Finding Ninee » Sharing our parenting and special needs stories with heart and humor.

On Quiet, Writing, Quivering Hands, and Grieving Moments Before They’re Gone

“It’s quiet,” I thought, lying in my son’s bed at a much too late hour but also the right one, after my re-entry to our home after a weekend away. “Tickle left underarm,” he requested, shifting and raising it up. “Feels good,” he confided, forehead to forehead.  

He twisted and directed my fingers to the next best song-tickle place on his torso. He asked for the same song that I’ve sung to him since he was a piece of rice in my body. I lightly scratch his neck, his back, his arms. I stop, and I inhale. “He missed me,” I thought as he turned toward the wall. Exhaled.

When, exactly, did he start noticing my absence and what month was it when the sweet smell of his baby-head transformed into a universal kid smell?  I wonder about the underlying feral scent of all children.

I like that it’s made of mulch, sun, and dirt. I like that it’s universal, and completely mine, tonight.

I remember the ago, and a time when his head smelled new. That particular scent comes with no worthy adjectives but each of us who has smelled a newborn remembers it. It’s transforming. It’s hope and memory.

We embrace that scent and are reminded that we too, once smelled new.

Tonight, in his bed, I breathe. I trace his hand and know that one day, his knuckles will no longer pudge with dimples and will instead sprout peppered hair. He will smell like Man.

I breathe this in, not knowing when this scent and this silence, his pudgy knuckles tucked into my swollen ones will end. Tucked in now, lolling towards the wall, sighing his sleepy sigh.

“Stay here, all the dark,” he says.

I snuggle closer, cherishing. Remembering the quiet of before, when he didn’t speak, and how different and scary that felt. Remembering his first “Stay here forever?”  Knowing, too, that I already mourn the last time he says that, although it hasn’t yet happened.

It’s possible that tonight was the last time he’ll ask me to “Stay for all the dark.”

I give myself breath and space to grieve the moment, even as it hasn’t yet happened.

***

“It’s quiet,” I thought, sitting on a stone wall in Massachusetts on a recent morning with six women, also quiet. Writing. Our prompts were chosen objects. My first reaction was to grab a silver rattle that was almost identical to one buried in my dresser drawer until I remembered that the memories of it were never mine, and only cherished because of what I thought might have been. Instead, I chose a tiny clear bottle of water.

I used to collect bottles of ocean water

I don’t know what that bottle meant to the person who filled it, and I don’t know whether it was filled with tap or with the Pacific. I grabbed it because for me, it was filled with the salt from all of the oceans that I’ve dived in, and had forgotten. I may have forgotten forever except that I bore witness to words of the Aegean, and to a beautiful woman’s two weeks remembered out loud.

I chose the tiny bottle for its quiet. I chose it for the peace of scuba diving, and I chose it because my quivering hands and overflowing emotions were unexpected, embarrassing, and freeing.

***

it is so quiet

“It’s so quiet,” I thought once my breathing had regulated during my first scuba diving experience. Years ago, I imagined myself as a water baby. I dove, was mindful to not block the turtles’ ascents, brushed flesh with fish and rays, and hovered over an abyss in Turks and Caicos where the whales swam by.

I remember accidentally sinking next to the underwater cliff, checking my depth gauge and thinking “oh shit.” The grief that I needed to ascend or die. It was all so quiet. The only sound was my inhale and the bubbles of my exhales burping by my ears. It was peace, and breathing was the only requirement. Well, that, and doing so in intervals to ensure that earth blood and water blood balanced rather than collide.

***

“I can’t focus without the quiet,” I thought during the sharing sessions at my retreat. But it was quiet. The difference was that it was witnessed quiet and somehow that feels more vulnerable and seen. “Why the fuck are my hands shaking?” I still don’t know, but I imagine that it had something to do with writing out loud. Of feeling like I wasn’t what they expected. Except, whatever ever is? 

***

I type this in the quiet of my home, and I miss being there, and wish I had the same women as witnesses. I miss them. 

***

“It’s so quiet,” I think, two days later, as I tiptoe out of my son’s room. And yet, it’s not. There are the creaks of home, the sounds of my son’s breathing, and the ripples of connections. All of them. 

