untitled emotions

Mama, can you hold me?

After I finish changing Ruthie's diaper, Eliza.

Mama, can you hoooooold me?

Just hang on, please.

Maaaamaaaaaa? Can you hooooold meeeeee?

Okay, yes. Now.

My nerves are hanging out of my ears and eyes and skin, and now you're sitting on them.

But I'm holding you.

***

Mama, can you tell a story about me and Eliza?

Inwardly, I sigh. I recoil slightly. Anything else, please.

But I muster my enthusiasm and try to awaken my sluggish imagination.

One day very soon, Claire, you'll attend school all day.

And I'll want to tell you stories.

***

A cry in the night.

Ruthie, you can't be up again.

I pick you up and you bury your face in my neck. Tired. Needy.

In my arms nursing, you cash out, back to blissful oblivion. I wish I could tag along.

But your fuzzy hair and warm body and soft sighs belong to me alone.

In this moment.

***

I've been out of college for almost six years. What have I accomplished since then?

Scraps of my heart strewn all over the place, quietly beating in time with the hearts of the three people who can crawl most scratchingly under my skin.

I welcome you in.

Scratch away.

I may not let you out.

the same old post, just a new metaphor

I am an autocentricist.

I cannot deny that the earth revolves around the sun.

But I envision a universe that revolves around the Self. For each of us.

My universe revolves around me. And my thoughts affect my reality.

Perhaps this is an egotistical view, but to me it explains a lot.

It explains why I can pour my intentions into an uncovered Bowl on the sunny front step, knowing they will evaporate into the atmosphere and pool in clouds above my head. It explains why then, sometimes unexpectedly, these evaporated intentions solidify into something very real and rain down upon my head.

Each day hands me a pile of sugar and a pile of clay. Everything goes into the Bowl.

Positive thoughts are like grains of sugar – light, sweet, easy to dissolve.

Childhood is magic. Spring renews me. Writing fills my heart. Every breath cleanses my soul. Love lives in this house.

But negativity manifests as lumps of clay – tough, grey, heavy.

I have no time. I'm too tired. Children and animals follow me everywhere. Noise assaults my mind. I have no predicable space of my own.

I have to stir vigorously and practically boil the water to dissolve the clay. And I do. All the time. Then, that grey sediment muddies the water, obscuring the delicate grains of sugar.

But the sugar – the sugar melts easily with gentle swirlings. And the clay cannot be moved by that.

So each day I have a choice: I can invest energy into negativity, or I can let that clay settle to the bottom of my awareness. I can create a rain that pelts me in the face with its mire, coats my outlook with a heavy mood, and knits my brow against the world. Or I can soak under a sweet mist, lapping lightness from my cupped hands.

Last night I went to bed with that lump of clay under my pillow. Today, I'm letting it sink to the bottom.

What will you choose?

changing the pace

I read carnivorously.

I grasp a plot in my teeth, gnashing through it until I extract the juice and swallow whole fibrous lump. Insatiable, I search for more.

I've always read this way.

I reach the ends of books well fed and hungover.

I revel in each feast.

But though good reads singe important emotional reactions into my psyche, I've forgotten entire books this way, retaining only wisps of the plot.

In typical carnivore fashion, I just slopped through Barbara Kingsolver's new novel, The Lacuna. I inhaled her words, racing through the plot. I turned the last page in awe of a story well crafted, words beautifully arranged. A symphonic novel.

But in an atypical change of pace, I'm moved to reread this one. Now that I'm fat off the plot's hearty meat, I can chew more slowly this time to fully taste the poetry of words, to fully digest the weight of themes. And remember this one.

***

I practice yoga fluidly.

I move through a series of postures dynamically, saluting the sun, meeting vinyasas. I synchronize movement with breath, flowing though my practice with purpose and perceived grace.

I've only known yoga this way.

I reach the end of my practice with a meditative mind – calmed, clear, at peace.

I honor this practice.

But though my body retains an imprint of each posture, I know that I overlook the subterranean intimacy found through deeper exploration and extended holdings of single poses.

In the new class I'm attending, the instructor explores the nuances of only a few poses – thigh bone press together, shin bones press apart, pelvic rim lifts. Lift the heel, find breadth in the shoulders. The first time I encountered this style, I resisted: what's the point of this? Where's my meditative space? But through this instructor, I'm approaching yoga from a different angle – standing still in a river's current, netting brightly colored fish.

