30 Day Writing Challenge: Day Five

A place where I would live but have never visited...Alaska

Alaska knows that it challenges me.  The long winters and the prospect of days where the sun never makes an appearance are formidable.  I once read a book about basketball in Alaska (not my sort of book at all but it was well recommended for young adults) that depicted the difficult lives of adolescents and their struggles to participate in competitive sport in a world where roads close for months, and teams are forced to travel to their competitors by plane.  I once watched a reality television program about Alaska that focused on a family-owned plane company that transported people to and from areas where roads become impassable.  These possibilities - the perpetual night, the roads that close for months on end, the foods that are unavailable for months at a time - should be warning signs; however, they intrigue me.  They describe a way of life completely foreign to me, where life is forced by the cold to grind to an almost imperceptible stop, because wouldn't life be simpler in Alaska anyway?

I suppose that is what draws me to Alaska - the open simplicity; humanity is forced to accept that nature is bigger and bolder than anything we can dream up.  The glaciers, the Northern Lights, the Grizzlies...they are spectacularly not man made, yet they are astoundingly foreign.  The wide open spaces call to my introvert soul and whisper dreams about solitude and silence that can be found nowhere else.  There is a life in Alaska where I would be myself out of necessity because my nearest neighbors would be miles and miles and miles away.  The colors would be richer and the smells crisper, their edges tinged by frost.  One day would fade slowly into the next, and time would stand still.  I would learn to do without.  My impulsivity would be forced into inaction.  There would be nothing left but to be.

Going on Five; Going on Fifteen

Sometimes, I would swear Duncan is going on fifteen. When I get home from work, or when I pick him up from school, inevitably I ask "How was your day?" to which he responds "Good." I follow with "What did you do?" There are two possible responses:  1)  "I don't remember."; 2)  "I don't want to talk about it."

Part of me wants to be offended. These are social niceties:  have a good day; how was your day; what did you do today.  The thing people are supposed to do is...well...answer. It's not just that I'm his mother, and I care about what he did all day when he wasn't with me; it's also that in polite society, you come up with something to say back. Luckily, the wise woman in me, the one who peeks her head out once in a while and says "you might want to rethink that" has helped me to be quiet and patient. Many times, if I just keep quiet with my ears open, I will hear my answer. As he unwinds and develops some distance from school, he remembers things he wants to tell me. It's not so much that he doesn't want to talk about it; I think it's more that he hasn't really had a chance to think about it yet. He went to school; he lived it; he hasn't really processed it yet, and suddenly there's this overly involved woman who wants all the details. If she'll just shut up, she will eventually get the story.

If the wise woman in me doesn't get the answers, the teacher in me (whoa is the teacher in me strong!) can usually get to the heart of the matter, for she has learned that sometimes you have to ask the question in a different way. "What was your favorite thing you did today?" "What was your least favorite thing you did today?" "What did you have for snack?" "Did you build anything today?" Usually, changing the question, narrowing it, and making it a little more manageable opens up a great discussion of the day's events.

The fun part of these social conventions is that Duncan has begun to ask us what we did at work. There is little that is cuter in the almost-five set than "So, what did you do at work today, Mama?" Interestingly, the answer is usually "I taught some kids. I answered some e-mails. I went to a meeting." As I write it down, it sounds a lot like a 46 year old version of "I don't remember; I don't want to talk about it." It's almost the 16 year old "You wouldn't understand." 

Maybe if I tell a better story, I will get better questions. 46 going on 16. The teacher in me is strong. Stop talking and listen.