Not perfect, but whole

I'm not even going to delve into the matter of today being May 1 and I'm in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. That seems as wrong as the fact that there are only five weeks of school left. 

It really does take my breath away that summer break is nigh. Didn't my baby just start kindergarten? And soon my big boy will enter 4th grade and approach a double-digit age?

I chose not to think of those things this week, although they flitted through my attention when my eyes wandered to my calendar and reminders for camp payments rolled in. Instead I focused on being present with myself and those around me; my boys and friends, classmates and pets. 

Recently, I spoke to a very neat woman, wise and kind. She radiated serenity, a quality in others I am always drawn to like a moth to the brightest light. I want to know that secret, I want to understand the peace in this woman's face. So I talked to her for as long as she let me.

She told me about the importance of knowing ourselves deeply. That knowledge, and the acceptance of it, pads our hearts and souls. It nourishes us and is also protective, especially in our relationships with others both known and not. 

"When we know ourselves, Emily, we cannot be manipulated, for we are already whole. We don't have to spend energy defending ourselves against unknowns [unknown attacks], because we are already aware of our attributes."

Our conversation reminded me of an Adult Development class I took in grad school. Drawing on psychologist Lawrence Kohlberg's six stages of moral development, our professor, Robert Kegan, argued that the highest stage of adult development was at the point an individual could see him/herself as the subject and any given other as the object. Intimacy and deep connection are infinitely possible, but the Self is not enmeshed with the Other.

Put differently, the Self's identity is not dependent on the relationship with the Other. Rather the Self as an independent entity can approach and relate to and with another without worry that the Self will be lost or subsumed. 

The point is this: it is wise to make all effort to truly understand the essence of who we are. Then, faults can be addressed and worked on, strengths can be honed, real acceptance can be found. In the process, an authentic sense of self emerges and can be carried into relationships.

I think it's those sorts of selves that I find so appealing. People who recognize what is awesome about themselves and what is less optimal and who embrace it all in an accepting hug. They work to be just who they are but in a responsible way, fine-tuning internally as they go.

They are not perfect, but they're whole. And outwards from that core radiates pure light.

This week, I wrote a lot. I spent hours on the couch. I felt utterly alive and yet lazy too, as if this life of fitting words this way and that were but a puzzle of leisure I've not earned. And yet, something is different, and I wonder if it's growth. The very sort that might just radiate light.

Yum

People, fresh fava beans are a pain in the arse, but they are so worth the effort. 

You must first peel away their thick, puffer-jacket, fleece-lined shells to access the beans within. Then, you must blanch those and finally, slip the inner bean from the outer skin. That last step is particularly irritating because by that point in the game you're like, "Bean, come on. I want to eat you! And not even with a nice Chianti!"

Persevere! Because when you finish, you are left with a bowl of spectacular green, just waiting to be incorporated into something wonderful.

prepared fava beans

I myself most often make my fava-and-mint puree because slathering it across slices of hot, olive oily bread leaves me deeply happy.

mint

I did just that earlier this week and each day since. Today too, and I felt happy every time. It's awfully difficult to feel blue when faced with this color green. You know?

Guess what else this time of year offers? Watermelon AND real arugula. Real arugula, as opposed to clamshell arugula, is not just a lettuce. No. Real arugula has a fiery kick of which I never tire. Oliver loves it too, though it always leaves him fanning his tongue. I will never tire of getting him "somefing to dwink" for relief. It's adorable and I groove on his liking spicy lettuce.

With said arugula and watermelon (and also that mint!), you can make one of the best salads in the world. Starting now, I intend to eat at least one serving of this every day, not least because Ol and I discovered a remarkable feta cheese at the farmers market last weekend.

Promise me you'll get some good olive oil and some aged balsamic vinegar (or make your own by reducing some balsamic with a bit of sugar). Put two handfuls of real arugula on a plate and top it with chunks of watermelon. Crumble feta all over and drizzle with oil and the old vinegar. Sprinkle with salt and freshly ground pepper. Go!

My boy

My little boy calls to me. "Mama," he says, "I  need to talk to you."

I ask him to scoot over so I can fit on the edge of his bed. His eyes look weepy though the tears haven't yet begun. I brush his blond hair away from his eyes, off to the side of his forehead, following the direction in which his part has long taken it.

It's bedtime, half past seven, the time when sad thoughts and bad thoughts come out to play. The time when busyness is no longer a helpful distraction, the time when the mind starts to rest. Or does it?

"Third grade has been a hard year for me, Mom."

"Really my darling? You seem so much happier than last year. Tell me!"

"Oh yes, it's been a very good year, but sometimes, at recess, it's so hard."

My gut starts to clench for him, as I recall the way kids start to act when they're eight and nine and ten. When there are ins and outs and cools and not-cools. When playground cliques change daily but are painful each time around.

My boy is truly kind. He always has been. It doesn't occur to him to be mean to anyone. It's been hard to watch others be mean to him. There have been a few, as there always are, and even though my boy is hurt, he refuses to hurt back. "That's just not right, Mom." I want to punch those kids in their smug faces, but my boy is right. And so I help him figure out ways of standing up to them in a kind, logical way. A way that he can walk away from feeling good that he's stuck to his moral guns.

"Well, X started a club, you see. And he invited some others to join. I said I wanted to join and he said, 'Well you can't unless you pass a test perfectly, and then maybe I'll let you onto the low class side."

Come to find, my boy would be the only one on the low class side, if he passed this ridiculous test.

My boy and X are friends. My boy is stung by this betrayal. He doesn't understand.

"Mom, there's no way I'll get 100% on the test." my boy says, and he crumbles in slo-mo. His beautiful face pinches, as if trying to stop the inevitable deluge soon to wet the pillow on which his head rests. The tears come, and his thin shoulders seize, up and back, up and back.

My heart is aching as I kiss the tears away and try to think of something, anything I can say to ease his pain. I tell my boy that I'm so proud of his kind soul and that unfortunately, not everyone is so. I tell him that sometimes, life is mean and hard and confusing. I tell him that friends don't issue tests, don't put friends in low classes.

I hug him until I worry I'm upsetting him more and then I gather myself and tell him something funny to make him laugh. A momentary reprieve.

"I love you, Mom."

Oh my sweet boy, I love you too.