***

I write slowly, in gasps.

I dig deep, mining words from my soul one at a time. I sift through, collecting the sparkling bits and discarding dingy bits of dirt. I commit words to paper. I revise. Edit. Rearrange. Erase. Start over. It takes a lot of time and energy for me to write anything.

I've always written this way.

I compose short works, agonizing over construction, rhythm, meaning.

I take pride in the end result.

Though this style of writing is my way, I ache to breathe more evenly and find the endurance to dig even deeper.

So in my journal writing, I simply barf words onto the page. I don't think twice about nuances or poetry. I just write. My pen scratches carnivorously, continuously.

By changing the pace, I'm exercising new muscles, building endurance, eyeing a much bigger goal: I want to have a first draft of my novel written by the time I'm 30.

11 months left.

warrior of the wait

It's March.

Spring hasn't quite sprung.

But it's not really winter anymore, either.

We're in between seasons. I still wear my gloves, but they're the fingerless kind. I still crunch through snow on my way to the mailbox, but mud claims more and more of the yard with each sunny or rainy day. I exhale and still see my breath, but I don't inhale icicles. I still smell fireplace wood smoke – that cozy, wintery scent— but it meets my senses wafted on moist, thawing air.

This is a time of transition.

One foot steps forward but the other hangs back, hesitating.

My heart races in anticipation: I can't wait until we go outside without jackets! And spend mornings at the park! And sit in the grass! And dig in the garden! And open the windows! And bring out the road bikes! And watch everything green up and bloom!

But despite the suspense, there is something balancing about such a straddled stance.

My fingertips stretch forward, just brushing the future; the heel of my back foot presses against the past. A wave of reflection washes through me; my body conducts the heat. I stand quite still, all motion paused, weight evenly distributed across this space, breathing into the very center of all things.

The change of seasons brings on an obvious time of transition. But we don't have to wait for an equinox – we are always on the cusp of change.

I find it every day in the hour just after dawn –no longer night but not fully day. And then again at dusk, when the day melts into darkness. I find stillness in the quality of this light – a visual pause that can bring inner balance to a disheveled morning or chaotic evening.

And I find it in every breath as I tune into the pause at the top of my inhalation. I retain that breath for a moment, holding the space in my lungs, balancing before moving forward.

Perhaps by becoming more aware of these physical times of transition and tapping into the balance found in the changing season, the quality of light, or the movements of breath, I can learn to find more peace during periods of waiting in my life. Right now, my heart races with anxiety – and even dread – when my mind sniffs and searches, wandering out of the present to wonder about the future. That page is blank in my imagination, and the unknowns fill me with fear. No light can illuminate the corners of that void, so it makes more sense to find balance – and thus, inner peace – where I currently stand.

My back foot presses against where I've been and who I was: I can still touch the uncertainty of new motherhood and all the overwhelming emotions that occupied that space.

I'm not in that place anymore. But I draw upon lessons learned, pipetting the energy of experience into today's emotional equation.

My fingertips stretch forward, lightly brushing the edges of new experience.

I'm not able to grasp anything concrete yet. But I can tap into the energy of potential and siphon inspiration into the present.

This is a time of transition. I wait in Warrior Pose: strong, stable, still.

And I might stand straddled in this way for awhile yet, so I better get comfortable right where I am. A Warrior of the Wait. 

the breakup

Sigh.

I have the break-up blues.

No, no, John and I are fine. More than fine. [Seven-Year Itch? I'm talking about Seven Years' Bliss.]

I have the blues because I broke up with my yoga instructor.

[I don't think she realized we were going out, though.]

I've been with her for almost three years, following her when she moved studios, adjusting my schedule when she changed time slots.

She gave me yoga.

Her passion inspired me. Her knowledge fed me. Her instruction taught me to focus on the breath and explore my edges.

From her practice I built mine, and today I could give up yoga as easily as I could give up breathing.

But I had to give her up.

With the daily chaos kicked up by the kids, driving 30 minutes each way plus the 90 minute class started to feel like a lot to ask from my family. Not that I don't deserve time away – believe me, I do – but spare time doesn't grow on trees, as it turns out. I could certainly donate that 60 minutes of car time to some worthy cause – to the dishes [oh, the never ending dishes…], to John [because he deserves time away, too], or to all-together-time [because that's scarce sometimes as well].

