Rhythm in Chaos

Chaos theory asserts that life does not follow a rational map. Rather, life follows a rational path until it makes a seemingly random turn, an irrational move, a chaotic gesture. Disorder ensues, and if you follow the trajectory, if it were charted in color, an amazing design takes form. Spirals iterate and dismember. Turbulence disturbs lovely shapes. But something holds together all the disparate pieces until one piece finds another in a compatible, attractive dance. They co-mingle. They embrace. They find a mutual rhythm.

This thought springs forth from sleep-deprivation, the wonderful by-product of mothering an infant/toddler. The delerium reminds me of all the road trips decades ago, driving all night, stopping only for gas. Colorado to Illinois in one straight shot. Only last night it was just, “Mama….mama….mama.” At midnight and one and two and three, she wanted the blanket on - no, she wanted the blanket off - no, she wanted the blanket on. Then she wanted this pillow and that pillow. She wanted to talk about her blume (balloon).

Hour by hour the flu settled into my bones. Abdominal cramping. I fell asleep for a minute and slipped seamlessly into a dream image of River backing up and plummeting over a cliff backwards. Eyes open, heart beating, adrenalin rushing. My husband decides to have a nice talk at midnight, unaware that behind the innocent dialogue rested real family issues. I go down to sleep on the couch until the rat in the kitchen knocks something off the counter – or was it the raccoon eating the cat food? Chaos Theory.

The sock and shoe thing is becoming a morning ritual. This morning it included the coat. She refuses socks, shoes, coat. I deliberate over the cost of battle and time outs, until, after two time outs and shoes in my face, I settle on deep breathing techniques.

At Peet’s I wait for my latte, River in the big girl chair, and a mother than I know walks in and says hello. I cut to the chase, “OK, do you ever have those mornings where….?” She jumps in, “You want to throttle your kid? Yep.” I continue, “And you find yourself thinking and in acting in ways that you swore you would never even consider before you had a child?” “Uh huh….and you remember, oh right, I’m the adult, I’m not supposed to be like this,” she laughs. We both look over to River, who has her plastic horses lined up on the counter. I am, in one second, changed. I know this experience by now – sudden change, abrupt opening, immediate humility. I love her so thoroughly, so intensely, that the story dissolves. The story disintegrates. Love is like a tornado across the field of habit and belief. Chaos theory.

Yesterday on the radio I heard an old writer talk about his near-death experience. Death appeared to him, as he lay on the road after a head-on collision, in a suit and tie, like a banker behind a desk. He was repulsed. In an instant he realized that he fiercely wanted to live. He concluded by saying that sometimes we need that kind of scare to recognize that we actually love life.

I remember this when I am almost run down today outside the house by a guy on a mountain bike. I had just decided to carry some bags to the door instead of carrying River up first. One change of thought, two minutes here or there, and we would have been face to face with death and danger. Still shaky, I fed her lunch and put her in the stroller for her nap. Walking down the block I began to relax into the medicine in nature, when suddenly a man with a red-hooded jacket ran at me from behind a house. I kid you not. I couldn’t see his face but quickly realized that his pants were soiled. He circled us with a tiptoe dance, freaky-limbed gyrations, and then ran behind another house. It’s a beautiful day in a quiet neighborhood in Berkeley. Chaos Theory.

Just about home, her eyes finally closed. I was still thinking about how I would kill that man if he had touched her, still contending with the impact of my own altered state. And I remembered: sometimes we must come undone in ungraceful ways to find a higher level of order.

It’s late and I’m resting into the aching, feverish body. I wonder about the hooded man and hope he finds his current.

I’m off to Portland tomorrow for Jennifer Lauck’s memoir workshop. Reading her blog inspired me to start blogging. I highly recommend her books and teachings. I’ve written in isolation for almost two years now, and I so look forward to sitting in a circle of women this weekend.