The Love Language Between Mothers

 is extra soup,

a picture of a rash,

hand me downs. 

It’s the exclamation of adoration 

over your hair, your outfit, your shoes…

anything that’s about you 

and not the children. 

But also,

direct declarations of love for the children. 

Noticing how much taller they are,

putting their picture on your fridge,

singing a song or telling a joke

to see them smile.

It’s the honest solidarity 

that you also forgot to secure the car seat,

you yelled,

you’re struggling. 

It’s the benefit of the doubt, 

reminding yourself that 

“she’s doing the best she can” 

even if what it is 

is not for you.

And if there’s an openness, sharing. 

The best site for barefoot shoes,

a picture of a recipe,

your therapist’s email. 

It’s the knowing smile with that mom in the grocery store

that says the same thing as the tight hug between dear friends:

“I see you; you’re divine and you’re doing great.” 

Co-Sleeping

They will tell you your married life will suffer if there are children in your bed. 

Maybe. 

Maybe instead the magical pool of love that surrounds your baby will seep into the bed, and everyone who lays there will feel it. 

They will say your children will “never be great sleepers”.

It might take them longer to sleep through the night, but also, deep in their cells they may rest with an innate knowledge that their needs are important, that they are not alone, and that change in a relationship can move at the equilibrium of all involved. 

They say that the mental health of the mother will suffer. 

Perhaps. The landscape of wellness for mother is a complex topography that no one can navigate except mother herself. 

But the Medicine of adjusting expectations, balancing the needs of the child and self, finding what works, and surrendering to to the holy sacrifice without martyrdom is a lifelong and worthy practice. 

It’s ok if co sleeping isn’t for you. 

It’s ok if it is. 

Someday, my first son will not climb into our bed in the middle of the night.

He still does now. it could be midnight, or 2 am, or 4. 

Sometimes I wake up when he pads in and crawls under the covers, under my arm, and I pull him in close.

Sometimes I don’t wake until the morning, holding his warm body with no memory of how he got there. He tells me his dreams, and sings to the baby when we wake. 

Mostly my daughter falls asleep with us in her bed, the top bunk, after a book with daddy or I, snuggled in, still asking for an “arm pillow.” She stays there all night, sometimes sleeping until breakfast and I have a taste of what teenage might look like. Other days she catches us in the big bed and makes the baby laugh before we get up. 

Sometimes the pain of my own loneliness from childhood turns my heart and I think perhaps I’m ruining them for a world that isn’t so tender. 

Or my irritation at being awoken again and again makes storm clouds so heavy anyone can be struck by sharp lightening if I am not careful. 

I think perhaps it would be better if we weren’t so messy, if the covers lay flat in the morning instead of jumbled with the hearts and feet of so many humans.

But I remember this is fleeting.

I remember I believe that is where grace comes from, and love:

It’s in the coming together where truth lives, with the reminder to disregard perfectionism for the beauty of being human.

It’s in the commitment to compassion,

to an authenticity that is alive

and soft,

and responsive.

Who I Really Am Is

Who I really am is: older than time,  the end that is the beginning of another end. The wounded who heals and the healer who wounds. Who I really am is another life, another turn on the infinite wheel. This turn is a pleasant one, full of light and joy, and life and blessings. But not all of who I really am. We know this, in our bloodwater that has been glaciers and oceans and rain and tears. In our bones that are the rock of the earth, mountains of molten and time. 

The baby cries and I drag myself from the bath, hot water soothing a leg injured in youth, reminding me I am no longer there. I comfort him with only my voice and then the touch of skin, his warm soft head on my chest and neck. Oh, the pleasures and pain of a body! Such a quaint little thing, a happy home for this infinite spirit. 

Who I really am is a fragment of the unnamable, a facet and whole of the great mystery. Who I really am is the resonant song at the center. What are we all, really, but the wind of the breath of the one spirit that breaths inside and through us?

Holding

Today my children played naked, 

free in a field of clover. 

The sky was blue with puffy white clouds. 

The cat twined between my boots as I wrestled fencing and watched from afar. 

There were handfuls of green thrown in the air.

Hats and blankets made, 

piles of verdant, soft scented sweet leaves. 

There looked to be a narrative and also a conversation, 

words spoken and exchanged, 

that I could not hear. 

There was a hug,

sister’s arms wrapped around little brother,

who paused and allowed, before taking a few steps away

and sitting down, 

going back to his own inner world. 

“This is how it goes”, I think. 

Every day they need me less

and go a little further out onto their own. 

It is both a relief and a heartache.

And, what grace to know they have each other

to witness and share and hold,

to be together and alone within the unique and exquisite energy of family

amidst this crazy world. 