So when John decided to join the local athletic club [which, significantly, is within walking distance] to begin triathlon training, I opted into the membership to hook up with the free yoga classes.

While I'm leery about the quality of these classes [the verdict is still out – I'll attend my first class next week], another factor lured me in and sealed the deal – the pool.

Many years have lapsed since I last swam – who knows what happened to my last lap-appropriate swimsuit? – and my aerobic fitness is rather slack right now. [Read: I'm woefully out of shape.]

But I jumped in tonight.

I felt buoyant. I felt light. I breathed in rhythm and felt energized. I felt strong.

And then after while, I felt like a fish out of water.

You know, out of my element. At my limit. [Drowning.]

So I exited the pool.

But I found a new edge to explore.

And maybe swimming will inform my yoga practice, too, as it forces me to focus deeply on my breath and pushes me to strengthen the edges of my endurance.

I already miss my yoga instructor, but I think the breakup will be good for me.

needs. also titled: where I compare myself to the dog.

We have a needy dog.

She needs to walk. [Incidentally, so do I.]

She gets to go most days. [I should say we get to go.]

And she knows when the conditions are right for a walk – both John and I must be home. When John is gone, she knows the possibility does not exist. [She still begs, though, because –hey – just like you never know when food might fall to the floor, there is the chance that the leash might spontaneously attach to her collar.]

But on weekend mornings, because we're all home, she begs with heightened urgency. [Obnoxious? Yes.]

We walk, but by evening she seems to forget her morning romp. She demands another. [It's amazing how insistent non-verbal demands can be.]

Because she's not the only needy creature in this house, though, she never gets indulged with that second outing. There is dinner to make, games to play, dishes to wash, children to bathe. And then there's me.

I'm pretty needy, too.

I need calm. I need chocolate. I need order and a schedule and a plan. I need yoga. I need a good novel. Very acutely, I need John. I need blank notebooks and time to write in them. I need sunshine and to witness the quality of light at dawn and dusk. I need reassurance. I need something to look forward to. I need family. I need to talk it out and keep it in. I need balance. I need my bed. I need to surf the web. I need to deeply inhale the scent of my baby's skin. I need inspiration. I need direction. I need to hear my children's laughter. I need solitude.

And whenever I meet one of these needs, my soul begs for more. I'm insatiable. [Yes, somehow, just like the dog. We're all living creatures.]

Sometimes I overwhelm myself [and others?] with my cavernous need, especially because all the basics are always all covered. But as much as I need to breathe and to eat and stay warm, I need to find beauty and peace and reflection and self. I need space.

What do you need?


 

commitment

I bought another new notebook the other day.

It had to be just the right one: sturdy cover, college ruled, recycled paper.

Upon its now-blank pages I will write a story. A story about mothers and grandmothers and loss and acceptance and tolerance and pain and self-reliance and self-evolution and ethics and independence and the past and the present and moving forward.

This is not my story – it's the story. But it wants to drip out of my pen, slowly over time and between the cracks of life.

The characters are knocking down walls in my ego, constructing their own blueprints, and begging me to breathe inky life into their two dimensional lungs.

And I promised I would.

So I'm committing my intentions right here, hoping that these words will solidify and keep hope from sliding out of my heart.


 
I'm writing a novel.


 
Okay, I haven't started yet. But I will. For myself. No matter how long it takes to drag out and pin down and mock up.


You can read it if you want, but give me a couple years, okay?

Non Lenten reflections

I eat meat on Fridays – or whenever I want. I eat between meals – or at my stomach's directive. And I didn't give up anything for Lent.

I don't consider myself Christian, at least not today. But I feel profoundly connected to Something right here – Something within, above, and all around. So even though I'm not observing Lent in the ways of my spiritual past, the season prompts me to do a little inner spring cleaning.

The day still freezes my breath, but each dawn births a sun stronger than yesterday's. The Thaw promises itself in lengthening days and penetrating rays; my soul accepts Spring's Oath of Return, arching upwards to break out of iced-over ruts and rise – alive – out of the dead of winter.

