Slow March Across the Sky

I try to wrap
the sweep of you -

sweet morning
whisps of white -

with words
but give up for
your almost imperceptible
march across the
sky is not

something I want
to miss and as
my words fail I am
thankfully reminded of
the freedom that

comes from
moving slower

than ever
imagined possible.

Stained With Life

Running seems to be a theme for me these days.  Not getting on my running clothes and mapping out a route kind of running, rather perhaps the truest kind of running: running to get somewhere.  Fast. 

My gracious friend gave me tickets to go the Shakespeare Theatre this past Monday to see a tribute poetry reading in honor of Emily Dickinson's birthday.  I was meeting another friend there and I was the possessor of the tickets.  So I ran (I will spare you the details of why but it did involve these things in no particular order: a baby, a toddler and getting myself dressed.)  Oddly, I do not mind these runs these days.  I guess I am in the mindset of efficiency and running certainly is that.  I love the cold air on my cheeks and the boost that comes from slight exercise.  I have to also confess that, although I love my one mile radius of these days, it is energizing to push myself outside of this bubble no matter the effort needed.  After my run, I rested on the metro (I imagine I will always hold public transportation very dear in my heart; thank you NYC.)  And stepping off the escalator at Capitol South, I felt like a kid visiting Washington D.C. for the first time in awe of the majestic buildings so thoughtfully designed with quotes and statues everywhere you turn.

My friend (who has twin babies at home) and I found our seats in the small, woody theatre and settled in and once again I felt like a child of wonder.  It was as if I had never been to the theatre before; I guess this appreciation and awe are the gifts of deprivation. 

Instead of trying to understand every word and stanza and analysis of the tribute, I allowed myself to be immersed in the words and the experience and the passion of the poets and writers.  Instead of chiding myself for not knowing more about Dickinson, I allowed myself to swim in her language.  I am not sure if this was growth or exhaustion, but it doesn't matter.  It was lovely to be free of trying and to just allow.  And again, these things that we strive towards for years sneak up on us in the most unusual of circumstances; not on the yoga mat or in the church (although the may happen there too), but running through the streets or sitting in an old theatre. 

The moderator of the event mentioned a new book of Emily Dickinson's poetry - all facsimiles of her original writing on the backs of lists and receipts and recipes.  She called these scraps "stained with life."  And oh, how I love language.  And the stains of my own life. 

Collect Love

Loud cries. 
Startled waking. 
Little body.
Big soul.
Our feelings matched:
tired and helpless. 

My deepest fears
shine brightest
in the dark night distilled -
fear of judgment
and fear of my exhausted self. 

And what to do?
Fear of judgment; easy:
silence (ironically, here I am
talking to you.)

Fear of self - oh, wow.
Here we are.
Again.

Here is what I am trying:
a hybrid of two phrases -
"Collect yourself" (a common
one in our house these days) and
"love yourself" (what I know as
the golden key) =
"Collect Love."

Collect Love in the
sticky, icky moments when
turning against myself seems so easy.

Yes - here - in the messiness
the love that I can collect for myself
like coins on the bottom of Ganges River
is the most potent of all.

Cookie Happy

I have always liked the idea of being a baker.  Well, maybe not a baker, but someone who bakes.  Who knows how to bake.  Who enjoys baking.  And not from a box (that, I have been doing for years.)

It seemed so, I don't know, wholesome.  The simple ingredients; the smell of the house; the warm kitchen; the gift of a delectable treat that you know someone spent time making.  I often found myself looking on with awe to others who found joy in baking and I thought that maybe if I stood close enough their joy would rub off on me.  But, lo and behold, it doesn't seem to happen that way.  Yes - their joy was contagious, but their joy for baking, not so much.

And then a couple of Mondays ago, while doing my weekly planning (yes, this actually keeps me stay sane) I had an idea to give myself jobs for each day of the week - one having to do with maintaining the household and one having to do with, well, not the household.  These jobs would be non-negotiables each week and they would just enter into my weekly planning.  You see for me it is important for me to have jobs when I don't have a "job."  It gives me purpose and a sense of accomplishment all of which contribute to my overall happiness.  I was having fun with this list (who doesn't love a good list!): Monday - High Priority Clean and Yoga; Tuesday - Grocery shop and blog . . . you see how the list goes.  And then I got to Friday and I wrote BAKE.  And that's all that I needed - to sneak up behind myself and make it an expectation that I would bake. 

Well, I broke my own rule and baked on a Tuesday night.  The girls were in bed (I decided I could only do "box" baking with them at this stage in their lives and, lets not kid ourselves, at this stage in my life of becoming a joyful baker!) and Matt was working late.  I had done myself the fortuitous favor of printing the recipe and getting all of the ingredients together mid-day (a fun activity to do with an 8 month old) so there was no escaping myself; no turning back.  I turned on the radio and began.  And do you know what??  I had fun!  It was a relief to follow someone else's instructions at the end of the day and to have the kitchen to myself.  I listened to the news and baked into my own new joy!

And then it got even better!  Matt got home from work and had a warm cookie.  He was so happy!  The next day, we brought cookies to Francesca's teachers.  They were so happy!  On Friday, we brought cookies to friends who just had a new baby.  Happiness for all!  And the very next day we brought the last of the cookies to a playdate with twins.  Happiness quadrupled! 