*** kristi rieger campbell finished post for finding ninee

 

Special thanks to Ivy the weeniebutt who I got to meet IRL after she drove me to the airport. She’s even more amazing than you’d think. She’s incredible.

If you’re wondering about the writing group, and how this retreat weekend, came to be, please visit Jena’s page. You won’t regret it.


  • ivy - Awwww.I was so “fan girl” meeting you! This piece is so beautiful! Those retreats really work huh? Tucker the amazing Tucker…I am so happy to witness these very wonderful changes in him…he makes such huge connections and even with a delay in speech manages to convey exactly what he feels and desires…most of us cant even do that with a full vocabulary. He awes me!August 11, 2015 – 10:35 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - You were fan girl? I was fan girl? There must be a joke in there somewhere except that I’m too grateful for jokes because meeting you was such an incredible thing. That we’ve only known one another “in the computer” and that you took me to the airport, and that we got to talk IRL!!! That’s just, well, wow. And yeah, Tucker’s doing amazing. It blows me away. Truly. xxoo weeniebutt.August 11, 2015 – 10:48 pmReplyCancel

  • Jena - “Stay for all the dark.”
    Oh, that took my breath away, Kristi.

    You were, in fact, better than I expected–because you were real! With quivering hands and a heart bigger than I could ever have known online. Thank you for coming, and for writing and trusting and sharing.August 11, 2015 – 10:35 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Yeah, “Stay for all the dark” took my breath away, too, Jena. Especially after he said nothing at all for so so long. It all felt connected. The silence in the garden, the silence at bedtime, the silence of writing and the not-so-silent choked emotion of reading out loud. Thank you so so much for gathering us with you. For the prompts. For the encouragement. Your heart and your light is ginormous. xxooAugust 11, 2015 – 11:04 pmReplyCancel

  • Emily - I love that you went on a writing retreat too! I’d love to hear more about it…I’m ready to go on another one. 🙂 Also, I love the part of this post about scent and grieving…before you smell the scent of Man, you will be smelling the scent of “Teenager.” Beware. :))))August 11, 2015 – 10:46 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - I will tell you ALL about it, Em!!! I promise! And yeah, the scent and grieving… so forgot to include the teenager one! LOL!!!August 11, 2015 – 11:05 pmReplyCancel

  • Allie - Okay this was beautiful. Stunningly so. Wow. And I’m a bit confused. I didn’t know you went to another writing retreat. This is different from Oregon, no? Okay two retreats and two conferences. I am officially jealous and might hate you a little. But it’ll pass…August 11, 2015 – 10:48 pmReplyCancel

  • Emily - This is so absolutely lovely, Kristi. Thank you for it!August 12, 2015 – 7:51 amReplyCancel

  • Julie Jo Severson - Beautiful. It all made me smile but “He will smell like Man” made me laugh out loud. Sounds like a wonderful retreat. I saw some pretty awesome pictures of it on Facebook. I have that same fear about getting together with other writers whom I’ve met online but not in person– that fear of being not what they expected and unable to write with others around within close vicinity when I’m used to writing alone and inside my head. I’m glad you took time for yourself to go and that you had a wonderful experience.August 12, 2015 – 8:33 amReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Thank you Julie! And yeah, the whole “I’m not what they thought I was/ they are not what I thought they were” is huge big, but also, I’ve met quite a few writers IRL now and have to say, mostly, they’re just more them in person. And yeah, I do better in my head, too, although this one was thought of in person and finished in my head, which is maybe better? Or I dunno. I’d love to write with you sometime in person though.August 13, 2015 – 12:06 amReplyCancel

  • Elizabeth - So lovely. Well done my friend! Beautiful.August 12, 2015 – 10:06 amReplyCancel

  • Nicki - Kristi… I have read and commented on so many of your wonderful pieces, but to be commenting on this post, after this shared experience, after writing right next to you and witnessing not only your hands shake but you, your handwriting, your thoughts and ideas and feelings… fills me UP. This is amazing, all you have captured and written about here. Writing out loud, grieving for moments that haven’t yet happened, the quiet and all that it holds… All the feels. Thank you <3August 12, 2015 – 10:22 amReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Nicki!!! I adore you!!! Our shared experience lifts me UP UP UP so much. It’s so amazing to have seen your beautiful Pixie face with your gorgeous accent in person, knowing that you saw my hands. How incredible is that? And yeah, the moments. The here, the this, the quiet. All the feels back and THANK YOU. I’m so glad I know you.August 13, 2015 – 12:10 amReplyCancel

