Next Humankind

Bristly limbs of bare trees scrape the December sky blanketing Kentucky hills. Vehicles zoom 65 miles an hour across formations 480 million years in the making. Ronin, seven months old, rides near the window, winter scenery streaming past him, his keen eyes the color of pine brush and moss, soft skin pale like sycamore bark. I watch his warm fingers dexterously grasp little toys in play; solid bones, sturdy as limestone, give structure that animates his energy. A wind, I imagine, whistles through the corridors of branches along those ancient mounds, paths as multifarious as dendrite gardens in the mind. I listen to my son's breathing, the gentle, vibrational "aaah" as he explores his own sound.

The people native to this land lived here for the better part of 15,000 years before they were assaulted with metal and gunpowder by white invaders. In a few hundred years, their territory has been sliced by highways, cut by machines seeking fuel for capital, drenched in the byproducts of oil and coal. Native people live here no longer. The people who remain, the poor, are dying of cancer. And then, there are also storytellers, weavers, farmers, midwives, and healers - those who rectify the desecration with their creative spirits. I recall the courage of the Northern water protectors and hear chords of their song settle in the valleys like fog.

My mind wanders from Appalachia to Aleppo, the children covered in white ash, unsure which breath may be their last. They have stopped crying; their eyes are tunnels that lead me to my own incriminating complicity. I sit comfortably on a cushion as their homes and safe places crumble, the ancient city a living ruin. Bomb blasts reverberate in humanity's foundation. Instead of speaking out, much of the world sips coffee through small plastic mouthpieces that will take the better of 1,000 years to break down. The darkness increases. I click screen buttons, send electronic dollars, in the false light of a cell phone. Oak, two years old, happily sings of silver and gold, of the light's return. I close my eyes and pray.

At the Smithsonian, Robby and I turned to find Oak with his arms around bronze statues of two early humans, a child and mother. He gently patted the little one's back, keenly peering in the direction of the small statue's gaze, inquisitive about what the elder figure seemed to be demonstrating. We silently observed our own child, descendant of these ancestral creatures, embody through his reflexive curiosity the evolution of their instruction. His touch was fond, familial. I saw through tears the exhibit headline, "Imagination Emerges."

Humankind has drawn invisible lines to create countries and concepts, using the mind as a template for terrain we can reconstruct. Young primates yet, we continue to grapple with what power we can wield to magnify our species' influence and centricity. But the nautilus spiral of Earth time betrays our flimsy superiority: the thin edge, nearly invisible, is human history, all 3 million years. In its unfathomable complexity, Earth boasts the majesty of 4600 million years. And we are citizens of a young planet in this unexplored universe, 15 billion years wide.

Cold, white marble, carved to look weightless, shoulders the recognizable Capitol domes. The extravagance distracts from the metallic taste of death, the smell of suffering, holding the place together like mortar. Countless African slaves worked to forge these spaces in which they were not regarded as human. The lofty ideals emblazoned on the walls, speaking of liberty and dignity, taunt the memories of African people whose rich heritage was scoured like ship decks, whose vibrancy has survived their oppression and their descendants'. "Out of many, one" - by force. The efforts of over 200 years have not yet made us a land of the free. To this day, only the survivors of oppression feel the heaviness, accurately estimate the cost. Their descendants are the prophets of our time, calling out in the wilderness of ignorance, holding aloft truth's torch.

In the belly of a colonial ship, Oak said, "A long time ago, I was down here and heard a loud BOOM." Running through the tunnel between Congress's Library and the Capitol Building, he remarked, "Before I was born, I was down here." Certain places hum with a story we somehow know we continue with the tones and cadence of our Voice. The trees and hills and sands and stars are still telling it. The children know the language and interpret for us in every unexamined gesture, every intentional question, every moment we stop talking long enough to listen, to breathe, to touch freedom. The scope of our lives can only be as broad as the understanding of our smallness.

I can imagine the next iteration of humanity: a species that looks in the mirror and sees a striving animal, that begins to only describe any individual with their chosen name, that participates as a cell in the body. The next humankind will absorb the sword into its heart and there dissolve it, will again discover fire but this time within, will honor abundance with temperance, will be led by the generations to come. The next humankind will know its humble place on the dirt. Our ancestors are waiting for us there, whispering the Soul's common fate.

"Aleppo" derives from the Aramaic word 'Halaba,' white like its soil and marble. The mountains ache like exposed joints, blasted and bald, empty caverns devoid of black coal, ghost canaries singing. I look up into the clouds swirling as in the soothsayer's sphere where questions answer each other. Freezing rain falls on the glass pane, running like rivers or neuron networks or veins, before evaporating into the atmosphere, eternal air and light.

Gratitude Is

Gratitude does not recline in an oversized armchair, stuffed and surrounded in luxury, declaring, "I'm so thankful for what I have."

Gratitude leaves our mouths and arms open wide in wonder that WE EXIST when there could have been absolute no-thing-ness.

Gratitude makes us bare and vulnerable to the truth that nothing at all can be earned...everything we have is gifted by the ancestral universe.

Gratitude illuminates our rich happiness as intrinsically connected to all others' well-being.

Gratitude deepens the hunger to empty our pockets and lighten our packs to be more available to the Source, to nourish our Earth siblings, to share the infinite abundance of Life.

Gratitude requires us to investigate why everyone does not have enough.

Gratitude demands we defend the land, water, air, and diversity of this planet: our common birthrights.

Gratitude implores us to take only what we need so that others might live.

Gratitude insists that we care for each other in messy, challenging, unpopular, radical ways.

Gratitude is the sigh at the end of a day well-spent, whether with tears or pain or belly-aching laughter or deep soul gazes or whatever it took to feed our Children, whispering, "I am blessed to make the most of being alive."

Gratitude is the only redemptive final prayer.

What Would Dory Do?

(Disclaimer: this is a very silly but personally relevant reflection on a Disney movie...use what's at hand, right?)

At the story's beginning, Dory despairs. She believes that she has lost what's precious to her because she is who she is: forgetful, flighty, and seemingly directionless. At times, she feels trapped by the idea that those qualities can only yield the same sad results in her life. She feels she can't do anything "right."

However, by the tale's end (no spoilers!), she realizes she can accomplish incredible things, in fact, BECAUSE of who she is. She's willing to take a risk without certainty of the outcome. She trusts her intuition even when there isn't a clear "reason." She is optimistic and "just keeps swimming" even when setbacks seem insurmountable. She depends on friends to help where she knows she can't rely on just herself. Her friends in search of her end up finding her because they ask, "What would Dory do?"

Eventually, Dory begins to *intentionally* lean into her wacky way of moving through the world. In several tense moments, she comically asks herself, "What would I do? What would I do?" Each time, she's saved by her own unique approach. At last, doing what Dory would do allows her to reclaim her losses.