And I realized that this is perhaps why people love baking so much.  Not just for the process, but the joy of giving it all away. 

My Prayer

Like soft waves
at dawn
you move
swiftly, calmly
across my window
of sky;

the same sky
blanketing the
other side of
the world where
people are just
tucking in

to sleep and
for some you
are their only blanket
and their hunger
rages but they close
their eyes for one relief.

Will you be
my prayer?
On the backs
of your cloud waves
will you carry
love to them

as they tuck
into you for
the night?
Please, dear
sky, will you
be my prayer?

Pilgrim

"I am a pilgrim on the path of love."

~Swami Kripalu

 

 

I kept trying to do one more thing to help before I left.

 

I will get some clean pajamas for Lilian . . . 

Let me just wash one more dish . . .

and this, just this one more toy . . .

 

Finally, Matt said, "you gotta go.  You are going to miss your class."  Basically he was saying, kindly, "Snap.  Out.  Of.  It.  And leave!"  Thank God for these words; for this push.

 

 

I kissed heads, ran down the stairs and after glancing at my watch realized I might be late indeed.  If there is one thing that makes my stomach churn it is being late so I decided to run the ten blocks to the yoga studio.  As I settled into a gentle gait, a quote miraculously showed up in my head: "I am a pilgrim on the path of love."  A smile now accompanied my jog as I loved this surprise discovery by my own mind and I began repeating it over and over, feeling lighter and freer with each utterance. 

 

 

And then I felt my backpack, blissfully bright and light on my back.  Still chanting, I considered this bag which now represented to me proactivity and change  (you see, I had been meaning to exchange my old bag with a broken zipper for years and finally made it happen last month - I did not understand the positive impact that such a seemingly insignificant task could have on my psyche!)   Next, still chanting, I considered all that this bag contained: pens for writing; my "sacred work" notebook which contains all of my ideas, and some napkins in case I ran into any real trouble.  More and more, I felt my pilgrimhood equal to a warrior.  Again, still chanting, I felt my yoga mat; perhaps the greatest tool for self discovery next to that of a pen.  I felt my new coat and gloves; the only material items that I hade visualized gaining this season.  And there they were, already apart of me.  Chanting still, I moved outside of my own boundaries and considered Matt at home with the girls; everyone safe and happy.  My smile grew as gratitude continued to enter my heart.  In fact, as I neared the studio, I believe I even laughed out loud. 

 

 

I am a junkie for Swami Kripalu stories and perhaps my favorite one is the simplest: "when people would gather in his presence, at times their tears would pour out from the simplest of words or their laughter was uproarious and contagious."  Although I never got to sit by his feet, I feel as though I experienced just a drop of his presence yesterday as I ran through the streets of D.C. - my own version of a pilgrim on the same path of love. 

Cute Man

Last night I was sitting on the floor drinking a glass of wine in the almost dark as Francesca turned around from her room with this final advice for the day: "Don't forget he's cute.  You should get him a drink." 

Now, I do see where she got the "cute" from . . .this past weekend, Matt and Francesca were laying on the couch together and I was leaving on some sort of "radical self-care" expedition.  Before I left (with the unique blend of excitement and calm that radical self care breeds) I squeezed Matt's cheeks together and said something to the effect of, "look at this cute man.  Do you see this cute man?"  In pure form, Francesca, with delight, requested that I do this three more times before I left.  I happily obliged. 

In terms of the "get him a drink"...well, I am not sure where that comes from but I am just going to take it for what it was: light and funny and, well, cute coming from a three year old. 

It is so easy to get tangled in the web of daily tasks that our home turns into a boardroom with never ending task lists and constant negotiations; no room left for the fun and lift that comes from even the simplest spontaneity.  And we are all exhausted, but for what? 

So sometimes the dishes must remain in the sink and the laundry must remain unfolded to allow the fun to peek through because it is the energy of love and laughter, fun and creativity that make it all worth it.  For all of us. 

The Revolution of Chipping Away

My hopes overflow in the morning.  While I am writing my morning pages, these hopes and plans and ideas bubble out of me.  With each one, I feel a jolt of excitement as I jot it down in the margins of my notebook.  People I want to contact, articles that I want to read and write, gifts that I want to buy, projects that I want to complete, space that I want to create.  In the morning, somewhere inside of me resides a belief - a hope - that I can actually accomplish these tasks.

But so often I cannot.  Perhaps one or two or, often, none at all.

And it is in this narrow space between the morning hopefulness and the inability to accomplish these dreamy tasks that my growth resides.  As I begin to really know myself I have a feeling that in the past I would have felt completely side swiped by the fact that the actions of my day do not even come close to matching the hopefulness of my morning.  Despite a sporadic awareness of disappointment, it seems as though I carry on with a cheery spirit and I chip away.  The things that keep showing eventually get done . . .a little here, a little there. 

And with this I am beginning to understand the freedom that comes from acceptance and it is within that freedom that growth happens and room is created for meaningful action - one chip at a time. 

