My twins went to their first coed birthday party. Everyone in their grade was invited, so there was no edict silencing them about it at school. So they blabbed. At recess, at lunch, waiting in line, it was the hot topic for a solid two weeks leading up to the event. Moms carpooled, since the farm where they would be celebrating was half an hour away. I did the "to" trip, and got to eavesdrop on five kids chatting about their presents, and who got in trouble that week, and their opinions about the last football game. Boys did not sit next to girls in my car, like they do when I drive my college student and his girlfriend anywhere.
The first item of fun was the corn maze. Kids were divided into teams of two boys and two girls, which spurred giggling, and let loose in the tall stalks with the purpose of finding their way out. That was the adults' goal, but eleven year old boys often have their own agenda which does not include being efficient. Despite repeated reminders not to break through the walls of the maze, boys plunged across the gaps between the ears. My daughters were on different teams and had their own stories about rascally teammates and their inability to find the exit.
When I took our older batch of kids to similar mazes in California there was a platform high above the field for oversight. If someone was lost they could be guided by a voice on loud speaker. You may be surprised to hear that a row of corn looks much like another, especially after twenty minutes of mindless wandering. On more than one occasion I needed help.
I have felt the deja vu of those corny paths, when I am feeling lost in my marriage. John and I are currently meandering in a conflict which I will not bore you with, and whose details will eventually matter less than empty shucks. But I look at two paths, one headed toward ignoring the issue and another labeled speak my truth, and I keep going in circles.
When I stop the inner monologue long enough to listen to a still, small voice, it is almost as reassuring as the one above the corn field.
