stitching the homesick blanket
by bam
dispatch from 02139…
here on the banks of the charles river, it’s seeped in, that one thing i knew was coming, that one thing i prayed might be kept at bay.
but of course, it couldn’t, wouldn’t be.
not when traveling with young soul, tender soul, boy on the brink of those tumbling years, those years when friends mean everything, when the familiar is lifeline, is equilibrium.
and so, at the dawn of most days lately, and past nightfall, when the bedclothes are tucked up around his chin, that’s when i hear the sigh, the deep, deep hollow sigh. the boy misses home, misses friends, feels unmoored.
“please, can we go home?!?!” he asks, begging and insisting in the same short breaths.
are there words in a mother’s lexicon that cut more sharply against the vessels of the heart?
one morning, not so many days ago, when i’d dried the tears, whispered words meant to stitch together the tatters, when i’d coaxed and promised and pleaded, at last he climbed down from the top of the bunk bed, surrendered more or less to the school day up ahead, and as he stood there, calm by then, bravely slipping arms through soccer jersey, he asked:
“mom, has there ever been a time in your life where you wished you could go back to a decision and make it over again?”
and i knew, of course, before the last word of the sentence rested on my eardrum, that the decision in mind here was the one back in january, around the dinner table, when we’d asked that fifth-grade boy what he’d think of up and moving to cambridge for a year, and he replied, without missing a beat, “sounds great. i need to see the world!”
and here, standing on the hard-planked floor of his little room on franklin street, in cambridge, in the heart of 02139, he was wishing with all his might that time was silly-putty, could be pulled and twisted, turned back, re-formed. that just maybe he’d said nope, no way, i’m stayin’ put.
but fact is, we’re here. for a mere nine more months.
and i know, deep in my mother heart, that he’ll be all right.
that this hurts, absolutely. (after all i’m the girl who sat on the garage stoop for my whole kindergarten year, every sunday night, oozing emptiness and sorrow as i watched my papa pull down the driveway, turn and fade into the darkness, gone again till friday, week after empty week, for most of that whole year.)
the thing that keeps me steady are the words some wise soul said in passing, just before we packed up all the boxes back on maple avenue, when she said: “a parent’s job is to teach our children to be comfortable with the uncomfortable.”
well, it’s uncomfortable, all right. for him, at least. for this kid who travels to a school where he claims just one friend, though when i pick him up on the basketball courts after school, he’s amid a thicket of ball players, all smiling, jostling. and they call out his name in a way that drips with honey, pure sweet, our little scrapper of a hustler on the court. and with that big ol’ smile to boot, he seems to be the proud owner of a formula for instant affection.
if i didn’t believe, deep down, with all my soul, that this year was in fact a trip through the accelerator, that shake-’em-up-machine that can’t help but infuse life knowledge, heart, a deeper wider understanding of the world, whether it comes from sitting on my lap while i read a story from our south african journalist friend about the 1,802 footsteps it takes along a muddy mountain path to fetch a jug of water (twice, each day), or whether it comes while kicking around a soccer ball with four kids, not one of whom speaks english, i would never have emptied out his dresser drawers, stuffed it all in duffel bags, and squished them into the back of the little black sedan that pulled out of our alley back home, and kept chugging till it got to the curb here on franklin.
but that doesn’t mean i’ve not, once again, pulled out my mother bag of implements and tools for stitching back together the tattered heart of a boy who’s been stricken with a nasty case of homesick blues.
and once again i’ve come to that blunt line, the precipice, where words run out, where there are only so many ways you can whisper hope, promise deliverance from this heartache.
and so, as always, i’ve turned to the alchemies of comfort.
i am simmering cider and spices in early morning hours so that even before he flutters open an eyelid, he’ll have breathed in a comfort note, a pungent autumn mix of cinnamon and clove and apple orchard.
i’m frying sausages and bacon. making whopping batches of french toast on weekends, so all week long he’ll start the day with a platter that tries to whisper: you are loved. you’re not home, but home is here, is where the ones who hold you up promise to sustain you, to keep you from being swallowed whole by the rocky waters of your achiness.
i’m snatching samples of hard-rock candy from the white house pastry chef who lectured to my “science and cooking” class, so that he knows, without words, that even in the thick of my dailiness, he is front and center in my mama brain.