"Mommy"

I don't know how many times I am called this in a day.  Francesca's calls in the morning: Mommy.  Francesca's calls from the bathroom: Mommy.  Francesca telling me news from school or asking me if she can have a special treat or watch a show.  She uses it in expert 3 year old negotiation strategies and she uses it to say goodnight.  She says it when she asks for a glass of milk or to tell me she can do something by herself.  I say this word too.  I occasionally use it in the 3rd person: "silly Mommy" or when I am trying to teach Lilian my name.  This word is spoken so much that I don't really think about it and although I reflect often about parenting, it wasn't until last week that I felt the "mommyness" of myself. 

Somehow after the kids had been put to bed and the kitchen was cleaned and the toys were put away and the laundry was folded, I garnered just enough energy to look through Francesca's backpack.  In the bright red folder, all crinkly from being stuffed inside a toddler sized backpack, I found a piece of Francesca's schoolwork (above).  Well, bowl me over!  In a flash, I realized that I am a "Mommy."  All of the small actions of each day - the waking up, the breakfast on the table, and yes the negotiations, the hugs and holding hands, the dancing and crying and baths and books read- all of these things add up to being a "Mommy." 

Now, the next question is: what exactly am I doing in the picture?  This time, I am just not going to ask.  I am going to take it for what it is: a message that I am thought of outside of the home and that, yes, I am now and forever will be a "Mommy."

Heart Beat

Cozy on the couch with Matt.
Finally.
Watching a favorite show.
A new definition of divine. 

Baby's cries. 
Gasp of breath. 
Garnering of energy. 
Purpose.
Up. 

Dark room. 
Baby's cries. 
Lift her up.
She melts into my chest.

Swaying back and forth. 
All is quiet except for my heart beat.
Or is it hers? 

I cannot tell.
Oh, beautiful inability to
distinguish myself from her. 

And this is what it must be like
to be her
all of the time. 
No boundaries.
No lines.

Just love.

The Bathroom Wall

The quote on the door reads, "the most important thing you can do for the world is to become the master of your own life."

Under the sink, there is a picture of a majestic forest and an e.e. cummings quote about saying yes to everything. 

Taped onto the mirror is a quote that reads, "you have plenty of time."

Oh, and above the washer/dryer is a beautiful painting with the words "find joy."  This from my sister-in-law; a person who is always finding joy in the spaces between.

Magnetized onto the dryer is a passage from Swami Kripalu about replacing negative thoughts with positive thoughts and also a prayer of loving kindness (may you be happy . . . may you be healthy . . .may you be free . . .) 

Next to the light is a cut out from a magazine that says, "positive thought" and next to that is a print out of my mission statement that I wrote last year. 

Welcome to my bathroom; the most sacred space in our whole place. 

And just last week I added something that is perhaps the most helpful yet.  I have a certain structure to my writing practice each morning that ends with writing three things that I want to accomplish and my intention for the day.  I have also added on a gratitude focus (often connected to my intention.)  I would remember my intention randomly once or twice during the day, but I wanted to sew it more deeply into my day.  So, inspired by The Happiness Project, I made an intention chart and hung it on my bathroom wall (see above.) 

I don't know whether it is the act of writing the intention again in my home, or physically having it there every time I wash my hands, put on my make-up, brush my teeth, wait for my toddler on the potty, but it has really bumped up my intention focus and for this, I am grateful.

Inside Space

I want more space.
Maybe a playroom.
Or even a room of my own! 
To write and do yoga.
Another bathroom. 
That would be good.
And a room for Lilian.
And maybe a shed....

These were occasional fantasies of mine (and, lets not kid ourselves here, sometimes still creep in especially in the moments where we all feel tight in here, our lives overlapping in messy ways - Joe's O's on the family room floor; a baby bathtub rotating between shower floor and bathroom floor; a bike in our living room/dining room/now third bedroom.) 

But one morning as I did my "one thing" at the coffee shop, I felt this spaciousness inside that is absolutely incomparable to a shed or an extra room.  I realized then that through all of my grasping for external space, what I really needed was inside space.  Space to follow the natural flow of things; space to hear and see those things that are so important.  Space to think and write and be.  And space to hear the subtle, sacred heartbeat of my very own path. 

Maybe we will have more external space someday; perhaps even a rooftop yoga/writing space (a girl can dream!)  Perhaps even sooner than we know.  And there will probably still be Joe's O's on the living room floor and probably in the shed too.  But what will really matter is the space inside that grows and is kept clean through a grand mixture of discipline and passion. 

Cosmic Joke

It happens at night when I am singing Lilian the final song of the day.  Usually "Hush Little Baby" (with Mama instead of Papa.)  Often, Francesca accompanies me and rocks a doll or monkey or panda or bunny.  Usually the "baby" is wrapped in some sort of blanket or towel or burp cloth.  The room has just a touch of light so that we can all barely make each other out.  We stand and rock and sing.  And Lilian looks down almost immediately.  The second she catches a glimpse of Francesca, she breaks into the most glorious laughter.  The kind that comes straight from the heart.  The kind that you cannot help but join in on.  The kind that makes you think she must understand some sort of cosmic joke.  Like she is wiser beyond any of us, or at least more enlightened.  And we learn from her through laughter. 

