Go into the Light, but Go Carefully

I love our house. I can see the Cascades from our kitchen window. I can see mount Rainier from our dining and living room. We have seventy-five foot tall evergreen trees, a fig tree, and seven different apple trees in the yard, and I can see them all from the windows in the living room and dining room. My lovely next door neighbor took her fence down, so I can see into her beautifully landscaped yard, from her ancient, heirloom rose garden to her stunning native plants and bird sanctuary. I love it.

Sitting at my desk, I can see all these things, and it takes my breath away. Watching four Stellar jays try to out-posture each other over the bird feeder or seeing the clouds suddenly whisk away and magically reveal mountains where there was nothing moments ago, I sometimes feel tight in my chest and I realize it's because I have been holding my breath for fear of disturbing a fragile, beautiful moment.

But some days sitting at my desk, what I see has me holding my breath, and it has nothing to do with magic. I look around and I see a pile of laundry, both clean and dirty, mixed together and strewn all across the floor. I see wrappers from snacks, lunch, and candy everywhere but the trash. I see the shoes I asked everyone to put away, not put away at all, but set almost strategically around for me to trip over. I walk into the kitchen, and I don't know what happened there other than to say I know my daughter had a major role in it. I see all sorts of things that make me hold my breath, but I hold it so that I don't say something I will later regret.

It was the Fourth of July the other day. In some ways it's a favorite holiday of mine. Any day that involves lighting things on fire, and having those things then make loud exploding noises is a Big, Fun Deal in my book. Unfortunately, the town we now live in feels that it would be safer all around for people not to go around blowing things (and by things, I think they mean people) up. They decided it was best left to the professionals. They even offered to bring in professionals for our Fireworks Viewing Enjoyment. Imagine our rapture, well mine at least, when I discovered that we were going to have a front row seat right in our very own backyard! Perfect!

Except that everything was not perfect. Our house is pretty small, and it's been building up to being declared a national disaster site for at least a week now. In fact, I think we may be on the list for Superfund status quite soon. Sundays are always long days anyway, the kids were being squirrely, it was way past everyone's bedtime, and the fireworks weren't scheduled to start for another half-an-hour.

The kids decided to turn out all the lights and open up all the blinds so that we would be able to see the fireworks when they started. This means that the piles of shoes and laundry I told you about earlier were still on the floor, but now impossible to see in the back-out conditions the kids had just plunged us into. I'll skip over the following seven minutes leading up to the start of the big fireworks show, but suffice to say, it wasn't anything to earn me any Mom of the Year points. There might have been a little yelling, and I know for certain there were threats involved. Anyway, when the fireworks actually started, I shooed the kids out to the yard and turned to survey the apocalyptic mess. I'll just pick it all up, and then go out and watch the show, I decided. I needed to restore some order to my universe before I can enjoy it.

But as I walked past the window with an armload of laundry, I turned and saw something that made my breath catch. Something that transported me back to when I was a child. All three of my kiddos were racing around the yard, leaping and jumping, laughing and dancing, lit up by the fireworks exploding in the air overhead. It was lovely and beautiful.

I remember a time when I used to run so fast I felt as though my heart would fly right out of my chest, just for the sheer joy of it. There is something thrilling about racing around in the dark, arms outstretched. And to experience it with colorful, fiery explosions shaking in the air above you, and the grown-ups in your life standing off to one side, laughing at your antics, how could it not be a kind of magic?

I looked out the window, and then I looked down at my armload of smelly laundry. And I realized something vital; that I only needed to go be present in order to enjoy my little universe. Tidying up is overrated and Fourth of July only happens once a year. All that other stuff can wait, but moments like dancing in the dark and racing in the yard cannot. I could stay here in the dark by myself with my smelly laundry, or I could go out into the beautiful lights, and have a lovely evening.

So, I dropped that laundry in the middle of the floor, and I hightailed it out to the yard to be with my family, not wanting to miss another moment. Unfortunately, someone had shut the screen door. As I mentioned earlier, it was really, really dark. And I don't see so well in the dark. So instead of the happy reunion that I was hoping for, I regained consciousness several seconds later to the sight of my loving family rolling in the grass, hysterical from the sight of seeing me crashing through the screen. After they reassured themselves that yes, the screen was fine, they helped me up and we had a wonderful, amazing evening.

So go into the light, and enjoy life. Just open the screen first.