The Body Is A Miracle

Just a note that this blog post was perfectly constructed.
At 3:30am.
In my head, that is.

Part of me is scared to write.
What is this fear?
A fear of not having the words;
a fear of not having enough time to finish (and just as I write this, a little one wakes);
a fear of the nagging that I should be doing something else.

But enough clearing.
On with my story of why the body is a miracle...here goes...

The day before I went into labor I reached out to a friend.  I wrote something like, "I am not feeling well and am scared that I wont have the strength to give birth."  She responded, as I undoubtedly knew she would, "Oh no.  You can't lose your strength.  That can't happen."  I must have known that I needed this extra kick.

So I woke the morning that I ended up giving birth with a determination to build my strength.  Fortunately, I knew what to do.  After I made breakfast, played with the girls, cleaned, took a shower, made lunch, prepared snack, drove Francesca to school and put Lilian down for a nap, I promptly went to my room.  I even delayed lunch so that I could do the necessary work of building my strength.  And this is what I did:

I went straight to my yoga mat.  I had been going there once a day for a month (I had to really lower my expectation of what "going to my yoga mat" meant because I knew the extreme importance of it.  I constructed a brief, strength based practice that concluded with a three minute movement meditation and a 3 minute mudra meditation) but on this day the power that I felt from my practice was intense.  I did more strong, deep goddesses; my arms moved with a power that came from a deep place; I held my warriors....I let my body lead the way.  I was focused in my meditation and when I was through I went directly to my bed.

I laid down and allowed my body/mind to do the work.  And this is what happened; this is the meat of it all.  My mind sent messages to my body to let go. I wish I could remember exactly what it was saying, but I suppose it is not important.  What happened was that my mind, in direct connection with my body, let go.  It let go of being pregnant.  It let go of the sweetness and the challenge and the intimacy and unconditional quality and miracle of pregnancy.  This, right here, was the work.

Four hours later, my first contraction came along.  I was struck, but not surprised, by the power and miracle that is our body.

And here we are.

In Between

Nothing like a newborn to get me writing again!  The first poem I have written in months - to Blair Love . . .

Blair Love Thornton

January 29th, 2015

In Between

You came, 
sweet angel,
in between.

Oh, how glad!

In between
day and night

Oh, how splendid!

In between
white and more white

Oh, glory be!

In between
dreaming and living

Shout it - everyone - 
from the mountaintops!

You came in between
and you, 
sweet angel,
are here.  

Did you know the world is awesome?

This was the question posed to me on our walk to school today.  Our final walk of the year down the sidewalks and dirt paths and past the tennis courts and dogs.  Lots of dogs.  In this simple walk in which Francesca could find a world of fascination and discovery.  Flowers, leaves, birds, squirrels.  Everything new.  Everything brilliant in some way.  And my poor heart some days.  Feeling the rush to get to school on time.  Walking ahead so that she would catch up.  Prompting.  Prodding.  And, yes, noticing.   That is, when my heart could relax.  Or, I suppose, it was my heart telling my brain to relax.

But, I have to say, this morning it was just the perfect walk.  And I am so grateful that I allowed it to be.  When we stepped out into the cool air - a palpable relief from days of high humidity - and Francesca noticed that there were new day lilies blooming in a planter atop our steps, well...it was a good start.  And I had this epiphany (are epiphanies always simple?): this doesn't have to be sad.  This final walk.  This ending.  In fact, it can be the opposite!  I tell you, the freedom I felt in my heart with this realization matched the freshness of the cool morning air.  So I went about all of my steps with a certain lightness as this thought built inside of me: this moment can be happy! 

And so it was.  And our walk was relaxed as we chatted and sang our best going-to-school song from Double H camp ("When you wake up each morning, just look out your window and see there before you a bright new day...").  Lilian ruffed with delight at all of the dogs and Francesca noticed this and that on the path that we have traveled every day for 180 days- still open to something new.  And then she said this: "Mommy?  Did you know that the world is awesome?"  My heart continued to sing as I responded, "and do you know what else?  You make the world even more awesome!"

Perhaps during this times of closure and transition for us adults there is an expectation for sadness.  We anticipate the loss or, perhaps we suddenly feel the weight of the pile of moments where our poor hearts weren't present because of our tireless (albeit helpful) brains.  Jonathan Foust once said that when he looks back on his life, the times that he feels sad about are the times that he "wasn't there."  This morning I felt this lesson in my bones and I am forever grateful.

And I also can't guarantee that by the weekends end that I won't be weeping on our front steps next to the day lilies.

Thank You

Yesterday I took Lilian for a mid-day walk.  Every now and again, I will just take her out sans any modern carrier, stroller or other such contraption.  I just sweep her up in my arms and carry her out.  I love doing this.  The simplicity of it; the toughness of it; the sweet closeness of it - the fact that there is nothing except a couple of thin layers of cloth between us.  I feel like a real mom when I do this and I instantly feel connected to women throughout the ages.

But don't get me wrong.  It is hard work.  It is easy to be romantic about babyhood.  The tiny clothes and sweet, soft skin, even the smell of diapers (Mom.)  But it is hard and rarely if ever glamorous work.  Well, this little angel swept along the path yesterday.  She broke her power walk stride to say this to me just as I was swinging Lilian off of my hip and onto the ground so she could do some practice walking (the polar opposite of power walking), "Well, you don't have a free moment in the day . . . thank you for the work that you are doing."  And she kept on; head held high, slight smile across her glistening face.

