Through the Feet

I was struggling with something called anticipitory nausea.  Its a thing.  Maybe you have had it.  This is how it rolled out for me: when a thought of the hospital; the infusion room; a smell would come into my mind I would get nauseous.  I knew it had gotten a little out of control when I was driving down a country road and a nurse (with whom I had had such lovely conversations and was so grateful for) came into my head and I thought I was going to vomit out my car window.

So I brought it to my therapist.  (side note: I don't usually give direct instructions, but here is one: never ever feel ashamed to seek out, visit, call a therapist.  For anything.  These people are rare gems.)  After some tears, she invited me to get in touch with the nausea in my body.  At first I resisted, but I knew I wanted to work with this feeling.  I was still in the middle of the forest after all and I wanted to be free of this added burden and, because I could see in technicolor the direct link between the mind and body with this one, I went for it.  So I got in touch.  It began in my belly.  Uppp, then it kind of moved around to my back.  Oh, there is my sacrum.  Feel it there.  She asked me to see if it had any quality or color to it.  All that I could come up with was that it felt like weakness.  Did it move?  It sure did.  Right up into my sternum and into my arms.  Weakness.  Fragility.  Yuck.

And then, and I can't even remember how we got to this, but I thought, "well, I think I can have it travel down my legs instead.  Down my legs and out my feet perhaps."

I could picture myself standing to help with the downward movement.  We both got excited about this and she affirmed that this seemed like a good direction because the legs are strong and have much more muscle to tolerate this kind of feeling.  And for me it felt like the feet were open to having this feeling move right through them and out into the receiving ground.  And the ground, as forgiving and generous and vast as it is, would hardly even notice.

So I left the office lighter and with the hope that comes with revived purpose of practice.  I started visualizing grounding yoga poses and consulted with some yoga friends.  Their language supported my practice which was more often in my mind than on an actual mat.  And, of course, I practiced when the thoughts came.  Thoughts are so sneaky; how you can be at the kitchen sink and although you are smelling lavender dish soap, the thought/smell of rubbing alcohol comes into your mind and BOOM!  But now it was an opportunity to practice.

Then the big day came when I actually had to practice right there at the hospital.  My mantra became: through the feet; through the feet.  I stood instead of sitting in the waiting rooms.  I repeated the mantra.  And I can't tell you that I didn't have any nausea bubble up, but I had the confidence that comes from some sense of control.  I knew that I could redirect the feeling if I needed to and it would pass more quickly.  And oh how grateful I felt for my dear legs and feet.  In some sense, I had become disconnected from these parts of my body through this; so much emphasis on healing my chest and arm.

Through this winding journey of discomfort, I began to link my body back together.

A Poem for You, Sweet Ellie

It is quite a miracle to become an aunt and I was blessed to become one again this week.  The birth of Elisabeth Gail Tobin and the great journey that her beloved parents went on to bring her into this world have inspired great love and, yes, poetry.

Here is your poem, sweet Ellie.  Your very own "Dear One."  I love your heart and soul; your toes and your nose.

Dear One,

Last night

I gazed

At the

Opening clouds

With awe

And I

Sensed your

Coming into

The world

And my

Whole being

Was abuzz

With delight

Oh, sweet

Child - what

A gift

You already

Are to

This world -

Your presence

Inspiring a

Deeper opening

For us

All.  

If You Let Your Mom....

Orally composed in my kitchen last Friday night.

If you let your mom go to the bathroom...

She may just take a shower.  

If she takes a shower....

She may just put on her pajamas.  

If she puts her pajamas on....

She may just go to bed.  

The End.

(This all happened except for the "going to bed" part.  Next time.)

Have you read, "If You Give A Mouse a Cookie" or "If You Give A Moose A Muffin"?

The Sound of Wild Geese

This just happened:

Sitting upstairs.

Meditation session complete.

I take a glorious sip of tea.

Still hot.

A reward?

I think to myself, "this moment; savior it.  a gift."

Simultaneously, I hear a wining sound and instantly think it is my one year old.

Awake.

And my mind:

"why is she awake?  she shouldn't be awake.  She hasn't slept long enough.  what about the other things I was going to do?  Well, that is too bad that I am thinking negatively about my daughter being awake.  Second arrow...."

I look up.

Two wild geese fly by.

Honking in chaotic unison and delight.

One and Worry

Yesterday, I took Blair to her one year doctor's appointment.  Although the assumption may be that I had this down pat the third time around, I still struggled with holding her in one arm and finding a clean diaper in my overloaded diaper bag with the other.  I still stared at the weight and height chart, trying to make sense of it all wondering if she was, "ok."  My body temperature still rose significantly when they told me she had to have three shots.  Oh, and also a finger prick to test for lead since I have absolutely no idea when the house where we reside was built.  I still felt like I might vomit all over the doctor (and extra nurse that they had to bring in due to the unexpected strength and resistance of this little 19 pounder) when I had to look into my daughter's eyes as they held her down and pierced her skin (three times) knowing that this is one of her first true encounters with suffering.  A story came to mind that I read lately.  Some people training in compassion focus on this image: a mother who has lost her arms watching her baby float down the river.  Vomit.  Compassion.  And I did think of all of the mothers the world over who watch their children suffer in much lengthier and grave circumstances.

