Motherhood Is A Quixotic Beast

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"Motherhood is a quixotic beast. She calls to us through starry nights, pulsing through our dreams, infusing our daylight with the whispers of the souls dancing near us. She carves room for burgeoning bodies built of the four elements, and a fifth, slows down our pace with her weight, and then bursts the river dam when we least expect it. She has her own timing, not measured by the hands of the clock. Once we birth our hearts onto floors fluorescent or worn, wooden or wet, we are never the same. We burn brightly with the iridescence of her grace. We are the happiest we’ve ever been, and the saddest we’ve ever been, for in our giving we have lost. In our receiving we are overwhelmed with joy, and with duty, and with life. Who am I now? We ask ourselves the same questions, over and over. How do I relate with the world now that all my tidy squares are tipped up? We look at our lovers differently, and they see us differently too.

This is okay, in fact – it is glorious. You just brought life to this planet. You are a miracle. As the babies grow and our days come to a close, we find ourselves yearning. That sweet yearning for long hours unrushed, for connection to the lover whose hands you held in bed, in the car, at the cinema. We yearn for the things we once had, tender lovemaking, candlelit dinners and wine. And yet, here is the opening. Here is the door. When your rugged heart feels tender and worn, please remember you don’t have to finish the dishes, or fold another towel. What we need to remember, is ourselves: our needs, our desires, our wants. Even when you don’t know what they are, when you can’t remember where to begin to reclaim yourself, start with something.

Light a candle; hold a crystal under the stars in your fist. You are an earthly being sewn into the tapestry of this dimension by your senses. Touch, smell, taste, sound and sight. We are intrinsic to the experiences we participate in, absolutely part of the poetry. I know your bruised body aches, your face is tired and your feet feel like lead – not too poetic at times. I also know that you feel bitter and resentful; you slam words that aren’t yours into the face of your beloved. This is not you. You feel disconnected. You must reboot the circuit; rewire the fuse. We need not do this alone, mamas. You need not pack your bags and leave town.

It takes work – hard work – but what could be more rewarding? You can do this. Drop in. Arrive. Stay. See your beloved as the God/Goddess/galaxy they embody.

Your soap worn hands, your farmer’s market fingers, your body flowering babies, your windswept hair: You are a door. Your beloved is a door. Your pregnancy and birth and baby are a door. This is what we are here for, to go through these passages, journeying to the other side. Who we are becoming is a magnificent process, a storytelling, a verb. You won’t be complete until the last door opens. The story from now is as yet unwritten. Keep writing." 
-Sophie Ward

She calls to us through starry nights, pulsing through our dreams, infusing our daylight with the whispers of the souls dancing near us. She carves room for burgeoning bodies built of the four elements, and a fifth, slows down our pace with her weight, and then bursts the river dam when we least expect it. She has her own timing, not measured by the hands of the clock. Once we birth our hearts onto floors fluorescent or worn, wooden or wet, we are never the same. We burn brightly with the iridescence of her grace. We are the happiest we’ve ever been, and the saddest we’ve ever been, for in our giving we have lost. In our receiving we are overwhelmed with joy, and with duty, and with life. Who am I now? We ask ourselves the same questions, over and over. How do I relate with the world now that all my tidy squares are tipped up? We look at our lovers differently, and they see us differently too.

This is okay, in fact – it is glorious. You just brought life to this planet. You are a miracle. As the babies grow and our days come to a close, we find ourselves yearning. That sweet yearning for long hours unrushed, for connection to the lover whose hands you held in bed, in the car, at the cinema. We yearn for the things we once had, tender lovemaking, candlelit dinners and wine. And yet, here is the opening. Here is the door. When your rugged heart feels tender and worn, please remember you don’t have to finish the dishes, or fold another towel. What we need to remember, is ourselves: our needs, our desires, our wants. Even when you don’t know what they are, when you can’t remember where to begin to reclaim yourself, start with something.

Light a candle; hold a crystal under the stars in your fist. You are an earthly being sewn into the tapestry of this dimension by your senses. Touch, smell, taste, sound and sight. We are intrinsic to the experiences we participate in, absolutely part of the poetry. I know your bruised body aches, your face is tired and your feet feel like lead – not too poetic at times. I also know that you feel bitter and resentful; you slam words that aren’t yours into the face of your beloved. This is not you. You feel disconnected. You must reboot the circuit; rewire the fuse. We need not do this alone, mamas. You need not pack your bags and leave town.

It takes work – hard work – but what could be more rewarding? You can do this. Drop in. Arrive. Stay. See your beloved as the God/Goddess/galaxy they embody.

Your soap worn hands, your farmer’s market fingers, your body flowering babies, your windswept hair: You are a door. Your beloved is a door. Your pregnancy and birth and baby are a door. This is what we are here for, to go through these passages, journeying to the other side. Who we are becoming is a magnificent process, a storytelling, a verb. You won’t be complete until the last door opens. The story from now is as yet unwritten. Keep writing." 
-Sophie Ward

Achingly Hard

Any second she could doze off. Any second now.... so I keep trying and I keep staying and I keep singing but it's been two hours and I'm missing the sunny and warm winter day.

Sometimes I want to run. I want to run so far and so fast.

Run. 
Run. 
Run.