I allowed the hot breeze to rush over me in that moment and again I felt connected.  She was thanking me for raising a child; for doing my best everyday to encourage and teach and be there and let go. She reminded me that this short mid-day walk with nothing but my keys and Lilian mattered and was, in fact, enough.  

Good Hard Work

Well, despite my last post, here it is: a picture of the fairy garden (this in its second rendition.)  Oh, the joy that Francesca emits while working on these tiny doors and windows made out popsicle sticks and straws.  It is utterly palpable.  It is as if she is going to jump out of her skin from excitement.  And oh how she listens to her  dad as he explains why and how things are being put together.  During the first making of this fairy home (the first go around was sadly destroyed the night after it was made by a rain and wind storm; talk about a lesson in not grasping!) Francesca exclaimed with the same utter joy, "this is hard work."  Matt replied, "yes, hard work is fun sometimes."

When I was in graduate school we would talk about this concept of flow - you know, when the kid is both challenged and successful.  And we talk about it in terms of athletics and yoga and perhaps even meditation.  To me, Francesca making this fairy garden was a textbook example of this notion of flow . . .this happiness that comes from good hard work.

Concurrently, I was reading My Life in France by Julia Child (read it!) and was so taken with this exact experience that Julia had when she discovered cooking.  The delight that she felt from finding something that she loved so much - good hard work - flew off the page at every turn.

I think about work a lot these days of "not working" (although the work of parenting is often good hard work) and this is all that I could want for myself, my children, all the people of the world: that they are absorbed by whatever it is that they are doing and are more often than not able to feel that flow.  And if not, well, go make a fairy garden.

Photograsp

I have had this idea mulling around for some time: that taking pictures takes me away from the moment itself.  Even just the knowledge that I can take a picture at any time and send it off in a blink separates me from the experience.  And so this is what I wonder: is my 24 hour access to picture taking and picture sharing a slippery slope to grasping - in each picture am I holding on to something?  Trying to preserve it for another time or another place or, more frequently, trying to transport my experience to someone else?  I don't know the answer to this question.  But this is what I am trying: I am not taking pictures at all this week.  Under no circumstances will I flip my camera up on my iphone or even take out my dusty cannon sure shot.  One week.

I made this decision last night as Matt and Francesca were making the most adorable fairy door and window I have ever laid my eyes on.  It almost felt like instinct (like the same instinct that I feel to drink water or go to the bathroom) to grab my phone and shoot.  I had a list of people I would share it with.  But I stuck to my rule and once I embraced it, I have to say, I felt this freedom inside of me.  I took Lilian outside when the fairy door team was securing the door onto the tree and I had nothing but her and my keys.  We walked around the block to the coveted cherry blossom tree on Newport Street.  I looked into her eyes as she looked up into the blossoms.  I looked up into the blossoms myself and I saw them with eyes that felt clear and full.  We walked slowly and intentionally and noticed the purple flowers and listened to the robins sing.  I am sure I would have done all of this if I also had my phone in my back pocket, but what I am not sure about is the clarity of my presence.  I felt like I was there.  Just with Lilian.  Just with the flowers and birds.  I saw Francesca wave to me from down the street and felt joy in my step as I moved towards her.

I know I will return to taking pictures as their value in capturing moments and spreading joy is amazing; I just don't want the camera/phone to become the master of my experience.

Leaning Forward

One of my wise sister-in-laws said this, "if we lean forward too much, the rug of gratitude comes out from under us."  Speak it, Sister.

The truth of this has hit me over the head multiple times in the past few weeks as I "lean forward" into what is next - job, home, family, travel, passion, work, path.  Fortunately, with this thought in my head, I can actually feel the rug slipping out from under me when I am leaning just a little bit too far.  And I stop.  I sit down.  In the mess.  In the moment.  And I scoot back into the present.

Thankfully, besides these wise words, I have two little buddhas running (or scooting) around my home demanding presence amidst their almost constant activity.  My three year old asks me to sit on the couch with her when she wakes up in the morning, "come sit with me," she beckons.  I follow her directions these days rather than making up excuses about lunch-making, coffee drinking, showering.  My one year old tugs on my pants in the kitchen, asking me to pick her up.  To look at her face.  To teach her something or to just be together in this moment, whatever it is: cooking bacon; cleaning the floor; folding the laundry.  I head her directions as well and gaze.  And gratitude naturally fills my body from my eyes to my toes.

So, here are some of the things that I am grateful for these days:
* soft breathing in my ear.  Anytime of day.
*  holding your hand in the middle of the night; knowing that I am not alone.
*  sitting on the couch.  Reading a book.  Or not.  Your body snuzzled into mine.
*  the girls running (scooting) when the door opens and you appear.
*  laughter.
*  all of the time that I get to spend in the bathroom.
*  walking to school and saying hi to the robins.
*  how you ruff and rub your belly (not at the same time.)
*  quiet dinner with Matt.
*  how excited you get about almost anything.
*  dancing.
*  the spaces in between....

And what is it that you are grateful for?  Today?  Right now?