Yesterday,
I was given a gift.
Gram-E
came over for her usual 5pm visit with the children. On a typical
evening, she reads to the children while I finish dinner, reads to them while
they eat dinner, and then reads to them up until the second she has to wedge
herself out of the front door through the books, hugs, kisses and "don't
go!"s that follow all of that reading (what can I say, my kids love a
good book. Or ten.)
 |
| Gram-E puts up with a lot sometimes. |
Yesterday began a bit differently. As 5pm
approached, I realized that our must-do weekly Costco run had become a
must-do-NOW run (apples, bananas, and grapes bought in bulk disappear
seemingly overnight in this house) and in desperation asked if she minded
if I step out as quickly as possible to hit our favorite big box store. I
anticipated an after-work nightmare crowd, but Costco was surprisingly quiet
and I breezed in and out in record time (considering my previous record of 30
minutes included two children under 5, it sounds less impressive now that I
think about it).
The
ability to do this simple errand sans kids and sans crowd was in itself a
gift--truly. It is, as they say, the little things that make life easier
and happier.
But
the real gift came during the 7 minute car ride home. Without Frances and
George in the backseat (did I mention I ran the errand alone?), I was able to
tune into my favorite, favorite news show "All Things
Considered" (rivaled only by my other favorite news show "Morning
Edition") on NPR--another gift. I calculate that since stopping my
career, I've listened to about an hour and a half cumulative of NPR these last 18
months. So any chance I get, I crank up my radio to 88.9, sit back, and
let my mind absorb as much information as it can until the next coveted alone
time. Yesterday, I happened to catch an entire news story (again, an anomaly
these days). It wasn't about strife in the Middle East, the upcoming 2012
presidential race, or even the current Olympic games--all newsworthy and
important events, but mercifully taken up during the first 45 minutes of the
program. Instead it was a story about a small, beautiful bird that lives
in New England--the loon.
The
story narrator, a writer who spends her summers in a cabin on the edge of Acadia
National Park, described spending this particular summer watching a pair of
loons nest and breed in the cove outside her office window. Loons, she
said, are exceedingly private birds and to have two within eyesight on a near
daily basis is "a great honor." As is typical to this type of
bird, her loons bore two tiny, black, fuzzy chicks who spent the first weeks of
their lives perched on the back of one of the parents. She watched them
care, feed, protect and teach the little chicks, who had now become teenage
loons and on the eve of leaving their parents' safe nest.
While
I loved listening to the parental roles of these exceptional birds, my favorite
part of the story was the writer's description of the bird calls. Loons,
she explained, are never alone; even when they are out of sight from their soul
mate, they are not out of call range. "Where are youuu;"
"I am hereeee" is how the author describes their calls, back and
forth to each other throughout the day. And at night, loons serenade each
other and the world around them. Their calls become songs, almost
aria-like in length and pitch. As the five-minute story came to a close
and the loons' calls faded in the background, I realized tears were streaming
down my face and landing squarely on the steering wheel.
I
have no idea why I cried. Maybe it was the nighttime sound of a place I
have longed to visit (Acadia National Park - I've even purchased a guidebook
for that elusive vacation that may be several years down the road). Maybe
it was that I have a special, sappy place in my heart for all things animal
related--I want to protect them as though they were my own children, I fiercely
admire their gumption in continuing to raise young in an environment that us
humans have made increasingly difficult, and I wonder what it must be like to be a
parent in such an unsure situation (of course, maybe I am). Maybe it was
because as much as I admire the "wild" in wild animals, I also find
myself personifying them; imagining Will and me calling to each other in the
night, ensuring the safety of our chicks and our better half.
In
the end, though, I realized that my tears were those of gratitude--my 7 minute
drive home yielded enough alone time that I was able to hear a story about
something I knew nothing about--water birds in Maine. And now, I know a little
bit more. My brain, my heart, my interests were all reignited again and
the kids (at least not directly) had nothing to do with it. My love of
learning hasn't disappeared; it's just been in hibernation and at times
difficult to wake up in a life revolving around giving, doing, and
teaching--and that excites me. Preschool excites me. And
apparently, loons excite me. (And yes, the irony is not lost on me that I
cried over a story featuring a loon when at least half of you reading this are
probably thinking, "holy heck, this girl is looney tunes herself.").
For
those of you interested in hearing the actual story, click here.
I can almost guarantee you will not cry (because, dear friends, none of
you are as crazy as I am). But you will be amazed at the bird calls and
may even stoke a little learning fire inside your belly, too. At least, I
hope you will.
Happy
Friday, everyone!
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