These days, I'm trying to ask myself a similar question. Instead of feeling anxious and trapped, depressed or despairing, I'm trying to take a deep breath and repeat this mantra: "What would Mandy do?"

When I think of my most aligned, grounded, open self and who She could be in the world, I catch a glimpse of who I want to be and become. The Best Me is someone I want to be like. Just checking in with myself is a practice in intentionally living better, one step (splash!) at a time.

My friends, the wide ocean of possibility needs YOU to be just who and how you are. We need your weird, your clever, your unprecedented, your unimaginable ways. Only you can BE you, and only by being ourselves wholeheartedly can we just keep swimming together.

Dory doesn't only end up finding something that was lost "out there." The happy ending is that she found...Dory. Dory found Dory, and only she knew the way.

Today, please go in search of yourself, each moment you can pause and pursue you. Sift through the reflexive reactions or self-judgments. I implore you to ask yourself, "What would ✨✨✨I✨✨✨ do?"

The answer to that will help us ALL find ourselves. 

Post-election Fireside Ponderings

🎶"We are the world..."
"What a wonderful world..."🎶
...songs and sentiments I want to believe.
We all just need warmth and light, someone to hold us.
We're all looking up at the same, big old moon.

But my friends' children are wailing in fear of their families being separated because they escaped here.
A child was murdered on the same street where I attended a baby shower this weekend...presumably because he was a refugee.
Brown and black neighbors in my city are being assaulted more blatantly because racist predators feel empowered.

These aren't illusions. The moon suddenly looks so big,
but in fact, it's even bigger... it's just so far away, it's easy to pretend we're imagining its enormity.

Fire breaks down everything it touches. We reflexively step back, stay safe...but sometimes, we're meant to walk right into it. Now, it's time.

In the end, personal relationships - and love - will save everything.

Election Vigil

A family from Michigan was trying to distract themselves from the news and just happened to come to the Big 4 Bridge. The parents and three children were in Louisville for a work conference but couldn't stand sitting in the hotel room, feeling alone. As they approached the foot of the bridge, they saw a few folks gathered with candles. They were asked, "Are you here for the vigil?"

Afterward, they introduced themselves with profuse gratitude. "We had no idea something like this was going on. It was just what we needed." They were just what I needed, too.

Someone standing next to me caught my eye, smiling in the candlelight. "I'm the sister of the first man who was married to his partner in Kentucky," she told me. We tearfully embraced. "They both had to work tonight, but I wanted to be somewhere...for them. For me." For all of us.

A student, a lawyer, a college professor, a Waldorf teacher, an international nonviolent witness, a retreat leader, a doula, an academic, a massage therapist, a writer. Children, parents, activists, friends, siblings, teachers, neighbors. Louisvillians. U.S. citizens. Companions.

All holding a light.
All turning to one another, sharing their names, looking into one another's eyes.
All standing next to flowing water, common element, and bridges, structures of connection.
All holding their fears and hopes and angers and despairs and visions.
All singing, "Dona nobis pacem."
All nodding in recognition that we MUST listen to our children and let them lead us.
All imagining what we hope to see in a more just and peaceful world.
All choosing to show up on a cold night to be reminded of who we are, and that we belong to each other.

Gratitude for that circle of light. Let's tend it. Let's be nourished by it. Let's grow it. Let's use it for our collective liberation.

Attention

Pinks, blues, golds soften the steel gray of downtown at dawn. The clouds, the river, early light through the strati create an elemental symphony. As I watch the shades shift, inexplicably, thoughts of the hurricane in Haiti assail me. Mornings in Port-au-Prince, the taste of mango, the sun on tin roofs, smoke rising, memories older than a decade touch the present. I remember reading a friend's recent prayer to have her heart broken by the world's suffering. I cry at the wonder that all of this can inhabit a moment. My son remarks, "Clouds make thunder, Mommy." When I ask him what made him think of that, he replies, "Nothing."

We arrive home but none of us want to go inside. I hand my infant flowers and leaves, watch him delightedly grasp at the textures and sense the crackles with his whole little body. He looks at me as the sun rises higher and covers my head in warm rays; I see the gold in his hazel eyes. We gaze at one another, and I wonder if I have ever seen anything so magnificent. I realize he is looking at me with the same love-eyes. I suddenly feel alive.

Soon, I succumb to distraction and check Facebook on my phone. A friend's prompt, "Tell me something beautiful," leaves me eager to comment with details of my day. I read one woman's response that tells the story of her grandmother saying she'd reincarnate as a butterfly. That reminds me: an intuitive once told me that honeybees are a sign my great-grandmother, one of my early caregivers, is close by with a message. I smile at that lovely thought. I glance up from the small screen to see, with surprise, a single honeybee hovering in my line of vision. I set my phone down and watch it carefully, breathing deeply. I think, perhaps I had better keep paying attention to my life. She soon flies away. 

My oldest son follows a roly-poly as if it is the most important thing to do (isn't it?) until it crawls out of sight. "I miss her," he frowns, head bowing. Soon enough, though, another roly-poly is discovered. My boy gently offers his finger again and again until she crawls onto his hand. After some time with his friend, he remarks, "Now it's time for her to go to her Mommy." He carefully returns her to her stone, wishing her goodbye. "Go see your Mommy!"

An elderly woman who walks through my neighborhood most mornings, instead of waving and quickly continuing on her way, comes down the path to my front stoop to greet my toddler and coo at my baby. She takes obvious joy in their liveliness. "I'm going to try to get out and work in the yard," she comments. "Enjoy the beautiful morning," I say reflexively. After meandering talk, her voice quiets. "I've just been diagnosed with lung cancer." Words collapse in my throat, so I hold silence with her. With tears in her eyes, she looks once more at my children and walks away. I keen the edges of her sorrow. Watching her retreat, Oak softly says, "I love her."

My son stares at me intently when my own tears come. I explain that I'm sad our neighbor is sick. He holds out his arms, holds me, kisses me, says, "I love you, Mommy. Here, this make you feel better," and offers a drink of water. Once my tears are dried, he lays in the grass, saying, "I love laying in the grass under the brown tree. Me take a nap on the stones." I cradle my younger boy close and offer him my breast. Soft skin on soft skin, milk and tears, warmth and closeness, comfort in the healing pace of knowing, all at once, that you have plenty of time.

I tell the story of the pumpkin seed: that, someday, with the pattern hidden inside its pale shell, it will break open into a squash vine, which will yield as many pumpkins as there were seeds in the pumpkin from which it came. My infant quietly looks on. My toddler turns one seed over and over in his palm. Later, we cook the pumpkin flesh and sweet potatoes. We stir in coconut milk and spices. We are patient, letting the mixture simmer. We smell hints of a meal in the making, one we will share together with others who join us at the table. We listen to the noon bell chime.

Black Lives Matter.

