Mortal

 

I am not sure 

when I subconsciously donned the belief that my children were immortal,

when I began placing my faith in the universe 

at their tiny innocentperfect feet.

 

But of course I did. 

Is there anything more miraculous, more true and good and holy

than children?

Is there anything that more deserves to live forever? 

 

So when my son was still so tired after the flu,

his face still so pale and his personality so despondent,

even when he was admitted to the hospital, 

I believed. 

Like a Catholic at Sunday Mass. 

I believed the fingers of misfortune could not touch him,

my diminutive, impervious god. 

 

But when the oncology team was brought in

and when the bone marrow biopsy was scheduled,

something wild and dark and terrible opened inside 

as that subliminal conviction was ripped away. 

Oh, this too can be lost.

This child, too, is mortal.

And you will never have that certitude again. 

 

He’s fine now. Home. 

We will do blood tests in another week or so

to be sure his kidneys are healing 

and new blood cells are forming appropriately. 

We’ll do genetic testing, see if we can peer behind the curtain to understand why.

 

And I am grateful. So, so grateful. I am. 

 

But I am also broken, harder, disillusioned.

The naiveté I wore like a gossamer armor

has been shredded, floated away on the winds of medical anomaly. 

 

Where is god hiding now? 

I can’t find her in my son’s eyelashes

or the school morning pancakes. 

 

But I’ll put on mascara and pretend,

pretend there is no such thing as mortal

as I head to school pick up

with that gaping door in my heart

wide open to the dark. 

(Art by Andrew)

I will die someday

 

Fillet

The world is so loudly rich here in the spring. Red wing blackbirds, bullfrogs, spring peepers, robins, sparrows, doves. The owl and the thunder at night. Sandhill cranes croak-chirruping and picking their way through the marshes. 

My son wants to go fishing. At first, I am hesitant. I grew up fishing, hunting, and trapping, but I was never really the one holding the responsibility of taking life with my hands. And I was never the one skinning, cleaning, cutting, disposing.  But my father has passed and there is no one else here to perform the necessary tasks. I love my son and the Earth and the spring and life and death and learning. So we dig worms in the garden and gather night crawlers from the wet morning road and we go fishing.

It is almost comical how easy it is to catch them. One even bites a hook that simply smells like worm. We release two large mouth bass and bring home five blue gills.

The first time I try to fillet, it’s awful. I’m hungry and grumpy and the fish are so slimy. I cut organs and get small chunks of flesh. It is not pleasant. I cook it anyway and make tacos. They are delicious.

The next day, we have learned. I cut the barbs down and we practice setting the hook so we can return the ones that are small. We work to tire the fish out so there’s less fight when I cut the gills and bleed the fish so there is less blood in the meat. We have been mindful to thank the fish and to thank the pond, but it is different for me this time to speak to each one individually as I release the life blood. I admire the delicate shape of the scales, the vibrant impossibility of the gills, the iridescent rainbow of their color. Once, I mishandle the fish and a dorsal spine pokes me, drawing a tiny pinprick of blood. It seems right. 

At home, I am slower, more careful with the cleaning. I sharpen the fillet knife first and learn the different parts of the blade and where to use them. I come away with whole fillets, and respect for those for whom this is an art: to not waste. How precious. 

Both days, once I have collected the meat, I bury the fish in the garden. With my father gone and my mother navigating MS and preparing to move to me in Colorado, the garden is overgrown. Comfrey and violets and thistles and grass where we used to grow such bounty that it fed us all winter. I almost cry at how rich the soil is, how dark and perfectly textured and fragrant. Nothing like my rocky backyard in Colorado. 

My son suggests we bring fish tacos to the neighbor whose pond we have been fishing in. I make them for breakfast the next day and leave him pajamas, eating and playing chess with my mom. I realize this is the first time I have ever, on my own, taken a living creature and with it, fed my body and the body of my child. It feels holy. 

On the way down the valleys, along the creek, I see a red fox, a bald eagle, and swans. There are four red slider turtles on a log that sticks out of the water on the side of the road. 

The maples have just barely started to leaf out in the hills, swatches of fuzzy green against the dark wood of the later oaks and Elms. 

The Belly, From the Wild Remembering Workshop

Prompt: What is the belly of the story that is stalking you?

We didn’t have wolves in Wisconsin when I grew up.  We had coyotes and foxes, the closeted kin to wolves. My father trapped them before I was born.   I assume in baited footholds; there are pictures in the basement of a canine in a trap, alive, the snow torn to dirt in a circle radius around the metal spiked in t he ground.  Mostly (but not always) the animals I trapped were dead on arrival, but no these.  He took a gun to each set.  I wonder what happened inside him looking into the eyes of those wild animals, full of fear and ferocity before pulling the trigger.

The belly is full of acid, breaking down, sorting, system discerning nutrient from poison from waste. The belly distills, red in tooth and claw.

My belly is soft, the fat from babes soft pillows corded in lighting marks. Inside the womb is low, falling ( I have been told)  hiding in the back away from the light. I tell her I am here when she is ready. We will hod her, she does not have to collapse. 

I remember following my father through the road side plants, the chicory and queen annes lace and grasses covered with melted frost. Dew, turned frozen, and liquid again as the earth turned us towards the sun. The trail was low in the tall, tall, plants. Racoons were the mark, but instead in the trap was a juvenile red fox, it’s body still soft and liquid, though not warm. When the animals are stiff, they are easier to carry. He handed it to me- “pitch it” he said; we didn’t have a permit for fox.  It slipped in my hands, the pelt rich and the body flowing, reminiscent of my cats, whom I loved. I threw it into those tall plants, brown and green with fall’s dying.  I wonder how long until it was digested back into the belly of the earth. 

October 22, 2025

There have been words waiting to be picked, like small bronze leaves on the serviceberry bushes.

Two years ago, it was greydrizzling rain in Wisconsin. The night before, I didn’t sleep much, bed of hospital chairs with a view of the capital, the white dome lit through the night as we listened to the various death rattles move through my father’s body. His body, because his spirit felt gone, but I know it was grateful for how we eased the pain of the body and how my sister covered it with plants when there was no more breath. 

It was a Grace when he passed. I had had a forewarning, and I felt ready, and grounded. There are many gifts he gave to us in the architecture of his leaving. 

And certainly, I cried, and certainly I grieved. But as time goes on, it’s only that I miss him more.

I miss him, especially on these perfect Autumn days where the light is softly golden, and the plants become a rainbow. Not the garish impossible mirage in the sky, but the multicolored, rooted rejoice of death as the earth goes to her rest.  It is our time, my father’s and mine. Both of us born in this month of thin veil.

Though it’s a not a consistent habit of mine, I miss smoking weed with my father. We had real, deep conversations. We were silly. We fought. There was that one wagon wheel dance together on the Jersey boardwalk after he shared his childhood trauma. I still remember the white sculpted concrete blocks and the square windows of that little motel, defiant against the blue sky as we walked past it to the beach, stoned and drunk and happily existing together in the world of each other’s truth and safety. 

I miss his courage, his joie de vivre, his “lifelong learner” approach. I miss bragging that he started going to therapy in his 70s. I miss him playing saxophone, I miss his nut butters, I miss his maple syrup. I miss him putting ice cream in his coffee. 

I miss knowing he loved me, loved me in a way that can’t ever be replaced. This year, as I shattered myself in the community I had leaned deep into, a kamikaze crash and burn, I don’t know what my father would’ve said. But I know he would’ve loved me through it. I know he would have offered me wise words. I expect at this point,  he would’ve sent me a keyboard mail. As was his way.

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.