Fall

Ron Mueck, Mother and Child

It is fall–and for some reason–this year, in California, it finally feels like we have a Fall. Everywhere the light spreads yellow and warm, the leaves dangle, juicy and red, and the wisteria pods on the front porch burst like movie theatre popcorn.

My daughter babbles now. Constantly. When we walk she points and speaks in her own patois, no less enchanted that none–or possibly–just not me, can comprehend her. We struggle to understand one another, her wildly gesticulating arms and nodding head, helping me to puzzle out her desires, one by one. To my delight, where are your shoes? might illicit some kind of response now. But, asking too much from her as in, What should we do right now? can grind the conversation to a screeching halt. Communication is evolving, albeit a slow and piecemeal process. And who doesn't love the sound and the wonder of their own child's chatter? That first recognizable new use of a word, no-o-se? No-o-se. No-o-se! Her thrill becomes my own.

In the absence of enough daylight to head to the playground when I come home from work, we spend a lot of time just milling around the neighborhood until night falls (early), and then milling around the house until bedtime. It's a kind of limbo that is a large part of what parenting seems to be thus far, being open to the exploration of anything and making play out of nothing. That is to say, existing somewhere between sheer boredom and a buddhist's style of absolute presence. I appreciate being able to see the world side by side hers: dowsed in a newness that sparkles like glitter. The joy that registers on her face over any number of the day's small surprises–a discovered stuffed animal or a jar with a lid–is absolute.

And I learn another kind of compromise about putting aside need, task, and agenda in exchange for exploration, creation, and repetition. We patiently wait for winter.

This is my new home.