Gratitude as Antidote

I have thought a lot about gratitude over the past few years.  I have read books about it and listened to talks about it.  I have gone through bits and spurts of daily practices of gratitude....I have tried making it part of my morning ritual; I have incorporated it in to my writing practice; I have practiced it while walking, driving, meditating and while practicing yoga.  I often hoped for or expected this welling up; some sort of lovely emotional response connected to my practice of gratitude.  But lo, I have never felt this while "practicing."  And this inability to meet this hidden expectation sometimes stalled my gratitude practice.  But I have always come back to it; my teachers from Tara Brach to my 3 year old daughter keep reminding me that it is good for me; that perhaps above any other practice, it is the best for me; for us.

Just the other night I felt the benefit of my practice that often feels rote and unemotional, but that I plow through every day anyway.  I was up in the middle of the night, a common occurrence for me these days, and I was feeling particularly agitated and could not fall back to sleep (I am astounded by the often negative, fear-ridden quality of my thoughts in the middle of the night.)  I could feel myself trying to escape my own life, and then I got blunt with myself, "well, this is my life right now; this is the only moment that I have.  It is my choice to love it or not."  Thankfully, I chose to love it and recognized that the best way to this was through gratitude practice.  I began right away . . .I am grateful for my husband sleeping next to me; I am grateful for my sleeping children; I am grateful for the food in our refrigerator; I am grateful for our car . . . I think this is as far as I got before I fell into a sweet sleep. 

And so I have this thought: perhaps gratitude is the antidote for agitation?  Even further, perhaps it is a direct pathway from resistance to acceptance.  And perhaps too practicing gratitude is not an emotional experience but instead will allow us, through positivity and acceptance, to be open to a lovely emotional response to a direct experience of life. 

Flip It

A few years ago, Matt and I came up with the term, "flip it" (or maybe we stole it from someone else; I can't remember.)  Regardless, we made it our own.  We brought it to our work places and Matt even made a symbol for "flippin it."  A few colleagues caught on and with some it became a phrase that could be said without need of explanation.  Rather than explain it, I will give some examples from my current day-to-day: 

a.  THOUGHT: "This apartment is small; I have to be so quiet when the girls are napping."
     FLIP IT THOUGHT:  "This apartment is cozy; what a gift that I have to be quiet for certain hours of the day." 
RESULT OF FLIP IT:
Writing.
Meditation. 

b.  THOUGHT:  "Matt has to work late again.  It is so stressful to take care of the girls by myself at night." 
FLIP IT THOUGHT:  "Matt is doing his job; what a gift that I get this time with the girls just on my own." 
RESULT OF FLIP IT:
Noticing moments like this:
**  I am breastfeeding Lilian on the couch before bedtime and Francesca nuzzles up right next to me (mind you, this would probably not happen if Matt was home; I would be in my room feeding Lilian and Francesca would be with Daddy.)  We just sit.  We are quiet.  Francesca eventually rubs Lilian's awesomely bald head.  She looks at me and says, "I love her."  Then she touches Lilian's face and says, "I love you." 

**  Francesca helps me put Lilian to bed.  While I am holding Lilian, she looks down at her big sister and breaks into beautiful laughter.  Then Francesca and I both laugh too.  What a sweet way to go to bed. 

Now, sometimes it is harder for me to flip it than others.  I have been working for about a year on how to flip my thoughts around the chaotic construction that has been going on next door.  Let me know if you have any suggestions!

Write

I love to write.
I mean, I really love to write.
The action of it.
The shadow of my pen.
The changed texture of the backside of a paper that has just been written on.
Oh, and the feel of the pen in my hand.
The ink forming words on a blank page.
Just my hand and the paper; nothing else. 

The other day I missed my morning pages; the time early in the morning when I just write without any expectation or purpose.  I laughed to myself the next morning when I noticed a part of my brain that was disappointed.  What I understood though, or what I felt, was that I missed the writing.  The action of it; the beauty of it and how, really, it is a way for me to be friends with myself.  Good friends.  What I missed was sharing this time with myself in the morning doing something that the whole of me loves. 

What do you do that helps you be friends with yourself?  Where can your mind and soul meet on common ground?  Find it.  Do it.  Every day. 

FAITH

That is what the rock said: FAITH.  The letters thick, bold red outlined in black.  The font, strictly Puffin (what my friend and I call each other; the subject of another entry altogether.)

I hadn't intended to bring the rock, but there it was, waiting for years to move on.   Thank God it called out for me just before I left to see Noel for what would be the last time.

I showed Matt all of the treasures that I was bringing to her: a beautiful card from Kripalu with words of thanks inside (words that seemed so inadequate in expressing the magnitude of our gratitude); a framed picture of Francesca holding her monkey; a few other prints of Francesca and Lilian; this rock. 

And there was Noel.  Beautiful Noel.  Her appearance so shifted; her body so depleted.  her skin, white as snow.  Her head down, sipping water from a straw.  This action symbolizing her will to connect with life.  And then, her voice.  Ah, there was Noel.  Hidden under sickness and layers of hospital fatigue, Noel: "Hey Katie.  How are the girls?"  In and out of consciousness.  "Hey Katie.  Can you do me a favor?"  There was nothing more that I wanted to do than to do Noel a favor.  I got her fresh water with loads of ice.  I helped her take the first sip, feeling like maybe I helped her live just a little longer. 