May they and we have this,

no matter who or where:

a feeling of safety, of belonging, 

even if only always 

with the earth 

and the sky.

Liminal

These days are quiet,

no busy comings and goings,

no school, no commuting, no outings.

Quiet, but for the persistent soft buzz of the collective.

What is happening? 

I do love being home with the children,

soft days together 

collective naps 

baking and cleaning and gardening. 

I feel more solid, more whole, more clear as the world slows down. 

And,

there is a grief, 

a fear, 

a sharpness of privilege and suffering, 

the anxiety of unknown. 

I’ve been waiting for words for weeks now,

expecting a poem to call from the ethers. 

But nothing has come.

It’s as if the words are waiting too,

wondering when and if and how to land.

Stay at home Order

How do you feel now? Are you sleeping more? Is it different, to not have to rush off in the morning? Nothing to buy, nowhere to go. Are you slower? Softer? Can you let this time open you, to what is and what could be?

The Squeeze

It’s early, or late. It’s teething, or sickness, or the moon, or a dream they can’t verbalize. Their toddler bodies lay heavy on mine, the tears subsided, the breathing rhythmic and deep once again. Now that the storm has passed, I pray for more patience and compassion, for pauses and deep breaths and trust. I know they will be able to calm themselves someday, and that they learn through me. In the dark, his hand reaches out to mine from the other side of the bed and squeezes, holding my fingers tight with strength and solidarity. In the turmoil, they generally don’t want him. But it means the world to know he is here. That touch heals so much, and through it I know: I am seen, I am loved, and we are not alone.

There is a Place

There is a place over one hill, behind the next where I can almost escape the sound of men. The mine, the factory, the highway is nearly blocked by the earth. I want to be where the wild things are. Where rabbit, raccoon, and bobcat tracks lie fresh in the snow. Where my eyes see only the natural world of stone, plant, and sky. I want to sit, silent on the rock as the sun hits it and melts the ice, where the pinyin trees twist like tangled hair, where my breath comes cold and deep. I want to live with the rhythms of the earth, with an ease and a grace in my body I do not have to fight to find. And I am sorry for I startle the deer, magpie alarms from the tree to share the news of my coming, and the hawk takes wing. I wish we could be in harmony. There is sadness in my heart for my children and our other people in this always changing world who may never know the quiet of a snowy morning in a softly sleeping wood.

For Nova

Someday, you may not want me.

You may feel embarrassed, 

or angry, or simply independent. 

I will try to understand.

I will try, then, to remember days like this, evenings like this,

where you cry, in your small but so willful voice:

“Mama, I want you! Mama, pick me up!” 

Where anything but my complete, devoted attention, 

is nothing.

Where you must be touching me, 

(“Your arm as my pillow!”)

to fall asleep.

Stay small, I think to pray. 

Stay my little bird of innocence and imagination,

of story and song and sweetness. 

But I don’t ask that, 

because I know you must grow.

I know someday you will fly beyond me 

in ways I cannot begin to comprehend.

And my mother’s heart will rejoice and weep at the same time. 

I did my very best, I think to tell you,

with all the love and wisdom I have,

human and flawed as it is. 

May it be a cloak,

a trellis, 

a den to return to.

Don't Give In

Don’t give in.

You’re tired. You have lost patience.

You want to snap for them dumping the markers on the floor, 

for biting each grape once and spitting it out and stepping on it. 

For touching you and touching you and touching you. 

Don’t give in. 

Breathe. 

Be calm, or even funny. 

Don’t give in. 

Unless you just have to.

Then do it, but go all the way.

Give all the way in, 

in under the exhaustion, the anger, the overwhelm,

give in down to the sadness, 

and cry.

And let them see.

Let them see it’s hard sometimes. 

It’s too much for any of us,

and it’s ok.

Give in, give up, 

give them the real,

give them the all.

Mother Prayer

The days are blurs full of nursing and naps and feeding and dressing and playing and laughing and crying. Waiting for them to wake up or go back to sleep. There’s food on the floor, their hands, my clothes. And always the question: are we going somewhere today? At night, we sleep in a mama sandwich with one on each side of me. They roll in to cuddle or nurse, when they need to know they are not alone. I don’t know if I’m doing this right. If I should wean faster or do some kind of sleep training or if I’ve let their diets slide too far from optimal. Some moments are the best I’ve ever experienced. I’m more alive and fulfilled than I have words for. Others, I’m so tired and energetically exhausted, all I can do is lay on the dog while I wait for the afternoon coffee to brew. I cannot say I really imagined what this would be before it happened. I knew it was something great, hard, and scary, Like that running down to the garden in the dark and seeing the stars, Like that first real trip you took on your own, Like that moment when you suddenly realize that THAT person, is your person. I hope I look back with love. With a bemused compassion for my own self saying, “You’re there. You’re in it, my love.” I hope I focus on those precious moments. And I hope it makes me more gentle, more soft, more patient, more kind.

