Bloom

Jonas turned one year old on Saturday, prompting a host of emotions. I can remember the days leading up to his birth with near-perfect clarity. Yet, the weeks that followed -- when he used to sleep in his bouncy chair on the kitchen table, when he was so tiny he slept in his Moby carrier for hours on his daddy's chest, when all but his tiniest newborn clothes hung off him -- seem distant, and believably a year ago.

Of course there is a part of me that wants to freeze him in time. Every year as my birthday approached, my mother used to say, "Ok, I'll make you a deal. You can turn [insert upcoming age here] but then you are stopping." It was a joke, but I was always so eager to get on to the next age. To be a big kid and sit at the back of the bus. To be old enough to go to high school. To be old enough to drive. To be old enough to leave home and go to college. To be old enough to drink. To be old enough not to feel so young and foolish and clumsy anymore. Now, of course, I'm approaching the age where I would happily take her up on that offer. But it took nearly 30 years to get there.

The day before his birthday, Jonas decided it was time to start truly walking. He had taken his first steps on August 1, when we were up visiting my grandmother in Arlington. And since then, if you set him on his feet and he was in the mood, he would take a few steps - five or six or seven - before dropping to his knees and crawling the rest of the way to the desired destination or object. Crawling was faster and easier. But on Friday, something switched over and he spent more than 50% of his time walking. On Saturday, it was 75%. And Sunday, it was 90%.

This has come amid a flurry of changes. Beginning during our trip to Iowa earlier in August, Jonas started eating much better. Never a picky eater, neither was he a big eater. But, perhaps inspired by the farmhouse, he took to eating much larger meals during our time there. He also started behaving much better in the car. Both of those changes have continued since we returned to Virginia. He also began speaking more clearly, and added at least five words to his vocabulary in the 1o days we were in Iowa. That increased vocalization -- I'd say his vocabulary is about two dozen words -- has also continued.

As much as I want him to stay right as he is today, watching this flower of life unfold is so miraculous, so enchanting that I wouldn't want to rob him of the chance to change, to grow, to blossom. It is a new state of emotion when you have a child: wanting something for that person. On behalf of that person. Yes, if you are fortunate enough to find a true partner in life, you experience that feeling. But when it is a child you are raising, the feeling is so much stronger and so much more prevalent.

I want things for myself, I want things for Egidijus. I want things for my family and my friends. And I am devoted to doing what I can to bring about those things for the people I love. But there is no length I would not go to for Jonas. It is just one of many new emotions that his addition has prompted.

So many new things. What did I do with my time before? What did I think about? What did I desire? Were all the places he occupies within me empty before, or did his birth simply create new spaces?

The road not (yet?) taken

This posting has been delayed, not out of lack of something to say but out of lack of knowing how to say it.

FloydFest was just as enjoyable as we had hoped -- more so. Jonas loved all the music and, with the exception of one very brief nap, spent seven hours dancing - in his stroller, on our shoulders, in the grass. Dancing, dancing, dancing. His ability to find a rhythm after only a few bars of a song just astounds me. He must be on dozens of cameras; every time I turned around someone else was taking a picture of him. The Duhks even noticed him waving his arms back and forth while he sat on his daddy's shoulders. Our little extrovert. Incredible.

Floyd is every bit as beautiful as I remember it. The elevation is nearly four times that of Charlottesville, which sits in a valley. This means you can see a lot further from the top of a hill around Floyd. Growing up in Iowa, where you can see for miles upon miles in every direction, I find that I crave that kind of vantage point. Living in the foothills or among the trees is nice, but I need to be able to see some distance, otherwise my brain feels muddled. I spent two years in Vermont feeling like I couldn't think straight. And one of the main reasons we bought our little fixer-upper in Belmont is because of the view of Monticello, Brown and Carter Mountains out our back door.

But, as is my tendency, I remain unsatisfied. I want to see even more. Ideally, I'd like to be able to watch the sunset without feeling like I'm missing some significant part of it because it dropped behind a mountain range or hill.

But that's a really minor thing. What is far more alluring about Floyd is the mix of folks there. Born-and-bred, transplants, aging Hippies, new-age Hippies, back-the-the-landers -- all represented in Floyd County. And yet, everyone is so darn friendly to one another, and to strangers. There is some kind of simpatico that has developed there that makes it the most comfortable tiny town (population 450) I've ever stepped foot in.

We were last in Floyd in September 2006. We thought it was beautiful. We thought the vibe and the mix of people was exceptional. We toyed with the idea of settling down there. But, it is rural, there isn't a strong economy and we didn't feel ready to start our own business, or whatever we would have to do to make a living in a place like that. And, we found our little house in Charlottesville, which was just meant for us, and the rest is history.

But our trip last weekend proved that the pull toward Floyd and all it represents remains strong. Despite how much we love Charlottesville. Despite how much we adore our little house. Despite all of our friends. Despite everything we envisioned when we bought and then renovated our place -- the images we've had of how we might expand it, the love and time we've devoted to making a nest for ourselves. Despite it all, a feeling lurks that there is Something Else out there for us.

So this week I slowly churned through this new feeling. The vision of the homestead up on the backbone of the Blue Ridge. Among the eclectic mix that comprises that community. With our own businesses. A different house. Potentially chickens and goats. Land. Country life.

But leaving Charlottesville. Leaving our beloved house. Leaving our friends. How could we think of such a thing? Why not be content with what we have? Why look for anything else?

I half-hoped I could answer this conundrum before writing something here, but it hasn't happened. And I don't think it will any time soon. For now, it is something to chew on, to roll around and around in my mind until it is smooth and familiar and I feel I understand its dimensions. And the correct path comes into focus.