Again, in and out of consciousness.  And then, somehow, thank God again, I held her hand.  I could not believe the warmth and life and strength in this hand.  She hugged my hand with hers and I waited for her to let go first.  Just before the nurse came in, I took out the rock and I gave it to Noel.  I told her what it said, FAITH.  And do you know what Noel said?  She said this, "you know Katie, I think I remember this rock from your house."  She took this rock from me with determination and she said, "Thank you, Katie.  I am going to hold on to this today."  And she did.  She held that rock so tight. 

There is a certain intimacy that comes from having someone work in your home.  Noel folded our laundry.  She did our dishes.  She changed Francesca's diapers; sat on the couch with her; made her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  She reminded me to clean out my dryer filter and showed me pictures that she had taken of Francesca.  She had keys to our home.  She met Matt in a parking lot one night, swapped the carseat from our car to hers, and drove Francesca home when we were in a desperate situation.  She took Francesca on the bus and she rocked her to sleep. 

I never met Noel out for a drink or even for coffee, although I would have loved to, but I am so grateful that she found her way into all of the corners of our home.  Now I think of her when I throw laundry in the dryer or when I see a city bus.  And, sometimes in those messy moments with Francesca, I think of Noel and her enthusiastic love for her and it stops me in my tracks.  And thank God once again that Noel remains, faithfully continuing to help me be a better person and mom. 

Full of Busy

Parenting toddlers can often feel like business.  Busi - ness.  Busy ness.  Full of busy.

Mid-day, when my toddler is at school and my infant is sleeping, I sometimes fantasize about reading negotiation strategies for business leaders so that I can really hone my parenting skills.  I may even write this grand idea down in my planner, "read book or article about international negotiation strategies . . . " but, when the kids are in bed and the dishes are drying, I often lay down on the floor too exhausted to reflect on even a smidgen of all that just happened.

And if parenting a toddler is like business, the mornings are like the New York Stock Exchange when the morning bell rings - excitement, devastation, shouting, dancing, pushing, focus, chaos all rolled into one little 30 pound stock broker.  Somehow, against all odds, we get her out the door - sometimes her face still wet with tears that there were no yellow gummy bear vitamins left, others her face filled with the light and promise of a new day.  And we walk.  Everything slows down just a bit.  She remembers that she can jump off of steps and proudly shows me.  We hold hands not because we have to anymore, but because it feels good (this is what I like to think at least.)  Sometimes she sings.  Sometimes we talk.  Sometimes it is just quiet.  I cherish these walks in between all of the busy ness. 

Just last Friday, after I got her settled into her mini stock broker chair in her classroom, I gave her a kiss goodbye.  For some reason, just as I got to the door, I looked back and saw her politely ask the teacher for a muffin.  What was it about this minute action that made my heart sink into itself?  Was it pride?  Or was it, again, the nudge to let go?  For, as challenging as these little stoke brokers are at home, they are so very hard to let go of for their sweetness ranks right up there with a chocolate cake eaten to celebrate a big win on the Exchange floor. 

Soft Shell Crab

Today I truly feel my sign - cancer.  But I have molted and am the soft shell kind.  My whole being sensitive to the world around me so much so that watching two middle aged men playing tennis brought me to near tears.  The one guy hit the ball right into the net and I could literally feel his disappointment reverberate through my body.

Dropping my toddler off at school, I crouched down while she used the little potty; again, near tears.  What was it?  Was I noticing how little she still is as she sat on this tiny potty in her new school?  Or how far she has come?  Sometimes I am just trying to get through these things like potty training that I miss the sweet, simple blend of teaching and accomplishment. 

In the past I have wondered about my fate as a crab and have even cursed my particular brand of sensitivity that ebbs and flows with the tides.  Perhaps I saw it as a sign of weakness or, worse, depression.  But now, today, I feel grateful for this temporary raw sensitivity to the world around me and can sense the deep strength that lies directly underneath. 

Behind the Intention

This is the basic structure of my morning pages:
1.  Date

2.  Write free write free write free with no expectation (anywhere from 1-4 pages)

3.  Write: Today I will . . .
list three key things that I want to accomplish (this isn't a typical to-do list, but rather has simple things like meditate (which is on there every day) or laugh with my family or connect with a friend.)

4.  Write: My intention for today is . . .
this has become my daily mantra and serves as my overarching guide for the day.  For example, I may say, "to do one thing at a time" or "to bring gratitude to my actions" or, yes, "to let go" (which, thankfully I now understand.) 

Sometimes as I am writing my intention, if I have a good memory of the day before, I want to look back on what my intention was (or, often I remember it quite clearly.)  And I have even tried this a few times - stolen my own mantra.  But I quickly realized that this does not work; that, as much as I may want to capture the same energy, it is new day with new needs and attention.  What I can do though is pay attention to what resides behind the intention - the essence of it - and how that can continue to inform my spirit and actions.  I can also notice the strength of the foundational bricks that I am laying for which my intentions can be supported and manifested; in short, what is working for me.  Writing in the morning at a coffee shop; the structure that I started this blog entry with; meditating mid-day (sometimes in my bathroom).  Perhaps someday I will be living all of my intentions simultaneously and they will become my essence. 

No expectations.
 

