"For lack of attention, a thousand forms of loveliness elude us every day."
~ Evelyn Underhill
The home renovations continue. I’ve decided I want the job of naming paint colors. What thing of beauty does this small square of color bring to mind?
The walls are ready for a new coat of paint - a clean slate, sanded, spackled and primed with fresh white paint. New loveliness is waiting ... as soon as I decide if I want azure snow or green tea latte.
I wear the right color,
In hopes that external sign
Will change internal reality.
If I cover all my laziness,
Selfishness, doubt, fear,
In layers of purple,
Can I come closer
My 9-year-old asked me recently what a stud was.
I hate those kinds of questions. How to answer?
“It’s a large nail,” I answer, trying to think of the less complicated response. His two older brothers look at me and smirk. Ah, yes, they know the other meaning, of course, and are waiting to see if I’ll be honest with him.
“There’s also another meaning,” I start, but then begin to fumble. How to explain the words hot and sexy? Why is there this reluctance to have our children grow up - to be initiated into the land of adult lingo and understanding. I grew up without YouTube or MTV, without this early exposure to sexuality and violence. It is a part of my kids’ fabric of life, rushing the loss of innocence.
My youngest son asking the stud question is the most independent, yet he still blows a kiss to me each day from the sidewalk where I drop him off to school. One of his brothers said he should stop - that other kids will start to tease him. I shake my head, and tell them to let him be. We have all the time in the world to grow up. We forget to be the age we are.
He has all the time in the world to be a stud. Just not today. But still, I explain the word. He smiles slyly, nodding that’s the definition he sought. Then he lights into song, ‘I’m sexy and I know it.’
I can’t help but smile. I see the young man he’s becoming. I can only comfort myself by words from writer Anne Lamont describing her adjustment to her son’s maturity - that in his face she can see every age that he ever was. It’s the gift of motherhood that we were allowed in for all those peeks and that we can still see all those pieces and parts - even when they grow up and are well-masked by adulthood.