Sweaty guy

 Sweaty guy

Originally published on January 17, 2016

 

On Friday night I was sitting between my pals, Satish and Danta, enjoying a wonderful dinner of Indian cuisine when Danta asked, "Can you stay and watch Sweaty Guy tonight?"

We were celebrating a belated Christmas, so Danta was excited to pop The Year Without a Santa Claus into the DVD player.  When he was little, he couldn't remember the name of the show, but as the Heat Miser was a memorable character, Danta gave him a brand new nickname.  Thus, Sweaty Guy became the alternate moniker for one of our favorite holiday movies.

"Sure," I nodded.  "I can stay as long as you'd like."

Satish gave me a sly smile.  "Okay...well, only for three years."

I turned to him.  "Oh, how sweet!  Is that all?  How about five?"

"It could be for only three seconds," Satish deadpanned.

I laughed out loud, wistfully acknowledging that my sassy friend will soon be a pre-teenager. 

Later on, after the boys had opened the sweaters I had made for them (in U of M and Michigan State colors), their mother wanted to take a picture of the three of us.

Satish threw his arms around me and beamed, "Let's pretend we like each other!" 

What a joy to see both the little boy he used to be mingled with the young man he's slowly becoming.  It's the first time I've been able to watch the slow, steady progression of growth in children I cherish, and I'm often surprised by how the little changes in both of the boys only make me love them that much more.

Once Danta and Satish had donned their pajamas, they created a little nest on the floor with blankets and pillows, then invited me to join them like I did when they were little.  It's been a couple of years since we've been able to find some downtime to chill out in front of the television, so I enjoyed every single moment, knowing that the years will pass by all-too-soon and someday they'll be more interested in hanging out with their friends.

 I've been delighted to spend more time with the Sharmas this year.  Satish's soccer games are on my winter calendar and I'll be picking him up from school in a couple of weeks to celebrate his eleventh birthday.  Nine-year-old Danta and I enjoy working on puzzles and reading books and making each other laugh until we snort.  His big sister, Neela, and I are looking forward to spending some time together in early February and when the oldest, Amita, comes back from an overseas trip, I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about. 

The girls are both in high school and busy with band and lacrosse and a host of other activities, so I've spent most of my time over the years with the boys...kicking a soccer ball, teaching them how to play tennis, and shooting baskets in their backyard.  We've played countless games of chess, read dozens of books, and had sleepovers when we talked long past bedtime.  I've driven them to soccer practice and cheered them on during their matches.  As I grew up with sisters who didn't really like to get sweaty, it's been a unique pleasure to enjoy the often rough and tumble world of little boys who don't mind getting dirty.

I don't either...as long as I can clean up afterwards. 

 

When Danta was in kindergarten, I spent the night when his parents went out for the evening.   After a boisterous day of playing in the snow and a lively evening wrestling in the living room, the fellas were due for a quick clean-up before bedtime.  

Satish and I were sitting in the hallway playing "Hangman" outside of the bathroom while Danta took a bucket bath. ("It's an Indian thing," Satish explained.  "To save water.")  

"Hey, Katie!" Danta exclaimed.  "Come look at me!"

I stepped into the bathroom and saw that he had tightly wedged his little body into the bucket that was overflowing with soapy water.  Delighted with his antics, I giggled, “Am I going to need a shoehorn to get you out of there?”

“A what?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Satish came in to see why I was laughing.  His face turned serious.  “Danta!  You need to use that bucket properly!  We don’t have another one and if you break it, Mummy and Papa will have to go to the store and buy one!”

Pressing my lips together, I turned away to squelch my laughter.  Satish was right, of course, but it was still hilarious to see Danta in the bucket, his knees pulled tightly to his chest.  Only he would think to do something so impish.  And naturally, it’s exactly the kind of thing my inner Ramona finds hilarious. 

Later that night when it was time to go to sleep, the boys curled up with their blankets on the floor of the guest room so we could all be together.  Once the lights were turned out, Danta took a shuddering breath, asking,  “When’s Mummy coming home?”

I could instantly hear the tears in his voice, knowing bedtime would be hard for Danta.  While he was fine to play and have fun during the day without his mother, nighttime was when he most wanted her near.

Glancing at the clock radio, I said, “She should be home in about an hour or so.”

“Is that long?”

“Not really,” I told him gently.  “And I’ll be right here.”

I turned on the nightlight and the room was bathed in the soft, orange glow of a tiny plastic basketball.  When I climbed into the twin bed and got comfortable, Satish was well on his way to falling asleep, but I could hear Danta whimpering.

“Mummy,” he softly cried.  “I want Mummy.”

Leaning down to stroke the hair away from his forehead, damp with sweat, I whispered, “Do you want to come up here with me until she gets home?”

He nodded eagerly.  Leaving his blankets and stuffed animals behind, Danta climbed into the small bed and cuddled close.  “Mummy,” he cried again.   

I soothingly rubbed his head.  “I know you miss Mummy,” I whispered.  “She’ll be back soon.  And I’m right here…I’m right here.” 

We whispered about all of the fun we had that day, the snow angels he and Satish had made, the silly snowman whose eyes kept falling off, no matter how many times Danta tried to fix them.  He soon relaxed and fell asleep in my arms, but by morning, had found his way back to his parents' room while Satish and I dozed as sunlight slowly filtered into the room.  I lay there remembering the scrappy little girl I used to be who was often afraid when my mother was gone, who didn't want to be upstairs in our house alone, who was often frightened of the unfamiliar, the inexperienced.  

