Bounded in a Nutshell

The poet, Bob Arnold, is our neighbor.  In the front of his property, he has a giant chalkboard on which he scrawls quotes, poems, passages, prayers.  My five year old daughter and I often take walks to see Bob's weekly offering.  This week, the chalkboard communicated Hamlet's state of mind in Act II: "I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space." I find passages quite thought provoking, especially ones that are on billboards, in fortune cookies, or reach you by chance. Often, they speak to you, call attention to some part of you that you've been busy burying.  Reading this particular Shakespeare passage while standing on our snow-covered dirt road in Southern Vermont during a cold snap, I felt it speak to the state of things to come: the imminent bout of cabin fever, getting completely "bound" in my own "nutshell" of a mind, and utterly going mad with longing for spring.  The river next to the road was still flowing; the water moved quickly through a central passage through thick ice. Call it SAD (Seasonal Affect Disorder), call it winter blues, call it the season of cheese, red wine, meat, and fat. If you live rurally in New England, this is a time of survival--staying warm, staying dry, staying out of ditches on the side of the road.  There is a return to the basics and while this seasonal transition can be very centering and, if you are into the Yankee thing, it can be fortifying, it is also a time for turning inward.  And turning inward can be dicey.  Even after my years of studying Shakespeare, I had finally realized, while shivering in my frosty neighborhood reading my neighbor's outdoor chalkboard (did I mention that this was our "activity" for the day?), why Hamlet was set in Denmark.  He just would not have experienced such mental strife if he was the Prince of, say, Costa Rica, which by the way, is where I am currently living an alternate, fantasy reality in which I give guided walking tours through the rainforest during the day, drink beer and dance with the people in the bars at night, and surf on my days off. I am fit and tan and eat fruit, beans and rice, and chicken.  I have no spouse nor children and very little responsibility. 

During my deep thought,  my daughter whined, "Read it, Mama!"  I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space.  "What does that mean?", she asked. Instead of revealing my own ruminations I went straight for plot, without censoring the violence.  

"Well, Hamlet is a sad prince because his uncle murdered his father, the king, so that he could become king."  Without missing a beat, her small face turned to me, eyes bright with thought.

"You mean like how Scar killed Mufasa in The Lion King?"

"Yes, actually.  Exactly like that"  I replied.  I remained composed but inside I was reeling.  The voice in my head was bellowing in its best Bill Cosby voice: My girl!  That is my child! My daughter. My girl! That is my child there, the one with the enormous brain and the beautiful smile.  My child.  Really there is no prouder moment for a literary mama than when her offspring identifies a literary archetype, a pattern in a story, and provides a demonstrative example.  It surprised me that my daughter was able to nail the archetypal evil brother but cannot manage to make it to the bathroom on time.  

Is it that much easier to recognize other's patterns than to recognize one's own?  Every time we leave our house, I prompt my daughter to use the potty.  "No Mama! I don't have to go!" I have cleaned up countless puddles, wet undies, damp socks. These are the moments when parents say to themselves "Go to the effing bathroom, kid!  I'm tired of cleaning piss up off the floor!"  It is easier to identify everyone else's bad habits and even easier to avoid our own.  But there is something about being snow bound in a New England winter that highlights one's bad habits. This makes New Year's resolutions all the more relevant and all the more irritating. 

So, what are my bad patterns? Well, I will sort that out for myself. But I will share my New Year's resolution.  I will try not to  rush.  Rushing makes me miserable and makes my family edgy. This will be quite a challenge because in addition to the regular preparation for the grind with two small children (lunches, school paperwork, diapers, extra clothes, snacks, etc.) winter adds a literal "layer"--snowsuits, boots, hats, mittens, extra socks, indoor shoes, sleds, ice skates, extra snacks, packing the woodstove, warming up the car, brushing off the windshield, shoveling the steps, chopping that friggin ice dam off the roof, and did the pee tank in the composting toilet freeze again!?!?!  That is the daily litany of chores---the to do list that constantly runs through my head.  I usually look at the clock and wonder if 8AM is too early for a drink.  By February, it won't be. If it is warmed whisky with lemon and honey, I might even call it medicine.  

Here's to turning inward, uncovering our patterns, and preparing to bloom in 2010. I always return to my beautiful springtime self.  I'm sure I have the winter to thank. Winter (like Vermont and like Denmark) is just a prison we choose to live inside.