Miracle and Muffins

9-12-10

Last night I received the miracle of reverse osmosis and insomnia.

Maybe you don’t believe in miracles. I wonder if we have to believe in a higher power or the energy of the universe or alignment of the stars or Allah or Jesus in order to believe in miracles. I do know that when I see events and connections with others as miracles, then I feel the miracle of seeing them as miracles. It’s like the mirror facing the mirror, I guess.

Last night I lay in bed for an hour trying to sleep. Finally after midnight I got up, walked around my dark home, looked out the windows for any signs of life, then got down on the floor and stretched. My head continued to pump so I tried to calm the flow by journaling on my laptop. About a half hour into my treatment for insomnia, my son came home—early for him, saw my computer light and came in. “What are you doing up?” I said, beating him to the punch. Riley laughed.

“I need water,” he said.

About six months ago he convinced me to get a reverse osmosis water filter. I am so happy I did. Not only is the water delicious and free of fluoride and pharmaceuticals, it also brings my son downstairs from his dad’s apartment where he now lives, for a daily fill-up.

He filled up and lay down on the living room rug while we talked about his day. I joined him on the floor and expressed concerns for a couple of people in our lives. Riley’s a great person to talk to. He listens critically and is naturally compassionate and insightful and wiser than a twenty-three year old should be. Somehow the conversation got around to memories of when he was little. He said he remembered making Christmas presents on the kitchen table in our old house—the house we lived in as a two-parent family, the house he was born in.

He said, “I don’t know how Casey can watch those old videos of us. I can’t watch them.”

“Why not?” I asked. “They make you sad?”

I could hear his voice crack next to me in the dark. “Yeah.”

I was surprised. We hadn’t talked about that time, about the separation for years, maybe since he was in grade school.

“It was a sad time,” I said. “I felt so bad telling you. Do you remember when we were walking alone together later on that day, and you said you thought something like this was coming?”

He said he did. I told him his dad and I lived together for a whole year after we decided to separate. We were waiting to sell our house and buy a two-flat so we could all be close.

And Riley, being kind of heart, said, “Wow. That must have been hard.”

I told him I was surprised that he couldn’t watch those old videos. “What is the sad part?” I asked. “Is it the divorce or losing the house?”

“It’s all of it.”

His breathing and gaps between words told me he was crying.

I reached over and wiped his tears from his neck and ears. I hadn’t done that since he was in high school.

Riley, my lovely son, said something so beautiful and sad and profound. “I stepped out of my home, not house but home, and into the abuse of the world. I wasn’t prepared. It was too sudden.”

He told me that a couple of older kids had made fun of him at school but that maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembers. He thought it might have seemed worse because he lacked confidence. He said he wants to know how that happened so when he has kids they won’t have to go through that.

He was surprised to hear that he was born scared of the world and frustrated at not being able to manipulate his world around him. I told him he was only happy in my arms, with something in his mouth, usually me. Even being in his dad’s arms wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t until he could talk at age two that he was able to go off to friends’ homes without me for a few hours. And I was the oldest member of his four-year-old pre-school, with perfect attendance, no less!

But going to a small private school, participating in a small scout troupe with the greatest scout master in the world, and making lasting close friendships with kids at school helped Riley build his confidence. He has a huge posse of friends, some of whom are from Kindergarten. He initiates and organizes rallies in the big city of Chicago. He joins in on break dancing sessions where he knows no one. He’s travelled to Taiwan on a scholarship he landed. I’d say he’s learned well how to manipulate the world around him and is no longer afraid of it.

But here’s the really sweet part of all this: My son moved out a week ago and last night we got even closer. Reverse osmosis.

James M. Barrie, the fellow who wrote the play, Peter Pan, said, “God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.” Lovely. Just as prominent are the thorns of memories. And if you’re lucky, you get to have someone to travel through that pain with you. And if you’re even luckier, you get to have someone share their pain with you.

Because I was privileged enough to wipe his tears, I’m going to make Riley some muffins: his favorite!

Carrot Bran Muffins

This is my standard muffin recipe that can be easily changed to suit your tastes, the season, the occasion. You can play around with different flours. Almond meal, brown rice flour, or if you must: white flour. Try grated sweet potatoes, or cranberries and a little lemon, zucchini, bananas, pears, mango, blueberries, prunes, whatever your joy. Riley likes them all which is my joy!

¼ c. whole wheat flour

¼ c. rolled oats or oat bran cereal

¼ c. corn meal

¼ c. wheat bran

2 t. baking powder

½ t. cinnamon

1 medium carrot grated

Handful of chopped walnuts (try sunflower or flax or millet)

1/3 c. sugar (brown sugar is great too)

½ c. milk (or soy or almond milk)

1 large egg

¼ c. canola oil

Mix the dry ingredients then add all the wet stuff. Spoon into a greased muffin tin and cook for twenty minutes (sometimes a few minutes longer, depending on how wet they are—so keep checking for them to bounce back) at 400 degrees. Pour yourself a glass of reverse osmosis filtered water and watch for the sweet blessings of the past and present.