And this is how it always happens.
You're down deep. Stuck at the bottom of some hole you dug for yourself. Lying there, immobile, the sun positioned in the sky so it shines right in your eyes and you can't see a thing. All you can think is, God, this sucks. Why you ever got the shovel out in the first place baffles you. It's all so stupid.
And then suddenly -- you're out. It happens so quickly the breath skips from your lungs and you curl at the edge of the abyss, panting. You watch a pebble bounce from the rim down the sides and you can't see it but just hear it hit the bottom. It's very far down there. What a hole to dig. To fall into. But how on earth did you get out?
And then you see it. The thing that rescued you. And what strikes you first is not gratitude but disbelief. At how normal the thing is. Ordinary. Household, even. But in a kind of ghostly form. Wispy, ethereal. You can see right through it. It's from here and there. This world and that. So, so ordinary. But beyond beautiful.
Today, for me, it's the toys. Everywhere. No clear walking path. No clear sitting place. How did it get like this? I'm putting most of it away myself but muttering about trash bags and donations and rules and someday it will be clean around here. I do the cursory, obligatory, internal reminder that when such a day comes, I will, in fact, be very sad. I'll miss the mess.
But not right now.
Ugh, not right now.
When the couch is clear enough I flop down on it. Slouch sideways and put my feet up, knees bent.
Immediately they come. Carrying more toys. I sigh.
I'm handed a small plastic animal and asked to be it. I hop it around the air in front of me and respond where I'm supposed to and somehow this is all very entertaining to them. It's actually kind of fun.
Behind their small frames, I can see the gray sky out the front window suddenly brighten -- a break in the clouds. The wind gusts and shakes the pooled rain from everywhere -- water streams down in the sun. Leaves blow around crazily and acorns tap tap tap on the roof
I'm looking past the kids but at them and their faces glow in the strange sudden sun. And then --- tap tap tap from the inside. A knocking on my womb. Someone saying, hey, I'm here too.
For a minute, I don't move. Don't shift my gaze. I hang on to all the pieces of this moment that just so completely stunned me. Feeling very breathless, very rescued, and very here. At the surface again.
And then it's time for lunch and we abandon the toys on the floor as we head to the kitchen. When I step on one later it doesn't bother me at all.