  • Dana - Smell like Man…I’m in that place now. But while he’s starting to look like a man, a little at a time, that little boy who I tucked in every night is still there. I feel like I’m often grieving for moments that haven’t happened yet. I want to stop grieving and focus on enjoying the now moments, but it’s hard.August 12, 2015 – 12:45 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Aw to the little boy you still tuck in each night and to the knowing of the grief even before it’s here. Sigh. I want to focus on the new ones too, so much.August 13, 2015 – 12:15 amReplyCancel

  • My Inner Chick - I breathe this in, not knowing when this scent and this silence, his pudgy knuckles tucked into my swollen ones will end.***

    Lovely. xxxx kiss from Duluth.August 12, 2015 – 2:13 pmReplyCancel

  • Stephanie Rufa - This was beautifully written and beautiful to read Kristi. I feel like I was right there with you. I feel that quiet.August 12, 2015 – 5:53 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Thank you Stephanie. Also HI. I miss you. I’m glad you feel the quiet.August 13, 2015 – 12:26 amReplyCancel

  • Christine Organ - What a lovely post. I generally don’t like quiet – I need music on all the time – but you make it sound very appealing. So glad the retreat was amazing, but there was really no doubt 🙂August 12, 2015 – 10:27 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - I used to need music all the time too, but one day, I found myself listening to it too much. Now, I save it for the car, and belt out the tunes like it’s the 80’s or something.August 13, 2015 – 12:27 amReplyCancel

  • Kenya G. Johnson - This post took my breath away. I want to say “literally took my breath away” but now I’m paranoid about writing that because it’s almost always used wrong.

    The paranoia of writing out loud and sinking next to the underwater cliff! Woo- exhale!

    Excellent writing! I love quiet for writing. I would love to be able to listen to music but it has to be instrumental AND something I don’t know so I don’t get off track singing lyrics or humming along.August 13, 2015 – 3:48 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Thank you Kenya! I think you used “literally took my breath away” the right way but now of course wonder myself. I love quiet for writing too. I almost can’t do it if it’s noisy and I can’t listen to music the exact same way! If I know the song, I hear the words in my head!!August 13, 2015 – 7:16 pmReplyCancel

  • Tamara - I hope that if Des has to smell like man eventually, he smells like Cassidy. That man can sweat for days and still smell nice. It’s weird. Maybe cyborg.

    I think a lot (way too much) about moments and about how sometimes you don’t know that something is the last time it will happen. Often. I think it’s from having a parent die young. I never knew that my last hug from him was the last. So I used to think about that when I was older and breaking up with boyfriends.
    And now as a parent. When was the last time Scarlet said “gaku” before she learned “cookie.”

    Sob.August 16, 2015 – 5:15 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - LOL Tamara – Cassidy the cyborg. My husband stinks. It’s true. He does. I mean not always but if he sweated for days? I would die. Thinking about the moments is maybe part of parenting — I think way too much about them too. SOB to not knowing your last hug from your dad was the last. 🙁September 2, 2015 – 7:15 pmReplyCancel

  • Roshni - A very serene post interweaving a lot of thens and nows!! I love how much you got out of this retreat!August 18, 2015 – 3:14 pmReplyCancel

  • Sandra - Now I need to join yet another project! Your writing is exquisite, although you do always dwell into the deepest part of yourself. I’ve put myself on the email list for this writing retreat, and hope to be able to participate when my children haven’t sucked every last dime from my soul. And I apologize, I called you Kristen in my last comment…I know you’re name is Kristi! Honestly I do!August 20, 2015 – 12:34 pmReplyCancel

    • Kristi Campbell - Sandra, you’re so kind — thank you!!! I hope that you’ll be able to participate in this writing retreat or another near you. I think that the power of writing with people in person is pretty amazing. xo and I know you know my name! 🙂September 2, 2015 – 7:18 pmReplyCancel

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