I light a candle with this rebirth intention, watching the flame illuminate a soft arc of space. I say a prayer – not the Dear God, please bless my family prayer I once used – but a non-verbal offering. I gather all the energy from the corners of my body, mind, and soul into a warm center. I breathe it in: tasting it, absorbing it. Then I exhale, sending it Out, intending it to knock and be received.

So if sometime in this pre-spring season, a ball of white light hits you in the face? Hi. That's me. I'm aiming for your center, but I'm still learning how to toss.

the schedule.

As a child, I always wanted to know what to expect.

When are we going? How long are we going to be there?


Can I bring my book?


My family teased me about this quirky need for a stone-laid schedule, and I always retaliated with a scowl. I never appreciated criticism in any form, but I didn't say I needed a schedule, okay? Just tell me what's going on!

I still like to be in the loop. It bugs me when John goes downstairs to shower and doesn't return for 45 minutes. What were you doing down there, anyway?

He laughs about forgetting to submit his itinerary in advance.


I, of course, scowl.


I like structure. I like order. Especially, I like to know what to expect.

I'm in charge of things around here during the day, so rather than melt into a puddle all over the house, I'm slowly constructing a schedule for myself – a lattice to lay over my week.

Monday is Baking Day. Up to my armpit in flour and dishes, I arrive at day's end done but accomplished. Tuesday night is yoga night. My night, goodbye. Early mornings I work, evenings exist for yoga and writing and reading and couple time. I do dishes after lunch, laundry on Sundays unless we're traveling. Tuesday is Craft Day. I still need to dedicate a Cleaning Day but my soul recoils. The kids want a Library Day, too, so maybe Thursdays? Between the cracks I shower and think when I can.

Many monkey wrenches upset my good intentions: sickness, laziness, kids waking early or resisting bedtime, tantrums, unexpected plans. But I'm flexible – this is not a schedule set in stone, but a trellis to climb when I can.

I'm finding a sunny, warm view up here. And I think I can expect more flowers from a climbing clematis than from shaded ground cover…Well, that's a metaphor I would expand, but I must knead the dough. Oh wait, Ruthie is up from her nap. And Eliza is throwing a fit. And Claire wants a snack. And the phone is ringing. And the dog needs to go out…

clearly a mumble

leaky faucet my pen drips rust colored ink viscous and patterned with coffee grounds staining the sink

miserable wrench yanked through corroded crumble tap yawned no floody purification just coughing up empty reservoir remains

seeking new source not collected in compile all there or not but scattered to scavenge

condensation on the mirror sponged and saved frost on the window scraped and stored sweat on my skin soaked and preserved breath in the air fleetingly frozen captured and cupped one swig of water left in the glass. siphoned. stolen. mine.

drop and dribble into my jar clearly mixed ink for this quill

cap it don't spill

walk in this stream

february freezes the light setting the sun slowly tonight unwanted snow strangely satisfies icing the landscape imitating sugar but just cold on my sock foot crunch so loudly hardly hear geese celebrate in symphony or cacophony opposite the dog who sniffs and bounds through joy reveling maybe more than me but for basic reasons no metaphor just the breath in my lungs the wind sculpted snow drifts motion frozen the sap stilled in tree veins waiting waiting waiting for the thaw alive quivering anticipating ready to spring secret visitors leap here and there on errands tracks snowshoe prints take me off the marked path through shadowy silhouetted trees now from an insideout angle beautiful bare as memory sees them fully leafed no trace of that next season so buried in the cold sky my eyes lift to first twinklings no wait that's an airplane but that that that yes not of this world wanting to remember this scene with words that stick in my pen frozen in the inky blackening sky above feet off the snow on naked sidewalk magic shatters on cement leads me home.

So. Much. Stuff.

Where did we get all this stuff?

A rather probing question from the 3-year-old perched beside me on the couch, analyzing her panoramic view.

Toys and appliances, pictures and curtains, books and shoes, food boxes and furniture, papers, papers, papers. Each item is the cover image to its own story – origin, journey, and acquisition.

Some of these stories are very short, contents thickened only by bare facts: The couch was made in Canada, sold in Madison. We bought it with our Obama money. Two men delivered and set it up. The end.