Just now, Oak found my unfinished poster from the last LSURJ meeting (Louisville Showing Up for Racial Justice) and asked to finish it. "Look, Mom! 'Black Lives Matter' - me want to color green and red!" I couldn't believe he remembered me telling him what it was going to say WEEKS ago. He also remembers when we walked through downtown Louisville chanting the mantra several months ago. It's a phrase that already carries meaning for him because he sees that it carries meaning for people he cares about.

He added the colors, I added the final word. I'll hang up our collaboration somewhere others will see it, too. Why is this SO IMPORTANT to me?

I wholeheartedly support the BLM movement because my sons - ALL our children - will not inherit a nation in which all people are truly free. In fact, most people are NOT free. Since the beginning, the United States' economic and political schema has been dependent on systemic subjugation of First Nation peoples, Black persons, women, poor folk, etc. (I am constantly learning of new modes of oppression employed in my country). The U.S. is founded in racism. This is not debatable - it is a fact. The refrain of oppressed peoples in this country has been, for centuries, "America was never America to me," as the poet Langston Hughes once wrote.

Today, these histories of prejudice remain deeply rooted in our psyches as white people. Because we have been so profoundly conditioned by these histories, false narratives, and structures that serve to continue and further racism and oppression, we aren't even AWARE that we are prejudiced. In all real senses of the word, I am racist. Again: I AM RACIST. I can't help but be racist as a white person in this country. Since before I can remember, I have been internalizing imagery of thuggish black men, stereotyped native people, passive women, mocked queer folk, and ignorant poor people. We are swimming in these lies. It has taken years of listening and learning to realize the racist tendencies within me and to admit that they exist, even though I don't want them to.

The trick is to recognize I cannot immediately, or perhaps ever, rid myself of these internalized judgments...just like, no matter how hard I try, I may never be able to stop myself from feeling angry. What I CAN control is how I respond. I can notice with honesty what arises in me. I can listen more intentionally to people who I don't often hear from. I can admit when I'm wrong, blind, or ignorant. I can let myself be led by people who have been silenced for generations. I can start to see, think and talk about, and eventually move in the world differently. I can set my own mind-heart-soul free, little by little.

However, even as a white, middle class, cisgender, queer/bisexual, mostly femme-presenting woman, I am not free until my black siblings are no longer oppressed. My liberation is bound to everyone else's. Until every last human is respected, cared-for, and upheld, I and all others will be bound.

I feel uncomfortable putting these basic, boiled-down thoughts out there. It isn't because I am afraid that I'll be opposed; it's because I know how very much I have to learn. I know my language isn't totally correct. I left out sooo much. I surely messed something up badly. I know this is a childlike sketch of the journey I'm on. But this is a small piece to hopefully open a door of understanding for those who don't know why I am always saying, with passion, "Black Lives Matter." I am saying it because my own life depends on it, and so does yours, whoever you are. I will continue to learn so that I am more and more prepared to answer my children the day they ask, "Why do we say 'Black Lives Matter'?"

Want to learn more? Join me. Come to a SURJ meeting. Visit BLM's website. Read a book (I have some suggestions). Start talking to white people and listening to people of color. Let's connect. Let's grow together. Let's work toward our collective freedom.

Look Again

Today has been one of high highs and low lows. At a high point, I was gifted by a teacher with the insight that practicing respect to another is "to look again;" respecting my children is a practice of seeing them more curiously, more clearly, just as they are, and reverencing their needs and wishes. By engaging from a place of trust in who they are, my children and I can move together more collaboratively through life. I was humbled to recognize how much better they are at seeing me than I am at seeing them; even when I am at my worst, my children treat me so very gently with few expectations or demands. They joyfully take me on as a partner in their work, which, as Mary Oliver wrote, leaves me "mostly standing still and learning to be astonished." At the end of the day, my boys and my sweetie-boo realign me to the heart of life: a centerpoint of Being Here Now Contentedly, trusting that we're all doing the best we can, holding space for all we are, which is ever-infinite, despite my thoughtless attempts at times to limit, control, or predict those dimensions. As another wise friend once told me, "there is always enough space." Tonight, I hold the tears and the giggles, the screams and the snuggles, the what-will-be and this-right-now, grateful for this little abundance, these little bodies near mine, and all I have yet to see in them.

To Be Well

Cradling two small bodies that are struggling but not suffering, I cried as I pictured the many parents weeping over children who will never be well or safe again.
•••
I lost sleep; lost more sleep; felt sick myself; felt inadequate in the disorder; slept when they slept, but badly; lost a sense of time; forgot my tiredness; found a slower pace; read the news; thought of those whose souls never rest; felt sicker; listened to my children laugh together; took better care of my children and myself.
•••
I decided to walk the distance instead of running it to talk with a troubled friend who, before I knew her, almost didn't live to be who I am now discovering.
•••
"Life is an endurance race anyway," she remarked nonchalantly. The water cooled my throat. My legs did not hurt. Why do I think I have to run to be good?
•••
I remembered walking across the alley, hand-in-hand with my son and carrying my baby as I spoke to a gentle woman with her life in a rolling cart. She spoke hurriedly so as not to bother me:
"Will there be food? Sometimes there are free meals. The weather is still a little too warm, hotter than Shelbyville in the country. I used to ride horses, you know. Have a good evening."
All I could think about was getting into the meeting, to which we were already late.
My boy excitedly called to her retreating back, "Me like horses! Me like black horses! Her...her like horses. She my friend."
We had gone to the wrong location. I had gotten it wrong. Or had I? Maybe these things have nothing to do with my inadequacies.
•••
Songs and stories became more spontaneous the longer I followed their lead. They clasped hands and gazed at each other with no object but to touch the moment. The words were not so important. What mattered were the cadence, the companionship, the common discovery.
•••
When you are well again, you realize just how good it is to be.

Autumnal Equinox

#blacklivesmatter

Everywhere, the monarch butterflies crack
through chrysalises, emerging: black, white,
flame. Human bodies spill in the street,
dark in the daylight. Blood cascades down
legs of mothers as they cry out birthing
the children. Falling golden leaves land
on graves. Migrations across invisible lines
happen for insects, souls living and dead.
The waking hours dim. The wings are soft.

Suddenly, my infant son learns to lift his head.
My older boy begins to count: one, two, three...
Within, all paths are secretly wired in traceries
of neurons, scales, patterns. The networks grow
complex and burdensome. Melanin marks shades
of endangerment. Mothers grieve their living
children. History pages, pale sheets, ghost masks hide
in plain sight. Shiny badges and tear gas obfuscate
mirrors. What cannot evolve breaks down.

Always, the world turns in seasons. Ancestors stand
at our side, pleading. Hands, fists, hymns, shouts,
prayers rise in the air. Awakened ones run
with their heads down through fire. Harvests burn
in cornucopias. Truth flutters precariously between
the sun and the moon. Hearts probe like antanae
seeking freedom. Courage reconstructs in spiritual
cocoons. Children color an autumn rainbow:
black, white, flame. Forms for flight unfurl, alight.

