The last day of six

Lil E is celebrating with his dad and other grandparents, the last of their early birthday partying that has lasted four days. Our celebrations have not yet begun. For now, I just want to relish the hour or so I will have with him before bed, while he is still six.

He will rush through the door and up the stairs, gushing with details about the gifts he's gotten, the games they played. We will scurry about to finish up his first-grade birthday project, which he has titled, "The Story of My Life: Danger! Dont Read This Book! Its To Awesum".  And you know, he's right. It is pretty awsum. (The googly eye smack-dab where the "o" belongs in dont underscoOoOores that, dont you think?)

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There are no Zen masters, only Zen plastic

Many emails from the Not Boyfriend are tagged with a saying that also is taped to his refigerator (right next to the calendar from August 2009). I've read it a thousand times. I have a feeling he'd say it is my journey to hear it a thousand more. 

There are no Zen masters, there is only Zen.

But what the Not Boyfriend, with his shaved-head practice and divinely timed inbox and icebox reminders may not have known is that Zen is carefully built piece by interlocking piece, placed upon a glassy surface to rest delicately and float staunchly. Then smeared like a mofo with some kind of invisible shield of crazy glue.

At least this incarnation of the Lego lotus of enlightenment is. And in our house, when all else fails, we let go and Lego.

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Ten September 11ths

A decade ago, I sat on a train to downtown Chicago, having just seen the second plane hit the Twin Towers, listening to a very young woman wonder out loud why the airports were such a mess, why there was such chaos. I wanted to tell her what was happening in New York, but she'd just landed in my city from there. She had no idea. I couldn't be the one to tell her.

Hours later, my coworkers and I were nervously evacuating our building, a few short blocks from Sears Tower. We were afraid, like many others, it would be next to tumble. The streets were busy, people were confused, and so a kind coworker said she'd drive me home, not wanting to send me into the tunnels of train. The expressway was a calm, deep breath. It was empty, like everyone around it was waiting for the center of our city to implode next.

I didn't go home.

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