Other narratives read longer, imbued with meaning and memory: The wooden box by the door, home to our hats and mittens? My mom stenciled the sheep on there. She used to collect sheep knick-knacks when I was a kid. She was also really into stenciling. She used some fabric from our old living room couch to upholster the box's lid. I remember jumping on those couch cushions, using them as "rocks" to cross the hot lava that was the living room floor. I can't remember when I asked if I could have the box, but it was probably one of those scenes Mom is famous for – you casually compliment a shirt she's wearing and she sends you home with it.

Sometimes useful, sometimes pretty, sometimes just clutter, stuff fills our living spaces. We use it, we look at it, we shuffle it around. But mostly, we hardly consider it – our stuff blends into the backdrops of our lives.

But what will happen to all of this stuff? Much of it will be used up or handed down, grown out of or grown sick of. Much of it will disappear as today becomes ten years from now, purged into the landfill or given over to Goodwill.

And we will get more.

Whole to replace the broken, fashionable to replace the outdated, sized up to replace the too small.

But what if we had to take it all outside and pile it in our front yards? Would our personal mountains elevate or embarrass? Then add to that pile all the stuff we ever owned, even if disappeared long ago into the great void of oh, we got rid of that. We'd each have our own chain of mountains.

Blink.

I feel proud to say that we work hard for what we have. I feel privileged to say that we have everything we need.

And I really like getting new stuff, too.

But I'm not proud of our use it up, throw it out society. Of the more, more, more mentality that inevitably envelopes our kids.

Unethical? Irresponsible? I think so.

And I think we can make some changes.

I'm not proposing that we buy nothing, but I think it makes sense to think harder about every purchase. Do we need this? Can we use something we already have in a more creative way? Do we have to buy this new, or can we find it second-hand? Can we create a memory or honor a special day by doing something rather than getting/giving something?

Because really, our stuff illustrates stories that have little to do with the solid state.

Play spaces

As we buckled back into the car after visiting friends for a playdate, Eliza, – then a young two – cast us in our roles for the rest of the day: she would "be" the little boy we visited that day, and I should assume the role of his mother. This surprised me somewhat, as Eliza reacted to the friendly advances of her playmate with fear and bewilderment. But she carried this game throughout the day, and as regular playdates continued, Eliza's comfort level around this boy increased visibly. At first, she cringed or cried when he wanted to share her toy; now, she willingly hugs him goodbye. Perhaps simple familiarity produced this change, but I think the pretend play – "being" the little boy – helped her work through her emotions. She processed the past and practiced for the future by playing in the present.

We all need such metaphorical play spaces.

Safe spaces.

Spaces free of criticism and unbounded by standards of convention and perfection.

My notebook is my play space. Here, I can reel in the day's events and emotions; here, I can cast my line into tomorrow's water. Occasionally, I catch something really interesting – a fish with rainbow scales, perhaps – but I also dig up bottom-lurking sludge. Sometimes my line sinks deep; on other days, I only wade in the shallows. Regardless, writing loosely – unfettered by expectations – elucidates pattern in my tides of thought and helps me navigate currents of emotion. I, too, process the past and practice for the future by playing in the present.

What is your play space?

Filling the well

The clock's rhythm blends into the background of the day, ticking me through the day, tocking us through ages and phases. The days slide off the calendar, now lying in a pile on the floor, now the rubble of time's swift avalanche.

And another year arrives.

I'll move through it along paths of household patterns, ruts of daily rhythms.

I'll wash dishes in a never-ending cycle, fold enough laundry to fill an entire department store, and scrub battalions of dirt and germs from every household surface. I'll dust off dirty faces and temper torrential tantrums. I'll make hundreds of meals that are eaten –or rejected – in one eighth of the prep time. I'll read small libraries of picture books and play supporting roles in countless pretend productions. I'll drive hundreds of miles to preschool, parks, playdates. I'll hug, wonder, laugh, skip, dance, explain, cry, roll my eyes, and tear my hair out. I'll love.

I'll kindle passion for this life on some days.

But on other days, I'll dip my bucket deep and draw it up dry.

I'll look into that water far, far below and shout: What's the point?

I'll hear my voice echo back – a lonely sound.

And then I'll fill that well.

I'll set aside this chore to play a game with the kids – I'll pour in laughter and silliness. I'll watch the sun rise and I'll save that sense of possibility in the stillness. I'll call a sister, mother, friend and hang onto that connection even after we hang up. I'll embrace my husband and remember exactly why we started this family. I'll close my eyes, breathe deeply, and know I'm a small part of Something much, much greater.