World Breastfeeding Week

The heaviness of a world punctuated by hate lightens to the weight of this bundle of potential gently resting on my chest. My anxiety settles as milk drops with an ache into my breasts and his mouth and eyes latch on, drawing me body and soul into a mundane, mystical engagement.

He gazes at me in full trust that I will accept him, cherish him, nurture him. I gaze back, tears welling at the grace and gratitude that I am accepted, cherished, and nurtured by him without question or exception.

He grants me gifts by just being who he is, a little one that tethers me to the One. By meeting his needs, he meets mine. I find reassurance that his demands and cries are perfectly met by what I can give.

His mouth opens wide in delight at nothing but our mutual attention - I return a smile.

In our arrangement, I find countless teachings for when fear and grief threaten:

There is ample distraction and abundant despair, but nothing more important or pressing than making myself available to this embodiment of humankind's essence to whom I am immediately present.

There are a billion directions we may go, but nowhere to get to with one another but right here, now.

There is imperfection, but nothing to fix, only truth and stories to uncover and tell and let lead the way onward.

There is distinction, but not disconnection - acknowledging our interdependence brings peace within and without.

In the end, all strife derives from this root, that we are desperate to remember how dear we are to Life's family.

His hand rests on my heart in a pledge, a prayer, wordlessly spoken to the new world fed and fulfilled in this sacrament.

It was when we walked into the room packed with hundreds of people.
It was when the singing bowl called us all to silence.
It was when I looked around the room and felt grateful for the many people I knew, and the many I didn't.
It was when we sang together or recited meaningful words.
It wasn't when I shared why I showed up for racial justice.
It was when a brave woman of color spoke that THIS was the first time she'd ever been able to talk about hter experience as a Black woman in front of white people, and tears began to fall from her eyes.
It was when the room exploded in applause for her.
It was when the armed white supremacists lurked in the doorway, guns at their hips.
It was when I stopped to listen to the chatter of children in the room.
It was when I crossed paths with people I hadn't seen in years and marveled at life's patterns.
It was when we marched and chanted, eliciting jubilant honks and affirning fist pumps.
It was when elderly Black folks raised their hands as they drove past, saying, "Yes!" "Thank you!"
It was when people couldn't stop smiling as they filmed us on their camera phones.
It was looking into my partner's eyes, sharinga meaningful kiss, and holding our babies close.
It was when Oak, of his own volition, seriouslyabd enthusiastically cried, "Black Lives Matter."
It was when I watched our Black leaders tear up as we shouted louder and louder: "Black Lives Matter."
It was when Robby and I cried, too.
It was when Oak insisted on carrying his sign.
It was when we asked Oak how he felt afterward: "Good." What did he think? "Loud."
It was then that I felt it. I felt it in my bones. I am in the right place and time. As a white woman, this is my duty and call. White people, let's keep showing up. Silence is complicity. Be loud! BLACK LIVES MATTER.

New Lens

(an urgent invitation to my fellow white people)

my people: we need to go deep
into darkness under the skin - follow the
white rabbit through caverns of stories our collective
consciousness has constructed, the false
fortresses of aeons protecting our fragile ego -
look to the ghost we now only see through the
white of our eyes, the horror of our made-up history,
kept blank and tidy to buffer ourselves from
bloodshed, the rainbow of our fear we smear
across the Earth crying out its colored hymn -
white space     along the margins, we manage
white pages of a history incomplete, staged news -
this pause is to let the voices we stifled with
white noise ring in the silence.

let's start by raising a
white flag over no land, no place or people,
save our own heart waving in surrender
to a legacy we inherit but choose to transmute -
leave lying the bleached bones of hate on shores of
imperial pursuit, standing from our
white hot privilege seat to take up a new spirit -
rid ourselves of oppressive nebula layers of pain,
clouds of grief - cross fields of disparate matter
to touch mercy’s atonement and reveal the small
white star at the center, glowing dimly against
the Black of eternal spacetime, our honest ancestry - soaring to new cosmic horizons from which we view
our true natures, older than the universe -
our future, prismatic rays of light.

Refocus

The day draws down as the sun sets, the house quiets, and my littlest one snuggles close to me in our evening ritual. He reaches out, grasps my hair, gazes into my eyes, and compels me to let go of whatever keeps me from complete engagement. As I watch the movement of his eyes and hands, I am overwhelmed with wonder by the coming together of instinct and personality, bodily and energetic processes, individuality and interconnection, all in this microcosmic, nourishing moment.

Ten short weeks ago, we were so new to one another this way; now, the habitual rhythm is easy to overlook busy hour to busy hour. It just happens, like the growth of my baby I only notice in sudden spurts of surprise. He is growing fast, and so am I, thanks to his tutelage. Neither of us is the same person as we were when we first met face to freshly-born face. Who is this small being before me? I look into his eyes and dream of who he will be.

Then, I realize this is another distraction from the present person I have the opportunity to discover here and now. I refocus. I listen to his grunts and sniffs, smile as he smiles and softly speaks in his own lovely song, breathe deep the smell of his skin, and gently trace my fingers through his fuzzy hair. We look and look and look at each other. Who does he see?

I am humbled by the thought that he does not dream of who I will become - he happily accepts me here and now. He is teaching me to do the same. In innumerable ways, I am a stranger unto myself, just as my child is both intimate to my being's core and simultaneously someone I can never fully know.

The world is just like that. We can dream of what it will become, but the only way to the future is through this Now. Who are you, new world quietly breathing? What do you see when you look at me?

The Pond

"Pink fish! Swim, swim," he remarks in a singsong voice behind me.

With my back turned to my child, I smile to myself at his innocent choosing of the wrong color to describe what he sees. "Orange fish - those are koi," I think to myself. But before I speak aloud my correction, I turn to glance at the fish resting at the bottom of the shallow pond. Peering into the water, I stop short. I look more closely.

Sunbeams play through strands of aquatic flora and algae, splaying in a cloudy rainbow of ripples. The fish are tricky to spot beneath the disturbed surface and many layers of light. When I focus fully on the fish, watercolor wisps against black, I realize that my child is right - at this point in time, from this perspective, they look undeniably pink.

When presented with a fresh insight that offends my former understanding, I too quickly decide I already know what is right or wrong about it without looking again. Even when I think I am holding an open posture, sometimes I notice I have decided what I am about to receive instead of gazing anew at a seemingly-familiar person, perspective, or circumstance. More often than I would like to admit, I shake my head and smile smugly, comfortable in my false security.

My boys offer countless daily opportunities to look again. In looking again, I realize I am actually not looking *again* - I am looking for the first time at a particular arrangement of elements and energies that have never been quite like this and will not ever repeat themselves exactly. Oak shows me that dump truck rumblings sound like thunder, and he isn't afraid to name the emotions I'm experiencing with initially intimidating but enlightning clarity. Ronin's eye color is ever-changing, some days the rich blue of a perfectly ripe blueberry, others a deep forest green, still others gray like the edge of a summer storm. Some mornings, I am aware enough to wake and honor my little ones as intimate strangers, containing multitudes, who I have a precious chance to meet.