Wonder

I was listening to this podcast the other night (I do a lot of this lately when I am washing the dishes or folding the laundry; I highly recommend it; my favorites are: "Ted Radio Hour" and "This American Life") and a film director was speaking and this is what he said about his most fundamental goal: to give people a sense of wonder.  That, as humans, this is what we all long for and if you fill in too many blanks in movies, we feel unsatisfied; that we actually like to use our minds to put the pieces together.  he then tied this to babies - that this is one reason that we all like to be with babies so much and we often can't take our eyes off of them even though they may not be doing too much.  Because we don't know what they are thinking; we have to fill in the blanks and create a story around their wondrous eyes. 

My gratitude expanded as I recognized the gift of this year; this year of wonder with my baby as my guru.  As my second baby, I am also cognizant of the finite period of time that babyhood actually is; a thin slice of life.  And so, perhaps, I embrace it more fully without too much worry in my heart to bog me down.  And still I am reminded to not get weighed down by the details: the diapers, clothes, schedules, sleep loss (this, undoubtedly the hardest) and remember to look into the eyes of my babe; to look into the eyes of wonder. 

So, if you can, spend some time with a baby.  They are good to have around. 

Day 21

So yesterday was Day 21 (see "I am Happy To Be Alive" post from September 3rd.)  I did not remember this in the morning when I was writing my morning pages at 6am but this is how I began, "I like this day.  I like everything about this day.  The Tuesday.  The September.  The 24.  The 2013.  This is going to be a good day."  (mind you, this is not a typical way that I begin my morning pages.) 

And then, after 45 minutes of writing and a cup of coffee, I went home and my positive spirit expressed in my first words turned to fire.  My energy was so strong (or, as my sweet Matt said, "different") and somehow I immediately got into an odd power struggle with my little three year old, poor dear.  It was about routines and discipline and, although I had an awareness of my crazy energy juxtaposed with my sleepy family, I could not stop.  I will not bore you with the details, but I will tell you this: it was a sad, out-of-control moment.  For my daughter.  For me.  For my husband.  And it came from me.  Yes, there are expectations about routine, yada-yada, but the sad moment - it came from me.  I know this.  I own this.  

You may ask - what in the heck does this have to do with Day 21?  Well, here is what happened next . . .

I scooped my baby (the only one unfazed by this moment) up out of Matt's arms.  I placed her on my hip and marched myself right into my bedroom for my own time out (I have to say, it is nice to have someone with you in time out.)  I gently closed the door and I sat down.  I placed the babe square on my lap.  And I took a breath.  We nestled into our familiar position and the smoke from the fire dissipated.  And I will try right now to express in words the feeling that washed over me, "well, that was a big mess.  And I am happy to be here.  In this sun drenched room.  In this mess.  I am happy to be here."  Oh, breakthrough!  Oh, immediate forgiveness rooted in the practice of self love!  And with this sense, this touching of the true essence of my self, I was able to begin to clean up the mess.  First through processing and investigating what happened.  Then by action. 

I can't tell you for sure that it was my 21 days of practicing this mantra when I wake: "I am happy to be alive" that created this radical shift for me (historically I can be really hard on myself in these messy moments), but I can tell you that it felt good.  That it felt like life.  And growth.  And, yes, truth.  And I can tell you that I am going to keep doing it.  Hello Day 22!

Scattering Seeds of Change

Are the changes that are most profound the ones that we do not force?  Are they the ones that we scatter seeds of over the years sometimes with urgency other times with a gentle push, although mental, and then, one day, we notice how we have changed?  Like the idea of letting go? 

I had thought about and practiced this direction for so many years; I had even given others this direction in my yoga classes: "let go of expectations" or, more simply, "just let go."  It seemed like a good thing to say; a good thing to do even though sometimes I felt annoyed when people would tell me to let go like, "what does that mean?  I don't understand!"  And I would lay on my mat, aware of my frustration.  I thought about this idea in the car on my way to work sometimes too when I was trying to move through a difficult feeling or circumstance.  And therein lay the problem: I was thinking about letting go and often times trying to force myself into a place that I did not yet understand.

And then I experienced it in my body.  I was nine and a half months pregnant with my first child and I was out for a walk.  I was so overdue that the concept of time had been stripped away and I had actually moved beyond expectation.  It was another steamy day but my gentle determination, guided by feeling rather than thought, led me outside.  I walked slowly down the block and I felt it: a loosening in the thousands of muscles wrapped around my enormous belly.  My body and mind in perfect union released her - my daughter - into the world.  A simple freedom filled my heart as I walked home.  About five hours later, I had my first contraction.  And I finally experienced perhaps the most powerful lesson of motherhood that Francesca has continued to teach me: Let Go. 

I like to think that the years of speaking these words, of mulling them over in my mind, of reaching for the feeling on the yoga mat helped prime me for this experience and allowed me to notice it when it happened.  And, if that is the case, perhaps this is the lesson: we have to practice the things that we want like love and letting go and being present so that we can be open and aware of the experience of them when they show up and thus, without really knowing it, change. 

Yoga Poet

 

Last week I met Leah. It was 7:45 in the evening.  It was a Tuesday.  After putting my littlest one down to sleep, I ran to the studio without looking back.  Although I had thought about not going to the class, once I got out the door, I was on a mission.  I climbed the stairs to the new studio.  I saw flowers and a familiar face and a mat on the floor that was calling my name ("here," it said, "come here.")  I listened and settled in. 