I'll understand that even seemingly insignificant movements send ripples into this oceanic reality.

And I'll wonder what tidal waves might rise up, leagues from here.

In the making of the bread

Winning bread? Not really my thing right now.

But making it? Yes, I can do that.

I am drawn to the authenticity of the process, especially to the physical work of kneading. In this world of power buttons and touch screens, I find something soul centering about digging into the dough—folding it, pressing it, over and over until it changes in my hands. I am here, now: there are no shortcuts. I can't multitask. The dough roots me in the present moment and yokes my attention to the work of my hands. And I love it when the girls help – we gather around the table, me kneading the main lump, each child working with her own miniature ball. My mind's eye sees this ritual with grown girls – I imagine a gathering space in the making of the bread.

And then there's the transformation – the rising. Left alone, hidden, the dough expands. What a pleasing surprise to peek under the towel to find it doubled in size! Perhaps this is akin to child rearing – we teach daily lessons, which work in the hidden space of a child's heart. One day, I think, we get to glimpse into that warm rising space and discover how kindness and compassion have expanded within them, sole to crown.

Finally, the bread bakes – oh, the aroma! Such a comforting smell – a scent I can pull over my head and snuggle into – the smell of home. It's a smell that signals the end of a deliberate process, one that puts a staple food on our plates. But I don't bake bread often enough: kitchen projects usually fall in the chore category for me (oh, the extra dishes!). Instead, we opt for the convenience and regularity of the store bought loaf, though there's nothing special about it – it's a mere vehicle for peanut butter. But this week, I plan to bake a loaf or two. Perhaps I'll turn out inedible bricks, but I will enjoy the process.

Perspective

Its 3a.m. Claire awakens again, complaining of ear pain.

Rather, I should say she protests vehemently against her ear pain. She rallies against it with all the spite she can muster. It hurts.

Bleary eyed, foggy brained, and raw nerved, I try various approaches to assuage her.

Compassion – I know it hurts, sweetie, but the best thing we can do is try to settle down and fall asleep.

Scare tactic – If it's this bad, maybe I should take you to the hospital.

Pleading – Can you please just try to relax? You'll wake your sister…

Reasoning – You know what? There is a small country called Haiti where a big earthquake knocked down a lot of buildings. Many people are badly hurt and have no homes or food. I know you are in pain, but there are a lot of people suffering even more right now.


 
I know.


 
Who says something like this to a 5-year-old at 3 a.m.? Late night lessons in the human condition?

Like I said, my nerves were raw. I was doing my best.

But I can't get Haiti out of my head. It seems like something out of one of those Armageddon movies – a massive scale natural disaster, hitting the center of a populous city where the poorest of people's lives are made many magnitudes more difficult.

But it's real.

And it's so far from me.

My roof stands solidly above my head. My loved ones lay tucked safely in their beds. I feel fairly certain that tomorrow will bring no horror worse than isolated tantrums and scattered sibling spats.

But still, daily I inflate my petty problems into gigantic bubble gum balloons, which occasionally pop and cover me in a thin, sticky film.

I didn't get one SINGLE second to myself today. This house is so MESSY! Why won't this baby nap? These kids eat nothing but junk. I'm SICK of picking up toys. What are we going to have for dinner? Please, please, for five minutes, just be QUIET!

Gummed up and weighted down, I trap myself in my microcosm.

Haiti reminds me that I have no right to live like this.

My blessings are abundant and apparent. I should spend my days counting them – wrapping myself up in them – not allowing every irritation to march right under my skin.

Because I can think of no better way to thank my God for this beautiful, crazy life than to be happy.

piecemeal spirituality

I used to live within the box of religion, but it leaked. My questions and doubts burned holes in those walls, and I spilled forth. My spirituality pooled in an ocean, a deep frontier alive with currents and tides, and I fished some tools from these waters that help me seek the divine.

***

The dog is my meditation cushion
Happy noise and busy chaos chase quiet moments from my house – even the bathroom is no “restroom” with three children in my care. Walking the dog is my get out of the house guilt free card. Leash in hand, I don my coat and shrug the day from my shoulders. Bounding ahead, the dog sniffs the ground hound-style with all her energy. I walk briskly behind, my mind churning through all the mental debris caught in the creases of the day. After some time, the dusty, swirling cloud rises above me. I tune into the crunch-crunch of my footfalls and the circular motion of my breath. I meet my inner hush. I am.

