He came running through the house, when she sat down. Crawling under, for the best spot, he'd roll onto his back, clutching a toy, looking at it as he listened. And the music would come. He would lay on his back for what seemed hours as she played, her music a tumbling brook. When he was no longer 3 years old, songs tumbled from his own guitar; his passion for music had been solidified by the hours spent on his back under his mother's grand piano.
My friend Wade is incredibly lucky to have those memories. I think of him when I spin, and my own children become mesmerized by the gentle rhythm of the spinning wheel. I lay my baby down and he will watch the whirring wheel, allowing his tired mother an indulgence in her own reverie. Serena will come and help my fingers guide the wool or guide my foot by placing her foot on mine to take a "ride". My breathing slows and my hands are busy. Boredom, that plateau between anxiety and peace, comes to help me settle. Worries and woes alike are spun up into a continuous thread, a beautiful reminder of the thread that joins us all...that lines connect our grief to our bliss....that chaos always makes its way back to order. There is peace without and within.
And then a sound pierces the silence that makes the baby cry and the 5-year-old cover her ears, and makes the 17-year-old and the 14-year-old forget they HAVE ears. A sound,(well, more like a shriek) with power I didn't know I had but apparently acquired because of years of voice lessons: "QUIT FIGHTING WITH YOUR SISTER!! FINISH YOUR CHORES!!! DID YOU GET YOUR HOMEWORK DONE????"
Ok, back to the spinning wheel....peaceful thoughts coming freely...
See? This is rhythm. In, out, in, out...breathe.