 

But back to Leah.  Leah is a Yoga Poet.  I have had the great fortune to meet a few yoga poets in my life, most of them at Kripalu, and it is like nothing else.  For me, it is the blending of these two forms of art/awareness that I love so fully.  Leah's language was concise and thoughtful and beautiful ("your shoulder should be plum over your hip," and "reach out through your radiant fingertips.")  But most of all, her words stemmed from a place of truth and confidence.  I could sense Leah's authenticity almost immediately; I trusted her completely without knowing her at all.

 

And this is when it dawned on me.  Again.  That realization that all that really matters is that I am myself in whatever it is that I am doing - teaching a yoga class, mothering a daughter, working on a grant, talking with my husband.  Authenticity is the only first step. 

 

I have already searched out more yoga classes taught by Leah for this simple, age-old message that we must be ourselves, well, it is good to have role models.  To hear others authenticity and to learn from them because "being ourself" must be practiced.  Like poetry.  Like yoga. 

Peering Through the Window of my Life

There are a two hotels near Bagels, Etc. (where I now get coffee and write every morning): one right next door and one directly across the street.  This makes for some interesting early morning coming and goings.  This morning, I saw a little family packing up to leave the hotel.  The mom and dad passed the little guy - probably about six or seven months old - between them.  It was not quite dawn and he still had his pajamas on.  In the instant I saw the mom holding the baby, I longed for him.  Or for my baby sleeping at home, or another baby altogether.  I longed for baby.

I investigated the feeling as I found it odd to long for something that I already have - full on, six month babe - just a block away.  Since we do spend much of our days together and have hardly been separated in the past six months, I thought it is quite possible that I missed her.  But I also wondered if seeing this baby was a reminder that someday, in the not too far future, I will miss this sweet spot of my life.  And I felt gratitude towards this family as they drove away into the rising sun of the day and I thanked them in my heart for allowing me to peer through the window of my own life and recognize the dream that I am already living. 

Welcoming the Mundane

People have told me:
do the things that makes your heart sing.
that this is brave. 
that this is the key to happiness. 

I would nod at these words that sounded cliché; half believing them.  Until I took a step.  Just one small step; an inch closer to my heart's work.

And freedom is felt.  And by freedom I mean that there is no grasping; no wanting more.  With this brand of freedom, I can be present in my own life.  Reside here for a bit.  Yes - challenges arise and thoughts continue their steady stream (sometimes still raging up onto the banks of the soul), but it is within the life that I am living rather than a life that I am trying to escape from or to.

While I sit, I find my thoughts going to the food that I am going to eat or prepare or Francesca at school or Lilian's nap schedule, but these are all mundane thoughts that circle through my daily life.  Oh, how I welcome the mundane for, right now, the mundane is the precious present. 

A Slow Walk into Wonder

A late afternoon stroll.  Late August in DC - steamy and slow.  A sleeping baby snuggled into my warm chest.  A need to find shade and relative quiet.  Newport Street.  Walking up and down; up and down.  Slowly.  Noticing. 

It was these walks that seemed to happen for a few consecutive days around 5pm that allowed me to open my eyes to the mystery and beauty of the city that I have lived in for seven years.  With the slow walk that is foreign to a city dweller, I soon found myself in awe of the sheer number of people who nestled into just one block of this city street.  People's lives stacked on top of each other; a mishmash of stories. 

I wondered: what is it that draws people to the city?  Is it the undeniable human hunger for connection?  For closeness?  Is it the desire to live amidst the chaos and to have others to share it with?  There are many things in the city that distract us from our humanity and the earth on which we reside, but perhaps it is just this - our common humanity - that pulls us here in the first place. 

"I Am Happy To Be Alive"

I had this thought the other morning: I wonder how much our thoughts right when we wake up, whether it be in the middle of the night or the morning, shape our attitude towards the day and thus our life? 

So this is my experiment for the next 21 days: immediately when I wake up I will think this thought: I am happy to be alive.  I chose this thought because it is simple and it reminds me of my mortality.  It also contains the word "happy" which is really, deep down, what I want to experience each day. 

Do you want to try this too?  What might be your waking thought?

My One Thing

For the past fifteen days or so, I have developed a new morning ritual.  In near silence, I put on my red raincoat, grab my purse and sneak out of my home.  Walking through the alley, I remember about half way to the coffee shop to look up at the sky.  And I breathe.  Grateful.  Remembering the sky, the earth, that I am alive.

I enter the coffee shop.  Now that the ladies know my ritual too, they say, "small coffee?  $1.49."  I pay in change.  I thank them and fill up my cup: half decaf, half regular (typically hazelnut, but sometimes I mix it up.)  I step outside, again noticing the sky (see photo) and take a seat.  I always sit at the same table and in the same chair; I tried to mix it up, but it didn't work.  I realized the power of ritual.  I take out my big journal and my orange pen.  I write the date and then begin.  I write and sip and write and sip.  These are "morning pages" (Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way) so there is the sweet relief that comes from no expectations.  I write, usually in small print, whatever is floating through my mind.  I write as much as I can and then I always end with this: a writing of gratitudes, three things that I can want to accomplish in the day, and an intention.  If time permits, I then take out a second journal: my "Sacred Work Journal."  I work on something connected to my goals and dreams: blog ideas, article or book ideas, workshop ideas, poems.  Then I take my half drunk coffee and head home.  Before I let it catch me, I have caught the day; seized it and set myself on my path with gratitude as strength and work already completed. 

