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Posts Tagged ‘Beethoven’

freude schöner götterfunken = joy, beautiful spark of the gods

Oh, the joy of an incredible day with my Boo.  And I learned a thing or two.  I’ll commence in telling you (says Dr. Seuss).

My mother can be exceptionally discerning.  She started to notice that Jonah, when we first pick him up, greets her by declaring what there is for lunch.  I’m not saying Jonah is psychic; it’s not like there are 100 items on the menu.  But it is interesting nonetheless because she makes tuna sandwiches one week and turkey the next, in a routine from which she does not vary.

Still, when she declared to me yesterday that Jonah tells her the right kind of sandwich on the right week, I doubted her.  “You watch,” she said.  “Today he’ll say tuna.”   And sure enough, when we picked him up yesterday, the first words out of his mouth were “tune-fish samwich?”

I realize how this may not seem like an accomplishment worth mentioning but I thought it was incredibly cool.  He remembers things very well.  He knows where he is in the world at all times, even when you think he’s not paying any attention. He’s no Rainman, but he does have a few strange, fascinating “splinter skills.”  (There are reports of individuals with an incongruous repertoire of abilities: apparently general cognitive impairment coupled with outstanding performance in specific areas, such as music, drawing, calculation, and memory).

Two or so years ago he started to utter the alphabet backwards, fast.   Who can do that?

And I’m not sure his swimming abilities are a splinter skill too but nature (God?) made him completely at home in (and under) the water, happily Pisces, a true fish who is unfortunately out of water most of the time.  If I had the money I’d buy us a private tropical place and hire a team of caregivers and teachers, and we’d swim every single day, with dolphins and manta ray, and he could run up and down the sands and jetties as fast as his long, lithe legs could carry him.  I have to get that child to the beach again.  I need to find a way.

Now I’m rambling, unfocused.

Yesterday.  On the ride from Anderson to Andy’s apartment, Jonah wanted me to kiss his hand.  He proffered said royal hand to me from the backseat.  Kiss hand?

The Godfather would like his hand kissed.

The Godfather would like his hand kissed.

Yes, Boo, of course kiss hand.  I kissed each finger and then pretended to suck his thumb, eliciting much joy from Boo.

I love the indescribable color of his beautiful, shaggy head of hair in the sunshine...

I love the indescribable color of his beautiful, shaggy head of hair in the sunshine…

He still has the chafing around his mouth.  I will call the nurse tomorrow.  We think it’s from the Methotrexate and the Humira, or both.  Side effects and more medicine to treat the side effects.  Sometimes I want to take him off every single med and see what happens.  Titrating him, slowly.  I don’t know if I am correct in this feeling.  It isn’t mother-instinct.  Just a question.
Look at all that hair on the top of his head.  The back is relatively short and the overall result is a ragamuffin look I really don’t mind.  It’s my mom who would like to dictate the length of his hair, not Andy and me. I think they should color it a deep blue.  He’d LOVE it.   Just no mullet, please.

I don’t know why I didn’t color my own hair a deep blue when I was younger.  I guess because I’ve always had a job, and since I graduated college in the early 90s they’ve frowned upon blue hair unless you work at a head shop.

If I ever don’t have a job I’m going to color my hair deep blue for a while.

I think he looks angelic here, with the sun all on & over him

I think he looks angelic here, with sun all over him

I really don’t care if he has splinter skills or not, of course.  I just think he is a fascinating manifestation of a boy, and on top of that I get to be his mother, albeit imperfectly and frightened as hell at every turn.  And yesterday:  more kiss?  more kiss?  At the apartment and on car ride to the transfer station.  More kiss?  More kiss?   Beautiful words.  Treasured words.  Joy.

Joy, beautiful spark of the Gods.  freude schöner götterfunken – from the Ode to Joy by Ludwig von Beethoven (Gina’s favorite composer).  They played the Ode to Joy as Andy and I exited the church with heartsmiles on our wedding day, August 19, 2000. — I’d sung the Ode to Joy in college with the Catskill Symphony Orchestra.  On that day – my wedding day – I felt joy so strong I almost couldn’t take it.  The day was a perfect sunny 70 degrees, as if the weather were celebrating with us.  There is still celebration in it, no matter how the subsequent years have unfolded.  You can’t take that kind of joy away, not ever.

I live for it.  Like an open window from which you can glimpse heaven itself.  It’s in the uncontrollable laughter, the uninhibited play, the favorite books, the embrace of a partner, the eyes of your child, the song that lifts you, the friend who shares, the pets who love unconditionally, the innocence that brings tears to your eyes, the purity of grace which cannot be denied.

My favorite love poem.

XVII (I do not love you…)
by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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When Jonah was a baby, I wrote him some poetry.  My best friend Gina shot and killed herself when boo was just 5 months old, and in my grief I went on a writing frenzy.  They say the writing saves the writer and I know they’re right. 

I need to write my Capital District Parent Pages article for September; it is due soon.  What to say?  I will submit it before he is gone, and it will be published and distributed after he is there.  I may go back in time, like I did for my July article, where I spoke mostly about his natural swimming ability.

I have been re-visiting his past – my pregnancy, his babyhood, everything that led to now.

There is a poem I called Womb Magicand parts of it again ring true; eerily similar to now.  After wanting a waterbirth, I had to have a c-section; it was the opposite of what I’d wanted, just like this. 

I need more magic, more faith.  More freeing of my mind from worry.  God help me but as the days draw to their inevitable beginnings and ends I feel rising panic in my throat, my gut, my heart.  Please, God, help me.  Help Andy, help Boo.  Please help me.  Please and thank you.

I am so grateful for everyone who reads, who reaches out, who understands, or tries to, who reassures and cyber-hugs me.  I am grateful I have this place where I can come and bitch or ponder, express the pain or the wonder or the anxiety.  Shaking, I continue because there is no choice but to continue. 

In the mornings I listen to beautiful music that carries me away – Mozart, Vivaldi, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff.  I let it enter me and soothe like balm.  On the way to and from work I play Guster, LOUD, singing songs I know so well they are a part of me now.

Anyway, I thought I’d share the poem, for ‘cooking a baby’ isn’t easy – and may well be compared to magic – just like letting go of one (who seems like my baby, even though he’s 9) isn’t at all easy.

Womb Magic

Two rehearsals went awry.

First I stumbled, dropped the wand
I heard the heckling audience’s hiss

and then onstage I felt
I froze
I felt
unsympathetic ruby spotlights
stealing all the magic words
I ever knew.

Of course there is a trick to it.

I was under the illusion
I was under
it
would be effortless, the show’d go on
without me after all it was
a commonplace performance for the man
behind the curtain, for all the men
behind every curtain

and I said
if I was not the world’s best
well I could always adopt another occupation
I could take on an apprentice I could
quietly retire

but then
in time
at last
suspending
disbelief

I conjured you from soul and cell and bone
with nothing up my sleeve
in one swift sleight of
hand

and pulled,
to rave reviews,
a living breathing rabbit
from an enchanted empty hat.

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