The Reality

I am uninspired. There is no end in sight of laundry all. the. time. Dinners will need to be prepared and some nights it won’t be me, but mostly it will. . I think how they are acts of love, these mundane, everyday tasks. I try to breathe, and notice, and pray as I do them. But still, I wonder how many carrots I will chop in the next 15 years. How many times I will fold the same underwear. Match the same socks. It is not glamorous. It is not exciting. Sometimes I daydream about a large room made mostly of glass somewhere near an ocean where I can write and paint and move just as I like.

At the same time, I recently read a definition joy as something along the lines of: “The feeling of pure happiness that moves through the body like an electric current and lasts no more than 10 seconds.” I know this feeling, and I know I have experienced it in my life before children. . But never have I had a source for that sensation be so consistent, so sure, every time, as a kiss from my daughter. They are generally not spontaneous kisses; I ask for them. “Can I have a kiss?” She gets a light in her eyes and leans close, bringing her small warm face next to mine, and kisses my cheek or my lips or sometimes my forehead with just the right amount of pressure and moisture and a tiny sound. I know I will someday no longer be able to recall the softness of her skin now, the smell of her breath, the pattern of the sparse hair on her 2 year old head. And I won’t remember the thousands of baskets of laundry, the dishes prepared and eaten and gone. But I will remember that thrill that sparkles through me from head to foot when those kisses land. I will remember laughing out loud and asking for “More! More! More!” Until she laughs too and says, “That enough.” I will remember knowing, without a doubt, that this is my most favorite thing I have ever experienced in life.

Bedsharing

There is a part of me that thinks, with the new baby coming, we should start putting you to sleep in another bed: a crib, a mattress on the floor, something that affords some more physical and auditory space. But it’s just so tender, so pleasant, and easy to go to bed with you, reading a book or two, watching you play with toys until you’re ready to cuddle in and nurse to sleep. Some nights you’re not sleepy right away and you crawl back and forth between the papa and I; he juggles you up and down and practices your karate kicks and you blow raspberries on my tummy, making me laugh out loud. But eventually you come over to me and nestle in to sleep, sweet and gentle, legs kicked out from under the covers and eyes closing slowly, one hand on my chest. I get up to tend the kitchen or myself, those last things of the day that need doing. Often, papa falls asleep too and there you are, the two of you, sprawled in the bed, breathing and dreaming alongside one another. I feel so lucky, so incredibly blessed with my little family; I don’t want you in another room alone. I know, too, there will come a time that is the last; the last time you will want to sleep with your little body next to mine, the last time you will reach for me in your sleep and be comforted by my skin. I’m so looking forward to hearing your thoughts, to watching you dance and run, and to someday seeing you off as your own woman in the world. But there’s no reason to rush you now. The time will come. For now, you can stay with us my little one, and share the bed and dreams.

In the early mornings
when the papa is home
and the baby falls back to sleep,
I lay her on his chest
and sneak out to the garden.
The smell of the earth is rich,
full of sand, pine chips, and musk
as I crouch among the plants.

Sometimes there is dew and often bird song
and I pull tender white roots or water
and sing softly to my small friends
with their growing green leaves. 

The world is so precious
in these stolen moments
alone with the earth.
I feel grateful;
not the
"list of things I know to say thank you for",
but the
"my breath and bones and body
are happy and home"
solid and resounding gratitude.

This world is crazy.
If I get to wish,
(and we all do)
I pray that my daughter
will grow up to know
peace and belonging
with her connections
in the
web of life. 

I pray she will find joy
in the small and simple things.

What will I remember of these hours of stillness
when some day the house is full of voices and running footsteps
and you no longer fit in my arms
curled and sleeping and full of milk?

They say it goes fast,
that in a blink of an eye
you'll no longer be a baby
and I will wonder where it went.

I try to hold this time in my mind and in pictures,
to trap it with my words.
But is like trying to hold the afternoon sun that slants through the nursery window;
I can see it on your face, feel it through the blanket,
and yet it streams past my fingers,
untouchable
and fleeting.

Already your heavysoft body is bigger
and I can almost hear you growing,
getting longer and stronger
with each tiny breath. 

Your eyelashes are thicker than yesterday
and I break into a million pieces

while you,
in perfection,
sleep on.

The apple blossom petals are falling,
the delicate white moons fluttering like snow flakes
down to the green orchard floor,
the scent gauzy-light and sweet on the gentle breeze. 