last night, dashing out of a mind-blowing talk from five journalists who covered the arab spring, from egypt to liberia to yemen and tunisia, five journalists who barely missed bullets, and didn’t escape arrest, dashing out because i had to get to the soccer field, to fetch my homesick boy from practice, i spied a vat of goldfish crackers, and scooped up a whole cup because even when my head is swirling with images of war and foreign correspondents, i remember that little boys’ tummies growl when they are empty, and the drive home in cambridge traffic is always longer than it should be, and so there i was dashing along the cobbled streets, weaving and darting between college kids plugged into iPhones, with my plastic cup of bright orange goldfish.
because mamas never stop the art, the craft, the hope of being mamas. our one true work is nestled deep in that cord that forever connects us: we are, if we choose to be, the beginning and the end of someone’s belonging to this holy earth. we are womb. even when it’s emptied.
and our prayers are without end. our prayers, without words when we come to the place where no vowels, no consonants exist to capture the whole of what we ask, what we beg for.
dear God, please fill this child’s heart. please stitch together the gaping hole, the oozing-out place where it hurts so very much, where it feels like you’re falling, spinning, down a big black tunnel. where you think you’ll never again get home. where the comfort of your big old bed, the wallpaper that you know by heart, the sounds of the creaking at the top of the stairs, it’s all you long for. that and the footsteps of your friends, tramping in the door, encasing you in the whole cloth of friendship and familiar that you so miss.
dear God, pass me, please, the spool and the needle that i need here. as i try mightily, morning after morning, bedtime after bedtime, to stitch the homesick blanket. so i can tuck in the boy i love, wrap him in the holy cloth of comfort that only angels bring.
chair people, if you’ve an extra word of grace to spare, perhaps you might send up vespers for all the children in this world who don’t quite feel that they belong wherever it is they are. and if you’ve tricks in your sewing kit, or recipes tucked into files, please do tell: how do you stitch comfort for the ones you love when they are aching, oozing, and wholly at a loss?
dashing to send this off because any minute now, the power’s going out for the whole day here. i’ll have to nip and tuck later. but for now…..my morning’s meander….
Sending love to you and that beautiful boy with his mop of curls and smile that can power a small village. Would a hookie day together be possible? Take in the Isabella Gardner (http://www.gardnermuseum.org/)… and a walk along the Charles? Something out of the ordinary? My heart aches for you both. You are blessings to one another.
xoxooxox
Is there a way, any way, to deliver a bit of home to Cambridge? Weekends when a buddy can come visit, and your world traveler can be the guide, sharing the new with the old? Or a way to send Cambridge back home, with missives and pictures, maybe video, to his old school, or the one he’ll be in next year, maybe . . . a blog? My teacher brother sent a video of his commute from home to school in Hanoi, camera perched on the handlebars of the scooter, greeting the sidewalk merchants he saw every day, greeting his students. I don’t know if it helped him (his “homesickness” was mainly for peace and quiet in a noisy city), but it sure helped those here.
notherbarb, i crazylove the image of that video of your brother in hanoi, the camera bobbing along the handlebars, seeing the whole ride home. bringing those far away into the inner stitches of his day — nothing more than the ride home, but so much to be said, to be discovered there. a great good friend IS coming from back home, in two weeks, and we are counting the days, and his beloved aunt and uncle and little cousin are driving down from portland next sunday (maybe), for nothing fancier or more exotic than bagels, served at our cambridge table. and not long after that, his grammy from chicago is coming, and she will likely cook up a storm, bring home here. so all the stitches are there, are coming, they just need to work their magic. and they will. even mothers, it seems, need to learn to become comfortable with the uncomfortable. and if that means simply holding him as he aches, and being at peace with the fact that i can’t fix it, but i can honor it, well, then that’s what i’ll do…..bless you for your wonderful offerings and ideas….
sending love back to you, beautiful amy mama. you are a mother who teaches me how to be……i love your hookie day idea…..
You said it. “being at peace with the fact that i can’t fix it, but i can honor it, well, then that’s what i’ll do…..” So many times in life this wisdom is called for, and I thank you for it, will carry it around in my heart for as long as my remember-er works. Methinks it wouldn’t be any easier if the two of you had stayed at home and the wee one would have to say by to BK, as you did to your dad, each week as he commuted … It is good that he can learn this lesson while you are there to hold and comfort him, learn that uncomfortable is no fun but sometimes leads us to some amazing places. I’m not saying this well, but send much love…
Nancy is very wise! 6th grade is hard, period, wherever you are. And I have listened to my boy many times tell me that he has no real friend at his new school. It’s very sad. But I love the idea of T. making a blog for his friends at home. Also, I don’t know if you guys do this sort of thing, but my boy plays computer games with his two closest friends who are far away, and they really like this. I will remember him in my prayers. I sure do know how he feels.
