The ones heading upstairs are covered with a wool runner, smudges of dirt life dotting the fibers.
The ones down to the basement are hard and oak, salvaged from one of my brother-in-law’s job sites, with strips of non-skid material so our feet don’t slip.
When J was less than two she tumbled down sixteen stairs in the center of this house before they were padded wool, and I watched her fall horrid slow-motion, side over side, end over end, and I tried to catch her, and I saw her head hit the railing, and I scooped her up before she hit the last two and the main floor. Still it hurts me to think of it.
When I was seven months pregnant with Lala, my foot caught on my pajama pants on those same stairs, and I lost my footing. I’m not kidding when I say I was carried on wings and flew over two steps and landed flat-footed. I could hardly breathe right then, folded over, thank you, God. Thank you, God.
And it’s falling down those basement stairs that made me go numb, after the coffee splattering in my face and hair, after the bruises and whiplash healed. My left side took the brunt of the oak slabs that left my face tingling and limbs weak, and will the ground slip out again?
These oak stairs lead down to the snarls of dress-up clothes, all toulle and apron strings on the floor, to the computer where I write and where we try to make sense of money, and to the couch where we play board games and watch movies on the boxy TV.
The stairs carry us up to bedrooms — all three. The ones periwinkle and the one restful, juicy blue. The one with the bunks, the one with the books and toys and the room where we talk and love.
I can’t be numb when I go down the stairs, or when I go up. It’s this life I’ve been given. This going upstairs. This going down, one by one.
I feel weary, dreading routines and piles. I feel joyous and silly with a little extra giddy-up. I feel passionate. Itchy to sit and write. Craving my first cup of French press at the kitchen counter.
Truth is I’m scared of falling on these creaking slabs eighteen, on these oak slabs hearty. The steps of a temporary foundation.
And yet, these ups and downs are life-ly constants, right through the center of me, and us.
Straight through the heart of this old house.
The incredibly gorgeous and soulful writer, Amber at The Runamuck, is leading an exploration of voice in writing. This week’s began with the prompt “THE STAIRS.”
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
I’ve been writing, this morning, of breaking two bones in my lifetime. Each was broken falling down a (different) set of stairs. But you made me remember my toddler son falling down a set of basement stairs, and they were those horrible wooden ones with no backs to them (just holes). He didn’t make it all the way to the concrete basement floor. I never figured out why beyond giving credit to an unseen hand. I love the way you responded to this prompt. You definitely created images in my mind and kicked up some dust. The very best things, it seems, can sometimes be found at the tops or bottoms of stairs.
I did not enjoy kicking up these falling memories. Ugh. But the good at the tops and bottoms — yeah, you really can’t beat those. Thanks for your comment, Brandee.
good stuff. I’m remembering some tumbles myself. There is no worse feeling than watching a kiddo fall down the steps.
Isn’t that the truth?!
Yet one more thing we have in common, french press coffee in the a.m. BLISS, Love the feeling of ascending and descending with you through life and years and rooms and wondering through and to in the poetic waves of words. Beautiful.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. French coffee = bliss. Connecting through our poetic leanings = priceless.
Yes, friend. Yes friend. Thanks for kind encouragement. Grateful for you…hope you saw that at the bottom in my grateful list.
Beautiful Ashley & full of life! Have many memories of falling & purposeful “sliding down” stairs & banisters in our old farm house growing up (it had refinished oak floors & stairs).
Now that is something wonderful that I’d forgotten. The sleeping bag races down the stairs in my favorite childhood house. That was good fun — I wonder what we’d break if we tried that now. Maybe we should give it a whirl sometime. :)
I have to say – isn’t that a lot of falling?
Me, too, Babe. Me too.
Thank you for this.
Yes! Too much falling. I’m over it now, so no more. Time to leave that phase of my life behind. Thank you for your comment, dear Amber.
“The steps of a temporary foundation.” I love it all.
Thank you so much for your comment. I really appreciate it, Quiet Girl.
Love the weaving in this post Ashley…the stairway in the center of the house, the path taking us to the heights and depths of experience and all the middle point stops in between…the flights and the falls…Just a beautifully conceived and written response to Amber’s challenge, Ashley!
Thank you, Mama! I bet people are sick of me writing about stairs by now :-), but it was a good one to help me make sense of it all. I do love Amber’s prompts. Next week is “The Book,” so my mind’s whirring with that already.
Thought provoking as metaphor for our lives journey.We may fall but we are determined to get up, perhaps bruised, willing ourselves to continue.
Ain’t that the truth?!