Ten Minutes

"Mom, Can we have our 10 minutes now?" A small voice asks from behind the driver's seat. 
I sigh quietly and turn off the radio.  I don't like having Just 10 minutes while I drive.  I can't give complete attention but some days are busy and a Just 10 while driving is the best I can do.

"What do you want to talk about?" he says. 
He often begins this way.  It's become part of the ritual. 
I reply with my standard response, "I don't know what do you want to talk about.  After all it's your dime."  I always say this. 

Beside me in the passenger seat my husband snores quietly.  Behind me and to my right, my daughter's head rests against the window.  She is also asleep.  It's just my son and I who are awake.

My son asks, "How was your Saturday?"  He'd spent the day with dad while daughter and I spent the day and night at Grandma's.    I provide a quick and simple summary.  "We stopped in Salem and got your present." 
I know he'll be especially eager to know we did this.  His birthday is tomorrow.
"We ate lunch, drove to Grandmas, went into Stayton and checked out the library and stopped at the Dollar Tree to buy wrapping paper and a card.  What did you and Dad do?"
The ball is back in his court, where it should be.  He provides me an equally concise summary of their day.  He is just picking up momentum and begins bouncing from topic to topic.  I listen with one ear only.  I note how automatic my driving is becoming and promise to pay better attention to son and to road.

The boy in the back seat suddenly asks, "Are you tired, Mom?" 
"Yes," I say.  "I'm really tired."
I think back over the busy weekend, how much work and upheaval we created.  We'll be moving down to my mothers for the summer months, maybe longer.  This last weekend, we began the transition.  The magnitude of this move feels overwhelming.  I can't wrap myself around it.  I swing from being hopeful to feeling crushed.  This swinging is exhausting.  How can I prepare myself, let alone my family for this challenge?  There is no guidebook.  The fall from middle class into poverty has been both slow and abrupt.  The farther we fall, the harder it is to climb back up.


"Mom," says the voice in the back seat.  "Sometimes, I hear someone call my name but no one is there." 
This I know well.  I spent my childhood being called.  I'd sometimes convince myself it was God and remember the story of how God called Samuel in a whisper and how Samuel was advised to respond.  As an adult, there are still times when I hear my name being called.  Since sane people don't hear voices, I tell myself it's my imagination.  At least, that's what I chose to believe.  I am not Samuel.  I tell myself that the voice comes from within that it's calling me, my better self forth. 
I tell my son none of this and say, "Yes, I know what you mean.  I heard my name called when I was a kid.  Maybe, it's our way of letting ourselves know that we need to pay attention to who we are."
"Oh," he says. 
Moments of silence follow.  I turn my attention to the road in front of me.

"Are we in Salem yet?"
"No, honey.  We passed Salem about 1/2 hour ago.
"Oh," he says.
"Mom.  What is the weirdest thing you've ever seen with your own eyes?"
I have to give this some thought. 

"Oh," I say.  "This is really weird and it was probably just my imagination but this has always stuck in mind." 
I know this has captured his interest.
"Tell me," he says.
"Well, " I say.  "When I was still little and we lived on the farm, David and I were playing Church in the dining room."
He laughs.  "Why were you playing Church?"
He finds this very amusing.
"Think about it a minute," I say.  It makes sense.  We went to Church.  Everybody we knew went to Church.  We went to Catholic school."
"Yes," he says.  St. Bony Face." 
He laughs again recently having discovered that B-O-N-I-F-A-C-E could be given a different pronunciation.
"Well," I continue trying to reel him back in.  "The mass is high drama.  It begs to be reenacted."
"Oh," he says.  "I see".
I know he doesn't really get it at all but wants me to continue the story.

"We were playing and I looked up and saw this misty, smoky shape in the center of the room.  It didn't look like a person or anything but it was there hovering in the center just like mist or smoke does.When I went to get my mom, your grandma and came back into the room, it was gone."
"Cool!  Do you think it was a ghost?"
"Hmm, maybe.  I think it was probably just my imagination.  I've never forgotten it.  It seemed pretty weird at the time and a little weird still.
I quickly ask him, "What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen with your own eyes."
"I haven't seen anything weird yet.  I'm still waiting."

We continue the drive in silence.  I am lost in my thoughts.  I feel anxious about the unknowns that lie ahead.  The thought of the work involved feels exhausting.  I am overwhelmed.  I slow the van slightly before entering the curves as we drive into Portland. 
From the back seat, my son says, "I don't like these curves.  They make me nervous."
"Yes, I know.  I feel the same way, " I say.
I lean into the curve and the van moves deftly within its lane.  I keep pace with the other traffic, the weather, the road as it lays itself out across the landscape. 
"Lean into the curves and close your eyes," I say.
"Ok," I hear from the back seat.
We flow homeward, smoothly and with a gentle, graceful rhythm that I hadn't felt before.
I think of all the minutes past and the minutes ahead and realize they can only be lived one moment at a time.  All the worry, all the anxiety is often just fear of the unknown, of one's self, of life.
"Lean into the curves," I say to myself. 
"Lean into the curves."