What if we could greet every other this way:
I have never seen this YOU before.
What color are you?
What is your name?

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other"
doesn't make any sense."
-
umi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Noticing how I feel questioning what I believe I know - startled, anxious, afraid? surprised, delighted, awed? - brings me to the threshold of true attention. Practicing genuine presence helps me to see more clearly, which in turn leaves me humbler and kinder. Each moment becomes a treasure and challenge, glinting like a rose-gold scale in wet, green-black waters, mine to discover and allow to recalibrate my perspective as another tiny glimmer in the miasma of possibility.

Louisville to Orlando

A rainbow of balloons ascended into the air over myriad-colored crowds. Thousands of people walked together, toward one another, across a sky now clear of the storm.

I followed at the end, a straggler, my baby against my heart, both of us breathing the warm freshness of descending evening. Ronin craned his neck, looking in every direction, as we walked past people holding hands and talking and crying and laughing and singing, people pulsing and gathering and watching and holding, people emblazoned over and over with the word: Love, Love,  Love.

There were so many gathered that it was impossible to hear the remarks made at the center of the bridge. Then, suddenly, a roaring applause rose like a wave through the throngs and assailed me with noisy jubilation. No words were needed.

We stood over the river waters, united as people who approached from all sides to close a parted sea, washing away the threat of evil. Friends and strangers waved and embraced and sang. Lanterns were lit and released. I paused with dear companions to marvel at the sky, its own rainbow flag of Light.

In the twilight, children played and laughed. My baby boy rested his head on my chest. The darkness teemed with the resonance of possibility.

Always Enough

Today began in exhaustion. Ronin, Oak, and I have all been awake since 4:30am - Oak has been sick and having night terrors and Ronin is, well, a newborn. It's also my first, full day solo with my boys.

The past few days, I have created a lot of fear around not being, or being able to do, enough as a homemaker. I was resolving this fear with the closed perspective that I was just not going to be able to take good care of myself, I was going to fall short, and the boys' needs were simply not going to be met - that was that. No need to be falsely optimistic or upbeat. My exact words to Robby when he asked how I was feeling about his return to work were, I'm not proud to admit, “Well, it's going to be f***ing hard. That's about all.”

I later realized that, by believing in advance that I wouldn't be enough, I was attempting to avoid disappointing myself. After processing my feelings with Robby, I released some of that rigid negativity. Of course this transition will be hard and I'll fall short, but there will be good in it, too, I affirmed, and I'll have moments when I feel I have done well. I remembered that I have autonomy in how I receive my experiences. I attuned to my more naturally positive posture - rather than deciding how anything would be ahead of time, one way or the other, I would honor each moment holistically and resist assigning “Pass” or “Fail” marks to every hour.

Despite a rough start, the boys and I still had a pleasant morning. We took the new dynamic in stride. We made a brief venture to a park and had fun. Miraculously, probably out of sheer exhaustion on everyone's part, even nap time (my most dreaded time of the day to navigate solo) began relatively smoothly. Oak crashed in his bed with little effort on my part shortly before Ronin fell asleep. This happened around 12:15pm. Score! Beginner's luck! Then, both boys slept 2 hours. Holy moly. The universe granted me the extra sleep I needed desperately. Mama nap achieved. What a gift!

I heard Oak waking up and went to grab him, leaving Ronin sleeping in the big bed. Oak was still so drowsy and motioned to lay on the bed with his brother when we came back into the room. I laid him down - I thought he and Ronin were both waking up shortly. Nope. They both conked out again, side by side. What were the odds?

Then...Oak rolled over in his sleep and took his brother's hand. They snuggled for almost another full hour, both boys in and out of sleep only to physically reconnect with the other before drifting off again. It's a wild, cosmic feeling to look at two little beings so in love with each other and realize, "Wow...I made both of those." Yet the words of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran reverberated in my soul as I gazed at them sleeping:
"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you."
Nevertheless, my heart exploded with wonder because these two clearly belong to one another.

The sweet surrender of my children and their gentleness to one another granted their mother some grace today, allowing me to learn by example the balance between releasing expectations AND trusting in abundance, simultaneously. I couldn't have planned or perfected this joyful experience of presence by anticipating or prejudging it. I can only receive it, and the countless difficult and pleasant moments to come, with gratitude and humility as they arrive. I can only tenderly embrace my days like my boys embrace one another, as companions and teachers...beloved brothers.

I was afraid of being too tired to cope with today; I realize many more days like this will come and that they will not always go well according to my hopes or plans. I will not always cope. However, I can try to release my hopes and plans to be guided by my children, as The Prophet suggests:
“You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Oak woke up, snuggled into my chest, and said in his sweet, not-yet-two lilting voice, “I wuv you, Mommy.” Then he bent forward and kissed Ronin's forehead: “I wuv you, Ronin.” Trusting that there are hidden gems of restorative beauty along the way, both glittering jewels and diamonds in the rough, will keep me walking forward in the dark. I will never be enough...and yet there is somehow always, always enough.

Love Opens

LOVE OPENS

In the last trimester of this second pregnancy, I closed up. The physical and emotional demands were more difficult than I expected: running around after a toddler and meeting his emotional needs while feeling constantly uncomfortable in my body, managing blood sugar levels, and surfing huge hormonal surges that left me exhausted by myself. Going out in public most likely meant I would attract attention and comments from strangers about my large size, emphasizing my own insecurity and discomfort. I really did not want to be around people, even my dearest friends and family, because I could barely take care of myself, let alone give to my relationships.

By withdrawing my energy, I felt I was conserving what little I had to give to my family and myself. To be well, I believed I wanted to be closed off, locked away. I put my life on hold. I didn't reach out to friends, make outings, or attend events. Each day was punctuated by a fixation on baby's arrival because, once he came, it would all be over...wouldn't it? I ignored the persistent, internal question, “What will that truly change?”

I felt something happening at a deep level as I withdrew: other channels seemed to close off. I lost my perspective and patience easily. I felt less creative. I was less likely to be friendly to a neighbor or curious toward my son and husband. I was mentally and emotionally stopped up and stagnant. Instead of giving to myself, I realized in the last week of pregnancy that, by turning so fully inward, I was actually taking from myself by not allowing my life to flow. Instead of better loving myself and others, I was becoming bitter, despite my best efforts to stay aligned in seclusion.

