, half smirky smile that lets me know I don’t exactly belong.
They don’t know how fast I ride the two miles to get here, how quickly I scurry out of my classroom to get to his. They don’t know that with my oldest child I got to work part-time, and volunteered in her classroom, and was home every day after school and knew all of her friends and their moms by first name. These moms, those whose boys scamper with mine, they don’t know me at all. They probably never will. They don’t know how my heart aches to be there every day before the bell rings, to have the conversations on the sidelines of the playground and drive on the field trips. They don’t know that someday, their sons and daughters will be the reason I’m not with my own – that their child will be my child in class, and all this time and energy and heartache will pour right from me into their teen…
I see him, the last one out. He carefully packs up his brown camouflage backpack. I cautiously enter, not wanting to invade this special place. I understand this is a time for his teacher to breathe, to pause, to center. He doesn’t notice me yet, but she does. “Hola”, she smiles as she greets me. I like her. I like knowing he spends his day with someone who cares. He looks up and runs into my arms.
“Mommy!” His eyes shine as he sees me. He is so small as I circle my arms around him, hugging all my love into his little body. I smile at her, say “Thank you”, and hold his tiny hand as we walk out the door toward our bikes. Together.
p.s. – Are you a working mom? I’ve been a teacher for 24 years – you might like to read about how I’ve spent my days with other people’s children teaching, creating community, doing global service in education, and finding the teacher-mom balance.
Posted on November 13, 2014 by Jennifer Wolfe
It was the juxtaposition here that caught my eye; the hovering between the change of seasons, between permanence and the fleetingness of the moment. I ride by these trees every day, hurrying to school, never stopping to look up or notice.
It wasn’t until this month, when the light changed and the air cooled that I really noticed them – that I really stopped, looked up, and paused. It was the position, really, between the durability of the palm with its strong backbone, its wide, graceful fronds against the fragility of the pistache, finger-thin branches freeing themselves of vibrant red and yellow and orange debris.
It’s just like life.
One minute, we’re enduring life, riding the bumps and bruises and crests of the moment. We’re holding fast, occasionally throwing our arms up in glee, knowing that the immutability of what we know to be real is there to keep us safe. Strong. Comforted.
And right next to us, close enough to touch, a blaze is extinguished. A force at once vibrant and animated, slowly shedding its color in preparation for the next season. The next stage. To go dormant, to conserve its energy for what is yet to come. Fragile. Fleeting.
Both equally exquisite. Both equally elusive. Both equally extraordinary.
It’s just like life.
So I stopped my bike and snapped a photo.
Friday photos are a snapshot of life, a moment in time, an image that lingers. They’re my attempt at capturing the extraordinary in the ordinary – taking a pause to breathe in the moment in this wild and fleeting life.
p.s. – I think you might enjoy these Friday Photo moments from weeks gone by, when I captured a last gasp of summer, Dia de los Muertos and a harvest. Click over and take a look, and please, let me know what you think.