Yoga is my prayer shawl.
In the daily grind, tasks and plans yoke my mind to a spinning wheel. I see the ground in front of me and nothing more. I forget to lift my eyes heavenward; I forget to see the divine within everything. When I have time to practice yoga, the movements usher my mind into a sacred space of stillness. I find this breath, releasing thoughts of the past and future. Lightened, I can lift my heart, my soul, my entire Self towards God. I give thanks.

My children are my holy book.
Each day is a page upon which interactions with my children write their lessons. Tantrums train patience and compassion. Watchful eyes and ears instruct my own self respect. Night wakings reinforce selflessness. Easy smiles find happiness in simple things. Exuberant energy and uncapped silliness advise me in the art of lightening up. Bottomless needs, often met so simply, elucidate a love unbounded by conditions. My children are my daily devotions.

My husband is my faith community.
Loneliness darkens the world; solidarity kindles light. On any truth-seeking journey, we step more steadily on a path illuminated by love. My husband is my community of hope, my candle of reason. He advises without judgment, helps without preconditions, forgives without hesitation, loves without boundaries. And although he probably wouldn’t give it any kind of name, the divine lights him from within. His light strengthens mine.

***

So while my spirituality can’t be held by any shape right now, it grows. And I believe God loves a messy, leaky faith, too. So long as it’s not watered down.

painting

White kitchen walls glared at us when we first moved in our house. Because we didn't have time to remove the carpet in the kitchen (!) right away, we thought perhaps a coat of paint could offer at least something pleasing to the eye.

But the yellow was a mistake.

I always wanted a yellow kitchen -- I could bake sunny foods and laugh in a yellow kitchen -- and  luck sided with me when I found an "oops" paint in yellow at nine dollars for the gallon. Never mind that the actual color shouted many decibels louder than the soft hum I envisioned.
 
We lived with a yellow jersey kitchen for nearly a year.

Which clashed loudly with the dirty brown carpet.

At first, I tried to force myself to like it. I did some meaningful baking, and we laughed quite a bit. But the color wouldn't be quiet.

Now, it's muffled by two thick layers of cream colored paint. The room seems satisfied.

If only moving forward could be as easy as a paint application. If only we could use a roller and a brush to muffle the noise of self destructive thought.

I would paint confidence over doubt.

I would paint ambition over the ruts.

I would paint patience over frustration.

And my walls would house the center of peace.

walking

I just have to stop and walk for a second.

Defeated.

The pain -- which was supposed to strengthen -- felt like strangulation. I would run farther, in a moment. But, oh, the bliss of slower steps and even breathing!


***


I'll get off here and walk the rest.

Independent.

The bus could deliver me to the door, but I would walk the last couple miles. I was on my own in the world, finally, putting one foot in front of the other. Even when the snot froze inside my nose.


***

I'm going to take the dog for a walk.

Liberated.


I left behind a pile of dishes, a crying baby, two children bouncing off the walls, and the most supportive husband who ever kicked his wife out the door for some much needed breathing space. I would go back inside after I walked off the day's chaos and regained my sense of self.

maternal guilt

My womb swells.

Not with new life -- no, my cells wrung out the last of that birth blood (for the third time) months ago now.

I am heavy not with child, but with a special brand of guilt nursed by mothers everywhere.

Or maybe it's just me.

It's the guilt whispers, you should be doing more, then  nags, you're doing it wrong. It's the guilt that yokes me to the dishes then pushes me to spend more time playing with the kids. It's the guilt that tags along whenever I leave the house alone and berates me for feeling anything less than joy in my children's presence.

It's a guilt self-imposed, but I don't remember swallowing that particular watermelon seed.

If this guilt weighs on me now, when my children are very young, how much heavier will I feel as their lives unfold? Will my mind always trace their missteps back to my mothering?

I crave the lightness of a newly emptied womb.

I long to leave a legacy of confidence.

I want my daughters to learn to live in the present, explore the edges of their limits, and step with grace across those borders.

When the Voice of Guilt whispers in their ears, I want to teach them to bellow their replies. To use choice words if they have to.

Because -- fuck it-- life is too short to walk weighted down. We were born to soar.