Harbor Pilots

Okay, I started the live hello, Cadre fam. I'm speak Wonder, and I come to you from the harbor. Harbor pilots, that is, as on Thursdays, we navigate all things caregiving. It's good to see you. Send me some hearts, maybe tell me where you're tuning in from, where you're joining, from what city, what state of mind. How you feeling today? Technical difficulties. Hi, Dorothy. And there's Andy Joy. Hello. So normally when I come on the live on Thursdays, I like to talk about caregiving as. Hi, Colleen.

Caregiving as it pertains to my situation, which is my mom. I mean, I think that is our voice of authority, is who it is that we're caring for in our world and what challenges and joys that we encounter. And so I often talk about my mom, whose nickname is Junebug, and everybody at the home calls her that, and she's a delight. Today I'm gonna switch boats, as it were, and hop in the boat that is caregiving of little ones. I ran across a beautiful, beautiful piece titled Let them Be Little. It's really neat.

I found it on Facebook, and it prompted me for today's talk on the Cadre. So I'm going to redo a couple of poems, maybe three, and this is how we'll start. Let them Be little. Hey, Carrie. Oh, it's so good to have everyone joining. So if you've just hopping in. I am honoring those who are caregivers of little ones, young moms and dads, grandmas who get to be with the littles. It is an intense time, and it's just a sliver of time. And so this is what I'll lead with. And it is written by Alexa Marie Brown.

I'm not quite sure how to help you with that. Alexa, stop. Really. Let them belittle. Let them sit in laundry baskets and set sail across oceans only they can see. Let the living room be a jungle, a spaceship, a castle, even if it means the cushions are never quite where they should be lucky. Let them wear socks that don't match and capes that drag on the ground. Let them climb and fall and scrape their knees and come running to you when they do, because that, too, is part of growing. Let them be bored.

Let there be days without screens or structure where they stare at the ceiling until suddenly they're building a fortress out of blankets or drawing on the walls with stories only their hearts understand. Let them stay little in a world that wants them to grow up fast, to sit still, to stay in line, to act older than they are. But they've got their whole lives to be big. Right now they've only got this blink of an eye season. Blink of an eye season. To be small. To giggle at things that make no sense.

To cry over broken crackers. To ask you to read just one more bedtime story. To believe in magic, to believe that you can fix anything. To believe the world is soft and good because you, mom, you, dad, you, Grandma, grandpa have made it soft that way. Let them be little, because little doesn't last long. And one day the laundry basket will just be a laundry basket again. Not a pirate ship or a race car or a dragon's den. One day the house will be quiet, the toys tucked away, and you'll miss the mess you swore you'd clean up tomorrow.

So today, let them be wild. Let them be loud, let them be curious and chaotic and completely themselves. Let them belittle, because that is exactly what they are meant to be by the poet with the first initial, A. Marie Brown. Friends, I found a couple of these poems on a new website called Poetry Soup. That is my language, Poetry Soup. Yes, I did sign up. I am now subscribing to Poetry Soup. Again. If you're just joining, I'm giving kudos to those who are in the throes of caring for little kids.

That is a caregiving picture for sure. And I ran across a quote when I was a young mom and I don't know if I'm going to get it right, but it's really funny. And it's kind of gross, but it's really funny. Being a mom is when your kid throws up and you catch it. And being a mom is when somebody else's kid throws up. You keep on eating. This is reality, folks. Okay, Rachel Kovacs wrote a poem, Will you tie my shoes? You'll see as I begin reading this that it goes full spectrum from an elderly to her daughter, so the next generation and then her daughter's generation.

This poem is brilliant. Brilliant. It's a story in a poem. And again, it's written by Rachel Kovacs. So this is her story, not mine. It's her words, which I found on Poetry Soup, a lovely website calling like the throw up sentiment Poetry Soup. Will you tie my shoes? You are beautiful, my tiny child wrapped tightly in my arms, close to my heart. I listened to you breathing. I counted your fingers and your toes. Helpless, you cried out to me and I loved you with every ounce of my soul. Will you hear me when I cry out?

Will you hold me close as I held you then. I remember the day you took your first step. There was no stopping you. Your feet gave you freedom to explore the world like never before. But danger lurked. I opened those doors anyway, cautiously. And introduced you to the world. Tell me, where will you be when my legs no longer run, no longer even work? Will you realize that I love freedom too? I laugh about that day you first tied your shoe. We tried and tried to get that rabbit in that hole. And you finally did it.

You pointed your toes for everyone to see how proud you were. I am proud too, of my writing and my cooking. But my hands are beginning to ache and my fingers will not always bend. I will lose the things that make me proud. Except for you. Hopefully not you. Will you let me brag on? You even tell wild stories that are a bit beyond the truth. Will you be proud of me too? I waved that morning. I waved goodbye when you left on that large, big blue, blue bus. I was so scared. I know you were too. You waved at me bravely through the dusty window.

But I saw the water forming in your eyes. You came home, however, full of pride and joy. And you sang the Alphabet song. You got most of it right. You practiced for hours until you could sing it even in your sleep. But I'm afraid I forgot whether I took my pills today or not. I forgot if I told you this story before. I even forgot once who you were. And it terrified me. My mind is my treasure, the only thing I have left. And I heard you make fun of me for not remembering that I gave you the same gift last year.

Will you love me when I no longer know who I am? You came home blushing from the glow of a tender kiss. You found true love. The one you thought was real. You. You talked about him non stop. You changed for him. You gave. But he left you anyway for a blue eyed girl. And I held you while you cried for him. I too have a broken heart. The love of my life left me after so many years. He left me here to live life on my own while he moved on to another realm. And I cry for him too. I long for his shoulder and strong embrace.