I then came across profound words by Ina May Gaskin, the preeminent American midwife. She writes that in the thousands of births she has witnessed, she has noted a direct correlation between the relaxation and release of women's other bodily sphincters and the opening of their vaginas in birth. Simply keeping her jaw unclenched and her mouth open can help a woman dilate more easily and quickly, for instance - so can sitting on the toilet, a place where she is used to relaxing her bottom. But this isn't all: furthermore, receiving or offering words of affirmation and love also allow women to open. Hearing her partner tell her she is loved, expressing her own gratitude to those helping with the birth, and feeling the safety and security of a caring space allows a mother to give birth with less pain and more joy.

The body has its portals between the inside and outside. So, it would seem, does the spirit; these portals of connection and integration enable our relationships and creative processes to unfold and flourish. Fear and threat close them down, which makes giving birth - or living a meaningful, generative life - a struggle. But other energies open them wide - most powerfully, love. Love eases, inspires, instills courage. Love allows us to be permeable and soft to life. Love requires us to be engaged and integrated with others. Love cannot flow if we close ourselves. Love is a verb, we often hear, and its direction is outward. Love opens.

The revelation came like a full-bodied flash from my mind and womb: Love Opens. My whole pregnancy, I found my life aligning more and more to connecting with people, putting ideas into action, and letting myself be led; it was impossible not to feel that my child was responsible for the palpable energetic shift. He infused his nine months in utero with dynamic, expansive possibility. But my own struggles and fears kept me from leaning into the current of what emerges when I surrender to life's flow and what is being created through but beyond me. Around and within, my withdrawal had caused pain. Now, I understood I had to let go. This was the lesson I needed to learn to give birth to my second baby: to open up wholeheartedly without fear of not having or being enough. Love is motion that simultaneously draws together and expands beyond conceivable limits.

When the day came at last when Ronin began to make his arrival, I was ready - ready to be led. I held back from nothing. I tried to receive each rush joyfully in the beginning. I played and danced and made love with my husband. I turned my attention away from the discomfort and tuned into my delight. My husband held my hand to keep me grounded as the intensity built. I made long, low “Om” tones to bring down my awareness into the pain, which I could endure without suffering if I didn't resist it. I let many hands - husband's, mother's, mother-in-law’s, nurse’s, midwife's - hold me, steady me, cool me, clean me, reassure me. I listened as my husband, my rock, told me again and again softly, lovingly, “You can do this. You are doing this.”

There were moments I felt the resistance within me rise and threaten to close me up: when the pain became all-encompassing, my self-doubt reared, or I succumbed to distractions from the present. I felt the temptation to create distance from the people and circumstances near me by believing my supporters could not understand my pain. That bitterness turned in my mouth a couple times. Nevertheless, I returned to the mantras that illumined the truth that I was held and deeply connected. “I love my baby, my husband, these women.” The words allowed a path to unfold in me, through me: “Relax.” “Open up.” “I'm going to get HUGE.” “Love opens.”

And, of course, soon and smoothly enough, I did open. As I began to push, I recalled the refrain that came to me as I painted Ronin's mandala: “Down and through, up and out.” I had made it down and through my body's process of opening, so now I ascended with vigor to push my baby out. I knew just what to do with my body because it told me. An intense push sent my womb waters spraying in a sudden burst that elicited surprised laughter from my caretakers. I heard all around me, “Good job! Oh, wow! You're doing it, you've got it, Mandy!” I felt my baby move quickly down and through and then, with a gush of blood and a flurry of limbs, Ronin came up and out onto my chest, over my heart. I met my husband's gaze in elation. I smiled as he took a picture of us. I cried, “We did it!”

And, through the portals of joy and collaboration and compassion and intention and perseverance and hope and mystery and great, great wonder, Love Opened, within and all around.

Morning Hymn

Birdsong chorus echoes starry skies
Aria chirps - ancient chimes
Red, blue, yellow feathers & frequencies
Tweeted rounds & turning spheres
Swelling moon sentinel soars between
Woodleaf Dawn & Dark Matter Milieu
Awareness takes flight - deams alight
Liminal mind traverses dimensions & distance

To Ronin

You began as the fruit grew heavy
on vines and branches, in the heat
of August - first a wish, then a will, then
a passionate union of elements
to fulfill a dream I held, second child.
You caught my imagination like the deer
I passed often in open fields that appeared
as summer messengers to herald mystery,
spry spirits and quick bodies foreshadowing.
You made your swift way through the shade.
Autumn leaves transfigured to falling snow,
seasons turning rapidly as pages in a new
story. Your name, whispered between lines
and through busy days, settled surely on my
tongue and heart, sparked an instant vision
of strength. Growing, you affirmed intuition
with boldness, presenting more grounded
connections, channeling words to action,
stretching my physical and etheric bodies.
You are breaking molds, a spring shoot
through old soil, harnessing energy to shape
what we hope for in what we touch. Your
heaviness teaches me how to be human, here
and willing to walk the path emerging
from fire and dust at the feet. My son,
the rains and blooms are yours, rinsing and
rising, your soul a legend for this new world's
map. I see you running through the thicket,
untamed and ready. I do not expect that I can
follow the way, or that you will turn back.
But I trust that when I catch your eye, I will see
where we are going, that our heartbeats will
speak the next, wordless chapter.

Wash Feet

Wake on a Holy Thursday from dreams of birthing babies to gray skies and tree blossoms, pink and soft, unfurling.

Watch your small son eye wind-tossed wildflowers, pressing his forehead to the window, and imagine the worlds he inhabits, holds.

Notice the curves of his feet, wrinkled like overlapping petals, nestled with patterns never once made until he became.

Feel your womb waters turn as your baby stirs those small tides; the strain of connected bodies when the closeness grows heavy; the sorrow of inevitable separation.

Carry the melancholy of spring rain on green grass, smelling the decay in each story of failure that foddered fresh growth.

Pray for children, present and future, whose knowledge of what can be comes to us as heralded Reign clouds, a perfect storm to part the dark and cleanse with light.

Recall the spiritual mandate to wash feet as you draw a bath, place your son inside the large basin, pour water across his shoulders, and offer gratitude that this moment is salvational.

Breathe into your belly, to your baby, to abate your fear of the death that always comes when you break open, to bring inspiration, to begin again for your children.

Close the ritual of the lived day by lighting a candle, laying your body to rest, folding your hands, closing your eyes, and letting the dark bury you.

Rise once more, your heart a bud.

Strength

I count the colors of the wrinked tablecloth
by naming them: orange, green, blue, periwinkle.
I try to make my breath emanate evenly
in that floral pattern, vines winding smoothly
from bud to bud through pounding heartbeats,
but the tears stream in wordless apologies:
'I'm sorry I am not stronger. Everyone,
everyone who is alive or will ever be, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, my boy, that you see your mama cry,
that I don't know how to hold suffering without feeling it.
I'm sorry there is pain in everything, especially love.'
Later, at the moment I finally request forgiveness aloud,
I step out of the car and am instantly startled by
the haunting calls of two, coupled geese sailing overhead.
Suddenly, I am awake. Their message hovers in a cloud
of pale gray wisdom. Despair's spectrum colors collapse;
the clear prism rests on my heart, under a child's hand,
between wings touching: "You are never alone."
I learn that a friend's baby, who was born today,
shares a name with my son. Once again,
I cannot stop crying, this time at beauty's clear patterns -
lines, wingbeats, pulsing hearts across space.
Tonight, I find a fragile day lily growing through black, broken
concrete. It does not see its courage or consider its strength.
It only disregards the wreckage and rises.