After all of these years, I find that Danta and I are still very much alike.  Even though we're getting better at sweating through the challenges, it's still a comfort to know that we're surrounded by people who understand us, who don't mind our quirks and silly sense of humor.  Who love us unconditionally, no matter what.

So here's to my little sweaty guy who brings so much joy to my life...and teaches me that to be childlike is a doorway to the divine.

Open Road - a life worth waiting for

 

Open Road - a life worth waiting for

It’s a rainy afternoon in the summer of 1999.  I’m having tea with a good friend and we’re discussing the ups and downs of major life choices.  I recently left teaching and still don’t know what's on the horizon.  What seemed like a great leap of faith a few months ago has turned into a free fall into panic.  It's as if my life is stuck in a nonstop squeaky hamster wheel, going around and around and around with no end in sight.

I tell Olivia, “I really need to do something tangible to help me move past this fear of what’s coming next.  It’s going to kill me if I don’t let it go.”

My friend looks at me and grins.  “I was leaving the house today and three times I had the intuition to go back inside and get something for you.” 

I anxiously wait on pins and needles while she goes to her car to get whatever this “thing” is.  Will it be the golden ticket to calm my fears?  Right now, I’m willing to try anything.

When Olivia returns, she hands me a tiny, white vial saying, “Put that in your purse and take it outside tonight when the moon is full.  Don’t open it until then.”

“What’s it for?” I ask, turning it over in my hand, desperate to have all my questions answered instantly.

“You’ll know when you open it, Katie,” Olivia says. “Trust me.  Don’t think about it too much.”

“What is it?  Something I’m supposed to drink or what?”  

She smiles knowingly.  “I’m not telling you.  You’ll know exactly what to do.  And don’t come back inside until that bottle is empty.”

In the past, I’ve always despised mysteries, but in that moment I start to believe in magic potions…or at least in the potential for one to magically appear in my life. 

I trust Olivia. 

I trust the moment.

 

It rains most of that evening, so the night air is moist and fluid.   As I step outside my back door, a full moon shines over the south side of my garden.  Walking barefoot through the dewy grass, I drag one of the lawn chairs into the middle of the yard so that I can open the vial under the radiant glow.

When I twist off the cap, I realize the bottle is filled with bubbles.  In the lid is a wand to dip into the soapy solution.  I laugh, realizing what my friend had meant for me to do.  I’m supposed to name my fears, one by one, then gently send them away as I blow the bubbles into the humid night air.

I take a deep breath and began. 

"I’m afraid I’ll never find a job," I whisper.  I blow dozens of tiny bubbles into the air.

"I’m afraid of falling in love with someone new because I’ll lose my identity again."  More bubbles fly over my head.  

"I’m afraid of making the wrong choices with my life." 

As I watch the luminescent spheres of light float through the moist nighttime air, I find the courage to name all the fears that come to mind.  The simple ones.  The complex ones.  The ones that have haunted me since childhood.  The ones that have just emerged in that moment.  My heart becomes lighter and lighter as I release them all with childlike abandon.

And then…one more surfaces. 

Tears come to my eyes as I say aloud, “I’m afraid to be happy because then all the bubbles will burst.”

As I blow a multitude of orbs into the air, I close my eyes and allow silent tears to fall down my cheeks.  A moment later I take a deep breath, open my eyes, then look around the yard.  Surrounding me like a carpet of shining crystal balls, all of the bubbles are lovingly cradled in the dewy grass. 

Every one reflects the light of the full moon, whole and unbroken.

I begin to blow more bubbles just for the sheer joy of it.  They float up into the air, descend to the ground, and land on the grass…the chair…my skin.  I realize that my fear of happiness, of change, the fear of bubbles bursting is just an illusion I had created to keep me safe inside myself. 

When the bottle is nearly empty, I dip the wand inside it one last time and wonder, “How much happiness can I hold now?”

                                                                         ***

I used to pray to be broken.  Pray to be shown my shadows so that I might better learn the ways of humility and mercy.

Then life took me to my knees.

Next, I prayed for understanding and wisdom so that I might allow more space for healing.

Again, I was taken to my knees.

Now I no longer pray without first kneeling on the ground. 

And I no longer need to be broken, for my scar tissue is stronger than the original skin it has replaced.  What once had been shattered has now been recreated.  Not as it once was, for there are pieces missing from my life that I can never reclaim...and I have paid a high price for that which remains.

Through it all, I have learned to trust in the mysterious ways of grace.  Like the wind that blows through the leaves, it is unseen in one form, but its movement creates visible transformation.  And yet, the incredible revelation I have embodied is more than mysterious.

It has been miraculous.

When Michelangelo was asked how he created The Pieta, he said, “I saw the angel in the marble and I carved until I set him free."

What a glorious thing to know that God could see an angel within the stone walls I had built to hide my true nature...my authentic spirit.  Then, when I prayed for guidance, lovingly provided me with the tools to set myself free. 

Mary lovingly holds her son, Jesus, in The Pieta.  I, too, have been held by people who love me.  They are instruments of hope, sent by grace, who held me when I was wounded and when I was thriving.  When I was in despair and when I was joyous. 

Who hold me now as I celebrate the open road before me...the beginning of a new life that I trust will be filled with peace and love and joy. 

This is a life worth working for. 

A life worth healing for.

A life worth waiting for.