I feel betrayed because he and I made a deal that we would never leave the other alone. We would grow old together. Here I am, alone, sitting in an echoing house. No hands to hold. You welcomed her today. You brought her home. Your tiny baby girl. She has your eyes and possibly your toes. I see you counting them as they roll me into the room. You finally came to visit. It has been a while. You look up at me with tears in your eyes and ask, almost desperately, mom, will she tie my shoes when I get old?

Mm. Big stuff in that poem. I'm checking my time. Yes. Lucky you. We have time for more poetry today on harbor pilots. Whether navigating the waters of child rearing is in your past, or if you're right in the midst of it, or if you've got teenagers. Whatever season you might be in, it's a blessing, and it is an adventure. The reason I love this next poem, I love it completely, as I do all of these I'm sharing with you and these wonderful poets who have opened their heart and put them to ink and share them with the universe.

What I particularly love about this poem I'm about to read is that it doesn't resolve. I'm a musician and I love orchestra pieces. I play the fiddle. I love the dissonance. And I particularly enjoy songs that don't resolve. They don't end on a particular chord. They're supposed to, and that is preferable, I suppose. But the composers that come up with something that ends on a note, that's a question mark. I find that intriguing. This poem ends with a question mark. It's titled in the Chill of an Open Door.

It's written by poet Carrie Richards. And I see we have a Carrie online here. Cleaning out my fridge, an ice cube slides to the floor, startling the cat and interrupting a locomotive of thought that often tracks me down in a beam of light. Today it streams through a window where everything seems marred by doubt and dust, Crusts of ice and sticky jello spilled on a glassy shelf. Oh, not the first time, this revelation of light. I've had it before while kneeling on the floor, as I do now, and many times that I've knelt on a floor to clean up my messes.

Praying, praying for help, praying for light, praying for forgiveness. And now on the floor to sponge up melting ice, water and tears. Raising a young family, a life so demanding, caring and nursing. Two sides of the coin, my father and children, my husband caught between. It wasn't the impossible, but was never enough. The time took a toll. Why did it seem cold? As cold as the ice? Could I have held out? Could I have been stronger a little while longer? I shiver with memory. Or is it guilt and regret?

Regret, perhaps shame? Is it only the chill of the open fridge door? Or is it more? So much more? Hmm. Interesting metaphor. An open door. Did I leave it open long enough and wide enough? Did I do all I could? All I should was I Patient enough was I all I could be? Was I tough enough to watch someone linger Lingering, lingering on I ponder it now Difficult years But a fraction of life is how it appears now looking back black fades to gray but it comes back in spades to haunt me today A little while longer Could I have been stronger?

Hey, Luke. Guten Morgan. Thank you for the hearts. I'm so glad to be sharing this in community as we sail whatever caregiving waters we're in. We need our harbor pilots and we need our reminder, our Cadre family, that we're okay. We're enough, we're more than enough. And we were more than enough. If you're looking back and at the picture of your caregiving don't be harsh with yourself Be gentle, cradle those memories. I end with the Marvelous Toy, a song by Tom Paxton. You might be familiar with it.

And you're blessed today because I won't be singing it. I'll be reading the lyrics. Many singers have recorded this. Yeah, Carrie. I should have brought tissues. Also. They're over there on the coffee table. These are tear jerkers, but they're for real. They're the reality of an ice cube on the floor and an open door we're in the grit and the mire sometimes so thankful that we have each other for community, for solace, for encouragement, for joy. John Denver recorded the Marvelous Toy, but I think my favorite recording is the Mamas and the Papas.

As soon as I start reading the lyrics, I'm sure you'll remember it pops up a lot on Christmas playlists as well. This is just going to conclude our time together on the Cadre and take us down memory lane for our own childhoods and perhaps remember how well you were cared for. When I was just a wee little lad Full of health and joy My father homeward came one night and gave to me a toy a wonder to behold it was with many colors bright and the moment I laid eyes on Became my heart's delight it went zip when it moved and bop when it stopped and when it stood still I never knew just what it was and I guess never will the first time that I picked it up I had a big surprise for right on its bottom were two big buttons that looked like two big eyes Green eyes I first pushed one and then the other and then I twisted its lid and when I set it down again this is what it did it went zip when it moved and bop when it stopped and when it stood still I never knew just what it was and I guess I never will it first marched left and then marched right and then marched under a chair and when I looked where it had gone it wasn't even there I started to sob and my daddy laughed for he knew that I would find When I turned around my marvelous toy chugging from behind it went zip when it moved and bop when it stopped and when it stood still I never knew just what it was and I guess I never will well, the years have gone by too quickly it seems and I have my own little boy and yesterday I gave to him my marvelous little toy his eyes nearly popped right out of his head and he gave a squeal of glee Neither one of us knows just what it is but he loves it just like me it still goes zip when it moves Bop when it stops and wh when it stands still I never knew just what it was and I guess I never will I never knew just what it was and I guess I never will the marvelous toy thank you for sitting through my poetry.

I hope it brought you contemplation. Memories, affirmations. Yeah, tears. Good poetry pulls out the tears. It visits the gamut of emotions. And I honor you today. If you're in a place where you have little kids, fingerprints on the window pane, where you have icky, sticky McDonald's sticking to the seat of the car because it is a blip and a blur. I honor you if you're in the sandwich Generation T taking care of children and elderlies. And I'm really thinking of you today. If your husband's caught in the middle.

We need to spend a Cadre on those who are caught in the middle. My mind is buzzing now with more ideas. Our time has come to a conclusion. I invite you to listen and watch Ms. Shannon Paul. She's a bright spark of joy and I like to call her my favorite human onion because she peels back the layers of awareness. She'll be on later this afternoon on the Cadre Comedy through the chaos. It's been wonderful to spend some time with you and to share some words with you and I'll see you next time in the harbor.