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?

Outdated

Oh, dear blog.  How I have missed you.  I am not one for excuses, but life has felt a little messy lately.  Literally.  The floor is messy and mushy.  Our sleep is messy and unpredictable.  My writing - messy and inconsistent.  And oh, the laundry!  Messy.  And so, amidst this messiness, I have not found room for you.  And part of me  - an old part of me - wants to feel guilty.  It beckons, "come on!  Let's feel guilty!  We know what guilt looks like and feels like."  This guilt is like an old, ratty sweater.  I used to keep old, ratty sweaters.  Now I throw them away.  And this too I will do with my guilt.  It is not a good protector from the elements and, as the Dali Lama so aptly put it, "it is outdated."

Lilian Hope

Pilgrim strength

Echoes in the walls of your mother

As she steps forward

Into the wind

With freedom and hope

At her feet

 

The sweetness

That flows forward

Is as unutterable

As love itself

 

One can

Only breathe you in,

Your fragrance

Lingering for centuries

To come

Stop. Look. Go.

Stop. 
Sit.
Stand.
Kneel.
Bow.
Rest.
Lay down. 
Stop. 


Look.
Inward.
Outward.
At what is directly in front of you.
At what is directly in you. 
At the child.
At the breath.
At the snow.
At the mind.
At the food.
At the body.
Look.


Go.
Move forward.
Move inward.
Into the next moment.
It is a gift too.
How will you use it? 
Go.


This reflection was inspired by NPR: TED Radio Hour Podcast - Simply Happy (check it out at: http://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/267185371/simply-happy.)  The final guest, David Steindl-Rast, taught the simplest gratitude practice: Stop.  Look.  Go (he connects it to children learning to cross the street.)  I have been practicing it the past couple of days and it has helped me notice certain things that I might have otherwise flown by in the time crunch trance that being the parent of young children seems to often put me in (another blog post all together):


*  In the narrow window of opportunity that I had to prepare the girls' room for bed, I came across six or seven dolls and stuffed animals neatly tucked into burp clothes at the foot of Francesca's bed.  Please, come into my mind knowing that these thoughts occurred in the slices of seconds that Olympic skiiers win races by: "oh, so this is what she was doing when she was supposed to be napping" (note agitation).  Stop.  Look.  Enter again, "the sweetness and care and thoughtfulness that Francesca took to neatly tuck all of these animals into their imaginary beds.  And I get to bear witness to this world?!  I do hope that Francesca feels as cared for as these little animals."  Don't get me wrong, I still moved fast to get the bed ready, but my negative thoughts where arrested by stopping and looking.  And then I was able to go, to move forward, with more lightness and perhaps even an inch more of joy. 


*  Last night, Lilian was having a hard time going to sleep which is unusual (I am noticing a pattern that many of the stories of early parenthood involve bedtime.)  She was crying that sad, pitiful cry that says something like, "please, dear God, can I just go back in the womb for a few minutes?"  I wont go into the minutia of how the bedtime routine goes, but it is important to note that Lilian goes down first and then Francesca is tiptoed in and whispered a song.  Well, this wasn't going so well.  I tried a variety of things and somehow I ended up on the floor by Francesca's feet that were hanging off of the couch.  I stopped.  I looked up.  I could hear Lilian's cries that were slowing and looked at Francesca's face from a different vantage point.  She was "reading" a beloved book; quietly looking at the pictures and turning the pages.  She looked so little and sweet and the moment was so calm despite the thrownoffness of it all.  And in this stopping and this looking I fell in love with my daughter again in a new way.  And this is what happened next: Lilian's cries stopped and Francesca nestled into my lap for another story.


*  And finally, just this morning I had made a grand plan for myself that included checking my email, cleaning up, and working on various and sundry things (in that order.)  So I did sit down and check my email (and, guiltily, facebook...not part of the plan.)  And then I moved to get up to clean and there, right beside me, was this beautiful window through which I could see huge flakes of falling snow.  I stopped.  And I felt the miracle of snow...we get to witness this?  What a gift.  And then I came here to my desk to share. 


Stop.
Look.
Go.