I sit in the hammock,
lulled by the thrumming of the bees and robin calls
while my daughter nurses and then sleeps at my breast.

We don't talk so much about the sensuousness of being a mother.
The deep nourishment of that so soft
skin on skin,
the intimate pleasure that comes
from the weight of her body,
the sharing of breath and warmth
with one so new to life.

Never have I given so many kisses,
or gazed so deep and so long into another's eyes.
Never have I slept so many nights
with my body curled so closely around another's,
her hair tickling my lips with each inhale.
Never have I bathed or breathed or sang
with another's sacred heart pressed so close to my own. 

Is this how it used to be,
when our ancestors all slept and ate and played together,
enjoying the nearness of everyone all at once?

I close my eyes and listen to her soft noises
as she turns her small head against my chest,
her tiny hands resting on my belly as she sleeps.
Her mouth finds my hand to gum with drooling lips.

Thank you for this gift of being a mother.
Of all things, it is the most naturally, tenderly human
I have ever been.

It's a beautiful day,
sunny, warm with blue skies and that particular stillness of holiday.
It may be one of my last days truly alone for many, many years.
It feels sweet,
so long and 
so short at the same time.
Moving slowly around the house,
around the farm,
followed by the dog and
the stillness of the air and little else. 

Waiting for you is bittersweet. 

I have been told how things will change once you arrive,
how my heart will grow bigger than I ever knew possible.
How I will stretch beyond my limits.
How the adventure that awaits is like nothing I have experienced
or can imagine.

And,
I have always loved the hours and days of being alone,
content in the presence of self.
And,
I have come to love this pregnant body,
its grace and fullness that exists only now.
I know your coming will only multiply our love exponentially,
And,
already I miss the time
of just me and your papa,
laying my head on his chest
and feeling most the thankful ease
of fortune and luck and love. 

But even as I walk alone in the afternoon sun on this golden road
and the golden light
shines on the golden grass,
I look forward to sharing it all with you.
I imagine you on my chest instead of in my belly,
hearing the sounds of the land,
watching the dog chase the groundhogs,
tasting the world. 

With each step on the earth,
I feel the gratitude
and the grief of this moment,
knowing it will never come again.
And with each look to the horizon,
the excitement and anticipation of the unknown change
and the journey of life with you. 

But isn't that how it always is, if we're lucky? The sorrow and the joy both
holding us
in their
ever
tender
hands?

Walking

I walk for the dog,
the way his ears flap and bounce
as he takes off down the road and into the field
where the prairie dogs chirp.

I walk for the plants,
the mullein and willow and cattails,
the Colorado grasses as they bloom golden and seed
and wave in the wind.
For their smells and soft faces turned towards the sky.

I walk for the birds,
the flickers and meadowlarks,
the robins and magpies,
the finches and the sometimes hawks and even eagles.

I walk for the clouds,
for their shapes and scents as they drift
towards the highlands
and spread out over the flatlands.

I walk for the mountains,
the slabs of stone thrusting from the earth in the distance
and the smaller crumbled and slanted foothills.

I walk for my legs and hips,
for my heart and mind,

to remember that pulse of life.

But I walk most for the feeling of all these friends bring,
the sense of pure joy that rolls through my body and through the life I carry inside me.
I walk for the two of us,
that we may together know the essence of the morning,
the contented peace of evening
in these wild places.

Conversations

Perhaps one of the reasons there is mental unwellness in the world 
is because we are, most of us, alone in our own minds.

Alone, or surrounded only by the voices of other humans: songs, words, people created thoughts.
(And the far end of the imagination spectrum is delusion, the madness itself.)

Depression, anxiety, apathy:
perhaps they are all results of 
a one sided, compulsive conversation 
because there is no other source of input.

Most of the time, in our cities or houses or cars,
there are simply less voices 
of the life around us.

<<<>>>

When I go into the forest, into the jungle,
into any place of wild that is not majority human or human made consciousness,
The voices are all around me:
the plants, 
the birds, 
the water 
and wind 
and rock.
The earth and the soil and the unseen.

When I can be still and listen,
our human made world does not stand as sane.
In the presence of the wild song,
it is exposed gently
and given permission to pass away
like an exhale,
leaving only the heartbeat of life
and
truth.

Inside

The eyes of the artist 
do not link to the brain,
they are connected directly to the heart.
They see each petal of flower
or edge of cloud in the sky 
as birth and death,
pain and joy,
infinitely unfolding beauty.

It is the same for your patch of white skin
shining between the sheets
in the bright moon light.

I am lost again! 
And must go outside 
to find home in the song 
of the stars.