One Moment in Time

From left: Ben, Matt, Becky, Sarah, Josh

When the children were very young and my days were filled with diapers and car pools, school conferences and laundry, I pined for free time just around the corner when I’d have a few hours each day to myself. In 1976, I imagined writing great prose, getting published, doing book tours. Sometimes, at midnight, I’d get a few lines written that made no sense the following day. Most of the time, I scrambled to make space for my creativity that I believed lurked just below the surface, if only I could reach it.

A neighbor was kind enough to loan me her porch where I could store paper, a typewriter and have some distance from the household chaos. One afternoon, I’d written half a page when I heard Ben teasing Sarah on the front lawn. I called and asked the housekeeper to put Ben on the phone.

“Stop driving your sister nuts.” I scolded.

“Where are you?” Ben’s voice held amazement.

“Everywhere!” I said and hung up.

Ben wandered down the driveway, searched the sidewalk, street, sky for some semblance of his mother. Watching him became far more interesting than whatever I was writing. Ten minutes later Josh and Matt scampered home from school. I threw the page in the wastebasket.

My favorite writing subjects have, and always will be, my family.  I wrote this piece in 1996, about a sweet afternoon, one spring, long ago.

One Moment

The day is warm, sunny, enveloping.  Five children are clustered together on the lawn, offering me a perfect moment in time to capture on film.  Father’s Day is in a few weeks and my plan is to have the best photo made into a transfer that can be fused to a T shirt for their Dad. I call them together and click the button every time all five faces are viewable through the lens.  

Matt s intense eyes, feathery hair and protective arms dominate the center.  Scrambling for a spot nearby, Josh’s bright light smile captures my heart, scattered and unpredictable as a floating balloon.  Ben sits, slightly away from the pack, his beauty breathtaking and silent even as he portrays wild thing, a character from his favorite book. Overwhelmed, Sarah searches for me to lift her from this wild bunch while Rebeccah holds onto her big sister, looking for a chance to take charge and create order. I want a neat, organized group of manicured children, hair smooth, clothes coordinated.  

        

“Stop bouncing and hopping, or the photo will be blurry.” My voice is sharper than I intend. 

“Did she say hop and bounce?”  Josh says to Ben as he turns into a bunny. I click the camera a few times and laugh.

“No, sit still so I can. . .  “ my voice trails off as Josh begins to track an ant through the clover.  

I drop the camera, sit down in the grass and lean back, tilting my face towards the sun. My striped T-shirt pulls out of my fashionable brown bell-bottom jeans.  Sarah tickles my back and plays with my pony tail, twisting the hairs into a braid.  Becky plops herself between my thighs and puts her cheek on my knee.  Ben and Matt race past us to find a basketball.  I feel arms around my neck, wet kisses and muddy smells.  I tell myself to soak up these days of sunshine and chaos.  Later, after baths and dinner dishes, I tell their father to work less and play more, before the children have grown away from us into their own lives.

Whatever else accompanied that photography session has fallen away.  My heart pinches with the memory, wishing I could return to that time and space.

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Another decade has passed since I wrote that story. It's now 2007. I can turn off the phone and the internet. I can approach my writing like a full time job. I can schedule eight hours a day or ten or twelve if I want to work on my novel. I can write at six in the morning or four in the afternoon. Sometimes I do exactly that. But what surprises me is how often I don’t. Exploring that nuance has been revealing.

Sure, I want to finish my novel. But do I? This Burnt Chocolate blog is a more satisfying experience than I ever imagined. Topics like why some kids are resilient while others wither fascinate me. The satisfaction of a finished piece remains a thrill. But if Rebeccah calls, or Ben visits, or Zoe has a dance recital, I’ll leave a page mid-sentence. In the past, I’d chastise myself for being so easily distracted, so uncommitted to my writing. Where was my resolve, my focus? With that chant in the background, it was hard to enjoy whatever co-opted my writing in the first place. The result was diminished pleasure in all directions.

After years of tussling with myself, I’m finally clear. I’m pulled away because I want to be pulled into the lives of my children. Family takes first place in any contest I’ve ever held. Writing runs a close second. Combining them makes sense. A simple realization, perhaps, considering my history, but supremely worthwhile. Lately, I have more fun playing with a grandchild, planning a holiday meal or crafting a scene on the page. Days feel longer and fuller. I’ve fewer regrets. I’m living more in the moment with a greater sense of appreciation and acceptance for what I’ve created.