Walking

kiss the air and touch the sky
curling in to say goodbye
rising high before the fall
reaching out to hold it all

our little wave is walking

Lost and Found

You lose something precious. You’re not sure of its value, but it still hurts.

You are standing at the edge of nameless coastline. Miles of sand surround you. Seaweed and stones, sand dollars and shells wash ashore. Uncertain of what you are looking for, you carefully inspect it all.

Nothing is whole. Nothing is broken. Lose the details. Lose them all to find it again.

one year and counting...

"Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look to see who's there."

-Rumi

The After Belly

inspired by Kate Moses

Rocking back and forth on palms and knees without forward movement, she is delighted by a new phenomenon. From a distance, I am curious. What could possibly cause my ten month old speed crawler to stop on her daily exploration of our familiar home? No discovery has ever been this exciting. Not even the introduction of her own hands, her image in the mirror, or new toys.

She watches her twin move and freeze as she does. As I approach her, she smiles at the guest I have invited alongside myself. Her shadow crawls into mine as I feel a sudden flip in my belly. I remind myself that I am no longer pregnant. My daughter lives outside of me now, discovering her own lines and curves, her own movement, enchanted by her ability to share this experience with her new friend.

At this time of day, I usually lower the blinds to prevent the living room from overheating. Instead of walking to the window, I nod to my shadow. Instinctively, we step away from the light. I give birth to my daughter’s identity, as she manipulates light and shadow, and marvels in her body’s miracle between movement and stillness.

I will give birth to many more realizations of her shift towards independence. Each time, my belly will flip in memory of the amniotic sea in which she swam, and the first wave that carried her away.

Asking

I wear my heart like my skin in the winter. I am freezing from the silence of unspoken words between conversations of our children's music talents, health or illness, latest toy interests, teething, walking, etc. My daughter and I attend Music Together classes, and I just joined a playgroup. We sing or converse, as words crawl, walk, and dance to our children's beat. But I am not breathing deeply. Where are the conversations and music about connection and disconnection with our children.? Where is the depth of Motherhood, this ocean in which we are all swimming and drowning?

I long for conversations about the search for stillness, the calm in the eye of the storm that reaches me in the most terrifying and beautiful ways.

My daughter falls from the sofa, hits her head on the hardwood floor, and the sight of her blood stops my own heart from beating in order to save my own blood for her. My daughter crawls and turns her head to look so deeply into me, that her eyes pull my tired self forward to follow and feel weightless in that moment. My daughter's eyes tear when she is drinking her milk. Though I know it's a biological response, it's as if she is crying softly with such tenderness for me as her Mother. When she awakes from her nap, my daughter smiles at me as if I am the only one who can raise her from her prison crib bars.

I am asking the Universe for a Mother/Mothers to share these stories, words and feelings that die in the winter unless they are given sunlight to blossom and enough warmth to blaze in our hearts forever.

My Mother, My Daughter

 

I have been angry at my Mother for some time. I correct her every chance I get. She can't the washer and dryer settings right; she can't turn off the DVD player correctly; she doesn't keep everything perfectly clean.

Never mind that she takes care of my daughter with overwhelming love and precision when I am at work or away. Never mind that she feeds us the spices and sweetness of her soul daily. Never mind that I am an imperfect Mother myself. Never mind the hole in my own heart is deeper than my own ocean of perceived understanding.

My Daughter fills that hole with every look she sends my way. She does not correct my imperfections, but my misplaced expectations. She teaches me that unconditional love is possible again. All I need to do is get down on my hands and needs and follow her lead. She knows where the sewing kit is hidden.

After

the rain is falling
the scent is rising
molecules meet midair

voices singing
Wind believing
she can take us there

Thawing Anger

melting ice against fire
warming a frigid soul
a river flows black to the source

Power

We don't own each other. We don't even own ourselves. We are renting space here, paying ourselves to learn. Learn about power as the generation of love, of trust, of forgiveness within ourselves. Touching others with this knowledge, we become divine.

Hummingbird

wing beating stillness
the nectar wheel
slowly drinking
pleasure’s appeal

fly away
the wheel is dry
dizzy from her
own spirited high