What is Always There: Four Ways We Can Remember to be Human

1. Oak insisted on pulling his wagon along the side of the road on our walk through the neighborhood. His pace slowed me and Robby into more steadfast attention as the labor of his small body led us to tend more carefully to often-overlooked bumps in the sidewalk, patches of mud, slight rises and dips on the path. The tedious work of hauling the empty wagon only delighted him. We meandered slowly but happily - there was nowhere else to be. Dusk settled as we completed the last leg of our little journey; flying bats overhead raised all of our eyes to the darkening sky, where we noticed the first star of evening. "Bat." "Dark." "Star." Our boy echoed each revelation with syllables that sounded like an ancient tongue resonating in his tiny voice. My heavy belly stirred as the baby within stretched. I murmured reflexively, "Being human is pretty wild, isn't it, Oakie?" His silence was a perfect reply. The three of us sang together as we walked, "Twinkle, twinkle, little star - how I wonder what you are..."

2. Early this morning, Oak and I went to play in Big Rock Park. The only other person there was a man in a button-down shirt and dress pants, walking with a plastic bag, bending every few steps to pick up another piece of trash. The place was littered with styrofoam cups and paper and bottles. His silent pilgrimage came to a close near the playground, where we caught one another's eye and smiled. I said with feeling, "Thank you." He told me that he enacts the same ritual every morning ("They try to keep it nice, I know, but it's hard to keep this place up."). He said the park always looks the same when he arrives, that he never thought "No littering" signs would be necessary. He lamented the many unused trash cans around the park. There was no trace of despair in his voice, only gladness to share with a stranger. When I repeated my gratitude for his kindness, he replied with a genuine smile and conviction, "It's the least I can do. Enjoy this place." I wondered how he spent the rest of his day. My boy waved as he drove away.

3. We spotted a robin tugging a worm out of the dirt, stretching it thin like a rubber band. His thick neck thrusted back several times to fully extract his breakfast, which he tossed back quickly. Oak inched closer and closer, watching intently; instead of flying far out of reach, the bird simply fluttered in short distances around the park. Soon they were playing a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse, or boy-and-bird, across the large expanse of grass. Why didn't the bird leave the arrangement altogether, or my boy sit down and abandon the chase? Neither party seemed confident they would catch up to one another, but that did not deter my boy's enthusiasm or the bird's measured retreat. The inevitable end of this futile pursuit was that nothing of any consequence happened - nevertheless, the untempered energies of the young human and woodland warbler lent themselves to an unproductive but intriguing flight of wing and spirit. After a time, the robin perched on a branch over the creek where we watched him until he sailed across the water and out of sight.

4. Tonight, we made another loop through our neighborhood in the dark and wet. Oak pulled the empty wagon, Robby led the dogs on their leashes, and I held Oak's hand. As we walked the last stretch, our little one craned his neck to look up at the cloudy sky and pointed. "Dark, star," he remembered. Shortly thereafter, he dropped the wagon handle and ran with joyful squeals to hug Robby's legs. "Dad! Dad!" he proclaimed with spontaneous delight. His father laughed in surprise and bent down to embrace him, saying, "I love you so much!" Oak then reached out a hand to both dogs - "Dogs!" - then rested his head on each of them in turn. "Mom! Mom!" he said, turning back to me; we squeezed each other tightly. Finally, he embraced his wagon in sweet abandon. Robby and I laughed in contagious happiness at his unselfconsious affection. We all held hands and finished walking the rest of the way home. Cast under the spell of spontaneous gratitude, the moment accompanied us like another, familiar companion, refreshing as rain on an upturned face. The wordless lesson hung in the air like mist. Our feet were washed clean by wet grass. We ascended our front steps and walked through the door.

The Form of What Has Never Been Before

"Early this morning, there was fog & as the sun rose around us, everything began to glow & it made me wonder what this world will become for us when we remember in our bones that even the darkness is just another shape of light." - Brian Andreas

The day before the Unity Rally, I listened to Reverend Ray at Unity of Louisville share that their congregation believes every human being carries the Christ presence deep within - every human, even Donald Trump. They believe each person harbors at their core the capacity to be transformed and liberated in as little as a single moment. Therefore, although opposing people's unjust and violent actions is necessary, so is maintaining respect for their dignity no matter how abhorrently they have violated the dignity of others.

The next day, neighbors from across our city gathered in Unity to celebrate connections across boundaries and revel in the common Light of our being. While Trump spoke words of hate and division from his podium and his constituents instigated violence, those who attended our rally intentionally chose not to share negativity toward him or any other, instead holding up our common hopes and love. The clashing reverberations of Trump's rally further downtown and the lyrical, musical, community gathering at which I stood were almost as palpable as the thunderclaps overhead.

In spite of the beauty of the Unity Rally, this week has been shadowed by dark clouds of suffering and righteous despair in our city. Last night, when a friend invited me to meditation at the Drepung Gomang Center, I went to find some space to be silent and release my internal anxiety and fear. I sat and let the monks' mantras wash over me in cleansing sound waves that spoke of cosmic compassion, the noble venture to unify all beings, and the human task to honor our emptiness as individuals and awaken to our common identity.

The prayerful syllables painted mental pictures of snowy mountains and clear plains: soft, fresh, open spaces.I felt my awareness pan out to our planet as a collective Lifeform...and let myself dissolve into the silence, imagining generations of humans seeking to bring forth a new world. In the dark, I envisioned swirling particles and gasses aeons away in supernovae and nebulae, striving to form something that had never been before.

"If there were no internal propensity to unite, even at a prodigiously rudimentary level — indeed in the molecule itself — it would be physically impossible for love to appear higher up, with us, in hominized form...Driven by the forces of love, the fragments of the world seek each other so that the world may come into being."

"There is almost a sensual longing for communion with others who have a large vision. The immense fulfillment of the friendship between those engaged in furthering the evolution of consciousness has a quality impossible to describe.” - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Last Saturday, I saw a Facebook status posted by a friend that articulated his vision for a peaceful, celebratory event in opposition to Trump's political rally happening Tuesday. I knew of Jaison from his extensive community work in Louisville but had never met him personally. Nevertheless, his idea resonated deeply with me: being 7 months pregnant and knowing I would have my 20-month-old in tow the day of Trump's rally, I, too, was looking for a nonviolent place to share with others. I reached out and agreed to make an electronic event for organizing.