Sending lots of prayers for all the children of the world, and even more for you and your little, BAM.Life is hard! As moms, we don’t like it when our children have to experience this life lesson. Eventually, he will get over this. And, maybe 9 months from now he won’t be ready to go “home.” Is it at all possible for him to spend some time with his most beloved older brother? That connection may make him feel a lot more comfortable! Many blessings to all of you as you wait for this to pass.
So wonderful! An achingly beautiful reminder of the loveliness of your feelingful writing – and a reminder of how fond I am of you and your dear family. Love and Light to you all!
Let him know the great opportunity he has for only a year. To see all the touristy, historical spots. Take him to Durbin Park, near Fanuile Hall and tell him the cricket story, or go to LockObers at noon where even he may have to wear a jacket and tie. So many things to see. Will a year be long enough? The library at Cambridge, not Harvard one, little old one around the corner…fascinating and give him time to call a friend long distance at home and tell him of all the new wonders he is seeing. That is the best of all, sharing.
I really love your writing, and after a day of second graders, I am just not possessed of the words to express it. So I will say thank you. For saying what we moms feel.
Thank you…. I wish I was as brilliant as you with your writing. You are missed. I believe all 6th grade boys feel this way, whether at home or on adventure. Not a day goes by that Joey doesn’t say to me, ” mom, this is so difficult….” at this age, it’s hard to find yourself no matter where you are. Joey says the same thing about friends( new middle school), and eating alone at lunch, ( the no nuts table) , I think that they just feel a bit alone, even though they are surrounded by friends. Hang in there.
Spencer’s eyes lit up when I told him you all moved to Cambridge; he naturally thought I meant HERE. For what it’s worth, Spencer is with his two closest friends in his tutor group here in his first year of secondary school; they walk together there and home, and he still feels overwhelmed, a bit lost, and intimidated while energised and enthusiastic at the same time. Every weekend for the past three we’ve done absolutely nothing save chill out at home since none of us have anything left for anything else – and we’re in the same house, same neighbourhood we’ve lived in for five + years. Loads of love – so excited for all of you and wishing your Cambridge were ours. xoxoxo
Homesickness…such a melancholy feeling of longing. It is probably the earliest variation of loss feelings. It is an important one though as it is grounded in memory, familiarity, and feelings of love. We can’t feel it if we have not experienced all that somewhere else. He will someday miss Cambridge too. Life just gets SO complicated. I just read an article in the Paris Review that takes this feeling and blows open parameters of homesickness….
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2012/09/18/dreaming-in-welsh/
I know you will find it intriguing. Keep up your stitching and alchemy. xxoo
Thank you so much for sharing this!
oh, lamcal. you bring treasures to the table, and you pour them from your velvet drawstring sack. that was heavenly, and from the paris review, no less.
here’s but one line i loved ( i could have clicked copy/paste about 13 times…. but here is only one….):
“It’s an unattainable longing for a place, a person, a figure, even a national history that may never have actually existed. To feel hiraeth is to feel a deep incompleteness and recognize it as familiar.”
think about that for awhile…..
T’s good friend is counting the days too!
14, 13, 12…..
counting and clicking our heels…..
Still remembering my so-cautious son’s first friend, first week in new house, new town, first day of school year, first time on a school bus, new school, 5th grade. Kid says “Just moved here?” Son: “Yeah.” Kid: “Yeah, moving sucks.” Friends for years.
So, I think a sleep-over with that one new friend, in those spankin’ new bunk-beds, is definitely in order. Maybe add another friend. And trick-or-treating with same friend, followed by the Big Candy Trade. Put old and new friends together — online as jcv’s do.Take a friend to Amherst. So in the end, weaving visitors and friends from old home and new, he’ll have knitted the biggest home ever.
[…] likes of which he swallowed whole, in starter sentences and paragraphs. there was, most recently, stitching the homesick blanket, in which he wanted more than anything a plane ticket home. and the meander, in particular, that […]