heightened intensity

There's a hawk in the backyard, hoping for breakfast. Windows all around the kitchen allow us to observe his efforts. He tries and fails, tries and fails, a single squirrel provoking him from high up a tree trunk.

The boys talk about safety day over cereal, explaining to Hank that the classroom garage door walls are bulletproof, explaining that the active shooter drills will have heightened intensity, hearing those words from a district adult but not quite sure what they mean. Me neither.

The flood of "last first day" back to school photos hit a tender spot. Celia would have been a senior this year. No one has acknowledged that, but I think incessantly about the way life might've unspooled in other directions. 

I feel almost as struck by lack of language as I do when it is used carelessly. It may be a symptom of loving words so much, too much. In a documentary we've been watching, an innocent man on death row said "What really distraughted me..." I don't know how to explain the experiences that live wordlessly inside my body. I cannot describe to the world that bittersweet flavor of healthy, growing kids. But I think I could use what really distraughted me...

Hank walks himself home from school now, and I feel less necessary. I fill the extra daytime hours power washing the patio and preparing meals, hiking with friends and rewriting booster bylaws, looking for harmony in the universe, trying to make sense of the yearning. A friend reminded me that weird sad feelings are a legit end-of-summer vibe.

So much of my energy used to be spent trying to hold together the center of everything. I love that I could do that, could try. I'm still here, working very hard to keep the boys happy and alive. I feed them constantly, but I don't always know how else to try. Try and fail and try again, hawkish and unrelenting. The very best projects may be the ones both challenging and hopeful.

Trailing me up the garage stairs Hank asked how a person could tell the difference between legs with muscles, and legs that are just fat, like they jiggle more? I should not have asked him why.

I know the stress I create by ruminating is not benign. Even without imaginary futures there remains a half-resolved mess of very normal emotions. I can look at myself with both grace and thoughtful critique. I can hold two things at once, I remember, devastated and grateful, jiggly and strong.