Little did I realize that having my name on the electronic event would mean taking on a significant role in bringing it to life. Over the three days in which we planned this rally, I came to meet (first in virtual space, then face-to-face) many incredible, compassionate people I perhaps would have not otherwise met: Jaison, Muhammad Babar, Pinky, Reverends Valerie and Ray, and scores of others who showed up at the rally to make our time one of true community. 

Standing onstage and looking out at the bright diversity of ages and colors, identities and imaginations represented in those gathered together, tears sprang to my eyes. My son and nephew played drums and danced at the back of the room. I saw family members and friends and unknown faces that shone with a familiar longing. The baby in my womb kicked. I felt overwhelmed by the wonder of what can happen when we seek each other out and choose to recognize one another as extensions of the same body.

None of the key organizers had met prior to this event, but the mutual respect and trust shown between us in our planning, even as perfect strangers, left no one alien. All were invited to create this place of joy and celebration. It would have been impossible for any one of us to make the gathering a reality on our own. Tapped into the well of human potential, honoring the light and dark of each one, we gathered as a beacon against the gray hatred seething to the north. Here, simply by sitting together in our humanness, we demonstrated how our country can be great.

"In every age, no matter how cruel the oppression carried on by those in power, there have been those who struggled for a different world. I believe this is the genius of humankind, the thing that makes us half divine: the fact that some human beings can envision a world that has never existed.” - Anne Braden

I continue to read the rolling updates of the horrors that happened down the street that day at the other rally. Slurs and hate speech, attacks and assaults, outright recruitment for hate groups, all from people blazoned with ball caps declaring that such demonstrations will "Make America Great Again" swim across my screen. My chest tightens and my heart aches. What am I thinking, bringing babies into this world? How will I begin to teach them why these evils persist? How can I address my regular complacency when the injustice isn't echoing so loudly in my city streets? How will I know that I am tending well to myself and my family instead of escaping from the horror?

This morning, like a prayer or a gift or an invocation, thick flakes of snow began to fall as my family watched through the window. The spontaneous beauty took our breath away. In the half-light of morning, my boy and I settled in the dark for an early nap. We are tired, but this exhaustion empties me of my desires. Instead, I feel welling up an energy deeper than wakefulness. This awareness is light and dark, illumination and mystery. It is the look in my son's eyes when he says, "I love you!" and nestles his face in my neck. It is my husband's steady hand on my back when he knows I am afraid but am acting anyway. It is the knowledge that I do not stand alone and delighting in the discovery of each fellow companion. It is honoring my own faults, looking squarely at our country's gaping wounds, and feeling the pain. It is knowing that the body is not healed until all parts are healed.

I feel peace settle like snow across a tree branch, ephemeral and transient, sustained by each falling flake. I trust we can only create the world anew if we notice and try to create examples of how it can look. I believe we must let our children speak to us about their dreams to know what the future holds. I have faith that filling our hearts with music and poetry, celebrating humankind's myriad manifestations, and honoring each person as something precious to the earth will teach us why we stand together. I honor the cosmic movement in our collective efforts as we strive to form something that has never been before.

"Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure." - Madeleine L'Engle

Zone of Awareness

Tonight, I intentionally carved out some space once Oak went to bed to give some attention not only to weary legs and achy joints, but to my sleepy spirit. I took a few celebratory, *I'm 30 weeks pregnant!* selfies, prepared a mug of dark hot chocolate with marshmallows, and walked with it into the bathroom. I was getting into it: the self-care zone. I took a few deep breaths, lit a candle, and drew back the shower curtain to run my bath water.

Oh, yeah. Three dirty cloth diaper covers were sitting in the tub because I had hastily thrown them out of the toilet when I had to pee earlier - they had been soaking in the toilet water to get all the toddler poop off. Sigh. Well, that meant I probably needed to clean the tub a little; by "clean," I mean splash some warm water around to remove obvious particulate. "No problem," I thought, gingerly grabbing the covers, "I'll just throw them in the sink and rinse it well later..."

Oh, right. There were already a dozen tiny cups of varying shapes and colors in our sink, left over from my boy's "sensory play" with water and bubbles. Sigh again. I threw the diaper covers back in the tub, careful to avoid dripping anything into my hot chocolate mug, and piled up the cups in our overflowing tiered basket of bath toys before moving the covers again. I hastily "cleaned" (rinsed) the tub, awkwardly huffing and puffing because my lungs were constricted by my pregnant belly when I bent over so far.

NOW, the space was ready! A sink of diaper covers and a hanging basket of toys, plus an elegant arrangement of plant life and a candle perched on a scratched-up toilet lid in my feeble attempt to beautify the space: what more ambiance could I want in a bathroom that's approximately four by five feet? (It's the only bathroom in our house.) I suddenly realized I had to pee again and that, unlike during a shower, I can't pee during a bath. Sigh once again.

After another series of rearrangements, I ran the hot water and watched as the steam began to rise from the tub. Adding baking soda and Epsom salts infused with eucalyptus and lavender, I could feel myself slipping back into the self-care zone. I stepped into the fragrant water, lowered my body down...and remembered just how tiny the tub feels when I'm 30 weeks pregnant. I could sort of lay down in it if I curled my knees to my belly and folded my 5'4" frame to fit the short length of the tub. But the heat and buoyancy nevertheless brought quick relief and reverie, and I let my inner monologue silence into stillness...

Oh, yeah. I am so damn lucky to have clean, hot water and a private space of quiet to cleanse me. I have good friends and community around me that teach me ways to care for myself and offer me constant reminders to do so. My body is strong, healthy, even beautiful, if I give it the chance. I am floating in a moment graced with simple bliss.

I rolled over in the tub and felt Ronin stir inside. I pressed my hand to my belly and, to my delight and wonder, felt a little hand? foot? press back. His slow, sweet movements took my breath away.

Oh, right...I am in love with my family. We are living a full, privileged life. The evidence is everywhere, from the dirty covers and strewn toys to the abandon of Oak's activity and the joy in his laughter. I remembered Robby's gentle hand on my back earlier after I bemoaned the possibility of never again fitting into a favorite shirt, then recanted my angst by tackling Oak with kisses and exclaiming, "But why would I care - look what I've got!" His touch, Oak's pealing giggles, Ronin's small tumbles, all rearranged my insides toward better alignment.

After a time, I sat up and watched the water drain. I covered my belly with oil and drank cool water. I replaced the diaper covers in the empty tub and cleaned (rinsed) the sink. I slipped into oversized sweats, then into bed next to my sleepy husband. I had forgotten whether or not I was still in the self-care zone, but my aches and exhaustion were gone. I felt present, more than a little amused at my humanness, and thankful.

Now, Oak is crying from his room. I'm going to hit "post" and go to him. And, although I did let out a sigh when I heard him call out, I also felt happy to take him in my arms, to let him know I'm here, to hold him in the dark until we both drift off to sleep.