This, right now, is my one thing. 

Sacred Hours

I should be jumping for joy.  Shouting out from the hilltops.  Chanting praise through the morning.  But no.  All I feel is a little slice of sadness coupled by a ting of holding on.  Yes, my five month old slept through the night.  Twice.  Two nights in a row.  Typically I do not speak of these things out loud for various reasons . . .I do not want other parents to worry about their own child and his or her milestones and, I confess, mostly I do not want to jinx it.  Not this.  Not the promise of consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep. 

So why this sadness; this ting?  My husband remarked that it is a milestone and with that a moving on; a tangible growing.  Yes, it is.  And so much more.  It is deep.  Dare I say primal.  This waking with your child in the middle of the night . . . in the beginning, maybe three times, down to two, once.  Waking for this tangible human action that involves the transference of nutrients through skin...love in one of its purest forms.  Sitting or laying silently in the night darkness with this new being who needs you in such a basic way, this time is sacred.  Yes - the effects of cumulative sleep deprivation are astounding, but I would trade this for nothing.

In the complexities of the modern world and all of the millions of ways that we have collectively removed ourselves from our humanity, this is one of the rare things left that binds us and that makes it all worth it. 

Bon Bons

 

One early afternoon, after scarfing down a pre-made turkey sandwich while breastfeeding my infant and negotiating the number of bites of sandwich that my toddler needed to eat, I darted to the kitchen, took down my "tea" box and turned my back from my well fed children.  And do you know what I did (and often do) during this stolen moment?  I ate a piece of chocolate.  It was then, while I stealthily savored my dark chocolate, that I finally understood bon bons.

Yes, mothers did and do eat bon bons (or dark chocolate or M&Ms) but not in the way that the expression goes, "she is just at home eating bon bons."  This expression always conjured up an image for me of a mom lazing on the couch in the mid-afternoon eating a box of bon bons while watching a juicy soap opera.  While that sounds divine, what moms are actually doing is stealing moments to themselves and, for good or for bad, going straight to joy through chocolate.  In a day when they can hardly find time to go to the bathroom, this stolen sweet is a luxury.  For some, it could represent a little piece of freedom; for others, a risky move that gives a quick thrill; for some, it is rebellious move that is empowering; and, for many, it is a tangible moment to the self marked by the taste and smell of something that is only yours.

Turning Outward

Over the past decade or so I have learned many different techniques for turning inward.  Yoga.  Meditation.  Breath work.  Non-focused awareness.  A number of years ago, by going inward frequently, I even found this inner core of my being...this constant, unchanging orb of truth that exists smack in between my belly button and the base of my spine.  My gratitude is immense for my discovery of this source of constant love and well-being and remembering its presence during times of stress can be a life saver.

Which brings me to yesterday.  And the day before.  You see, I have been living with some regret in my heart.  I will not go into the details of why because, really, it doesn't matter.  But this regret is something else.  It completely goes against a common mantra that I adopted after the birth of Lilian, "do not, under any circumstances, turn against yourself."  Regret by its very nature is turning against yourself, especially if it gets out of hand and haunts you in the rare quiet spaces during the day or, worse, the dark hours of the night.  Regret can grow so thick that it can mask any core light that you have discovered and, worse, make you doubt that it was even there in the first place. 

And this is why yesterday, in a desperate attempt to rid myself of this regret, that I turned outward.  I prayed outwardly to the Lord.  Yes, the Lord of my childhood.  I said something simple like, "Lord God, please help me."  I started to feel a little stronger; like I could replace the thoughts of regret with something positive; anything positive.

And then I reached out to a friend.  A simple reaching.  An asking for support over the miles.  And she responded.  And, again, I felt stronger.

As I was rocking my baby to sleep, I grabbed my mala beads; the ones that I bought for myself just before Lilian was born.  I wrapped them around my wrist.  Bam, the strength continued to build slowly replacing the regret with action driven by mounting strength.

Of course, I needed to turn inward in order to know that I  needed to turn outward.  But these outward movements - to the Lord outside of myself, a friend, mala beads-helped clear a space for me where I could, once again, see my core light of strength and stability. 

Daily Mantra

A few years ago, I am not exactly sure when, I started to create daily mantras.  Rather than getting this advice from a friend or a good self-help book, this daily practice emerged from within.  Yes, I have been exposed to mantras through my yoga training and practice and I liked them enough but often the mantras that other people gave to me did not work. Or, they did for awhile, but then lost their stick.  But when I started creating my own mantras, they had some staying power and gradually began to transform my days and, yes, my life.

Like the practice itself, the mantras emerged not from thought, but from quiet.  At the end of a morning stretch and sit (sometimes very brief), the mantra was born.  It was never forced or debated, it just was like a true, good friend.  And perhaps because it came from within, from this sacred space of quiet, I had this ownership that allowed it to stick with me throughout the day.  Sometimes my mantras are short and simple like, "everything is fun," and sometimes they are longer and a bit more demanding like, "do not, under any circumstances, turn against yourself."  Sometimes too they come back around and serve me again and often I lend them to my husband who often excepts them with gratitude. 

I have thought about creating a book of mantras, but I think the more beneficial thing to do would be to recommend that you too find a space of quiet and from that allow your own mantras to be born.