But I won't. She falls asleep and I have a moment to regroup. The feeling passes and I fall in love all over again.

I'm not ungrateful. There's beauty and love here... So much love.

It's just that sometimes this is achingly hard.

So please don't tell me to enjoy every minute. I know how fast she's growing - I can see it. The speed of her growth doesn't erase my desire for sleep, or a long bath, or a moment to myself.

"Our society simply refuses to know about a mother's experience --how being yolked to a little one all day transforms her. To confess to being in conflict about mothering is tantamount to being a bad person; it violates a taboo; and, worse, it feels like a betrayal of ones child. In an age that regards mothers' negative feelings, even subconscious ones, as potentially toxic to their children, it has become mandatory to enjoy mothering." -The Myths of Motherhood

Whole

It's occurred to me that this is the happiest time of my life. Ah...that took courage to say because in admitting it, I'm also admitting it will end. 

The sense of fulfillment is, dare I say... whole. Yes - it's wonderfully whole. But the thought of it ending... that shakes me to my core. So one breath at a time, I'm taking in this fullness and this wholeness and letting it sink deeply into my cells so its not only connected to this beautiful time, but that it's just one big part of me...all the time.

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It's Not You... It's Me

It's not you... it's me.

She began this life inside me and to date, she's been alive longer inside than she has outside. I'm what she knows best. I'm safe, familiar, and the vessel she chose to come here by. 

It's that simple. And that complex. 

Don't discount this bond by suggesting hunger, sleep, or a dirty diaper. Mother is God right now; everything she knows and trusts and relies on. 

So you see, it's nothing you did or didn't do. You've done everything right. It's just that it's not you...it's me. 

Completion

“If you were wise enough to know that this life would consist mostly of letting go of things you wanted, then why not get good at the letting go, rather than the trying to have? These exotic revelations bubbled up involuntarily and I began to understand that the sleeplessness and vigilance and constant feedings were a form of brainwashing, a process by which my old self was being molded, slowly but with a steady force, into a new shape: a mother. It hurt. I tried to be conscious while it happened, like watching my own surgery. I hoped to retain a tiny corner of the old me, just enough to warn other women with. But I knew this was unlikely; when the process was complete I wouldn’t have anything left to complain with, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, I wouldn’t remember.”
— Miranda July

Because I feel, I heal.

How do I go about doing this human thing on such little sleep? I feel like an animal - one with fangs and drool. There have been break downs. And break thrus.

She's in the early stages of learning to be human.

I'm still learning too.

The break downs are a portal to this open heart. Without them I'm hardened, cold and robotic.

So here I sit. Here I cry. Here I yawn.

I long.

I hope.

I yell.

I resent.

I feel.

And because I feel, I heal.

This little person... this one finally asleep next to me... she's just walking me home. Thank goodness for that. 

Precious

I wonder if it ever goes away... this feeling that my heart could break at any moment. Love this big seems to partner with deep vulnerability - a feeling that this could be taken away. As if somehow, in a flash, these precious moments could end. But I guess that's just it isn't it? The word precious suggests fragile and fleeting - it's the whole reason it feels so special. So here I sit, spilled milk (and some poop) on my t-shirt, reflecting on how precious this life is and it knocks me right back into this moment. (Oh hi there deep breaths!) And now, I don't even mind the smell of my shirt.

Remembering To Remember

And then there's moments like this where I don't wish anything different, or better, because it all feels perfect. They are a beautiful opposition to the deepest challenges I've faced yet.

In these moments, where the weight of her body is completely surrendered, I can honestly say I LOVE THIS. There's so much joy in these precious, sleepy moments. I'm reminded to take one day and one breath at a time. Breathing it all in and remembering to remember.


I See You

I see it all now.

I see you cleaning up after me as I clean up after her. We're like a train moving thru the house, following one another. I pick up toys and you pick up what I put down to be there for her.

I see your sacrifices; you'll stay home tonight because I'm visiting and I'll stay home because she still needs to nurse to sleep.

I see your struggle to make everyone happy.

I see your selflessness.

I believe you when you say you'd do anything for me.

Because now, I feel the same way.

If I could pay you back for all the sacrifices I would... but I'm too busy sacrificing.

Know that I understand.

Know that I see you Mothering me.

Know that I see you.

Thank you. 
Thank you. 
Thank you.

Yes To Loss

Some days (like today), I really feel the changes. I miss my friends. I miss flying by the seat of my pants. I miss my old definition of freedom. It's days like today that I'm super grateful for my spiritual practice within the framework of Motherhood. As I squirm in the discomfort of loss, I
remember that loosing my self is exactly the point and instead of being totally overtaken by it, I can consciously say yes to what's dying. Yes yes yes. (Repeating it helps, 'cause this ain't easy). ‪

The Perfect Mother

I faced the myth of 'the perfect mother' head on this week. Eye to eye, I stared her down (for now). She's a feisty one, instilling guilt over many choices. This stare down shook me to my core as I held my sleeping baby and wept. But that perfect mother, that myth, that vision I can't uphold left me with a gift. Now, I no longer look at my Mother from a child's eyes; we are women standing side by side, in sisterhood and Motherhood held by the depth of our love, and doing the best we know how. Thank you Mama for all that you did and do.

Bless this journey.