Amidst all of this while holding a very unhappy strong little person, the doctor started asking me questions: is she saying words?  Not really.  Sounds, yes.  But not words.  Does she know what you are talking about, like for example when you say you have to bring something to the trash?  I'm not sure.  Maybe?  I really don't know....  But does she say baabaa or daadaa or mommamomma?  I guess.  Sort of.  Not really....

You catch the drift.

And there I sat.  In the doctor's office with a poopy diaper in my hand thinking, well, I guess this is what people mean when they say time goes fast.  I wanted to shout to the doctor, "she is just a baby!  Give her a break!"  And I literally felt like my baby that I was holding in my arms was all of a sudden a toddler and I wasn't quite sure what to do.

Worry invaded my heart and throughout the rest of the day I was trying to get her to say words and follow my directions about trash cans.  I was even trying to teach her manners at the dinner table.  I took to recruiting my five year old to aid me in this direction (which, of course, she took very seriously, "ok, Mom.  I will.  What do you want me to teach her?")

And then this morning, as I watched my one year old dance in the bathtub to "Give Love" (awesome song by the way!  Download it!) with a huge grin on her baby/toddler face, I had this thought: when we allow worry about another being to come into our heart it inevitably blockades authenticity because we are looking to that other person to either validate or eradicate our worry.  So I dropped the worry.  And I danced with my two littles in the bathroom.  Phew.

Nothing Is Hidden

Just this morning, I stole 17 minutes from the day to sneak into the cafe, drink a small cup and pull out my journal.  As I nestled in, (with my coat still on...a total time saver) get set up with pen and paper, I let the thoughts roll out.  And as I was reflecting through the pen about feeding my nine month old (the gift of four feeding times a day feels nearly essential with the third child; otherwise I am not sure I would ever pick her up off the floor!  This forces us, thank God, to snuggle in and be quiet together.)  And as I was scribing this out, an image flashed into my mind and here I will try to paint it:

Francesca (5) and I are standing at the ridge of our driveway.  Also a quiet time (especially on Tuesdays when Abby, our mother's helper, is inside with the other two.)  Just us, waiting for the sound of the bus.  We live, you see, on a long and quiet road and have become quite good at distinguishing the sound of the bus from all other sounds.  And I have already kissed her goodbye and told her to have a good day (we started doing this on day one of the bus because I wasn't sure when the bus would roll up and didn't want this "goodbye" to be rushed or, worse, missed altogether.)  And, on this particular morning, I was standing with one leg in front, kind of resting back into my other leg.  A stance, you could say.  And I watched Francesca so keenly in this moment perhaps because there was nothing around us but cold quiet and a shared waiting and I saw her take her time to model my said stance.  Left leg in front and the weight shifted slightly to the back leg.  Man, did it hit me again: the simple, core realization that our children model what we do.  They model what we say.  They model who we are.  

At times this same realization has brought me to my knees in tears.  Times when I have acted or spoke in such a way that I would not want to be modeled.  Times when I have not paused between a behavior and my own reaction to this behavior.  And each one of these times, this knowledge that our actions are not only watched but undoubtedly repeated in some manifestation, has been the second arrow that has been difficult to shake.  

But this time, I saw the simple beauty in this mirroring.  I saw my daughter open and me, well, as myself.  Standing in the silence.  

A Walk in the Woods

This is my recent challenge: how do I get out of the house with my 2.5 year old and 8 month old?  It seems that in our house someone is either sleeping or eating and that can make it feel like there is room for little else (other than cleaning.)  But I know how good it is to get out of the house.  How vital.  For all three of us.  The fresh air.  The movement of the body.  The space.  The natural beauty.  So today I decided to just exit our back door.  Not pack any snacks (with the exception of a little nut pack that Lilian carried in none other than a toddler size bunny purse); no diapers or wipes; no big car that we have to get in and out of.

Lilian is used to taking this walk with Matt, but she typically rides in the backpack.  I prepared her, saying that Blair had to ride in the ergo and she finished my sentence, "because she can't walk yet?"  Yes, because she can't walk yet.  And we started out.  And oh, the air.  And the sounds.  I could feel Blair take a nice big sigh; you know the one.  And Lilian had a hop in her step and quickly found a tiny mushroom and an acorn.  I imagined what the world must look like to her; all of the tiny miracles of nature so close to her.  Besides the tiny mushroom, she found tiny berries and ferns and sticks and a cracked acorn.  I knew we probably wouldn't make it all the way to the creak, but I didn't know this would happen: "Mommy, I have a poopy."

"Ok," I replied.  "Let's head back."  And I could feel myself tighten just a bit.  I turned into slow motion survival mode and noticed how much I began rushing Lilian back home; as if something terrible was going to happen to her if she had the dirty diaper on for more than five minutes.  And in this moment of urging on, "come on Lilian" as she discovered yet anther tiny miracle, I realized how often I do this with my children; push them on to the next thing.  "Great, you are dressed!  Now put your clothes in the hamper!...or, great, we have walked in the woods, now let's get home for lunch!"  On and on.  And I know all of this is important: the routine; the responsibility that I am working on teaching, yada yada.  But I wonder if I can drop some of this more often.  Leave it at the door.  And exist, even just for a little while, in their time zone or, rather, be beyond time.  I wonder if I can walk in the woods without an agenda.

Anyway, we did get home and changed the diapers and all felt good from the glorious fresh air.