I am sitting in a cozy, almost empty cafe, my body arranged sideways in my seat—an attempt to avoid lower back pain brought on by exercise done too enthusiastically after a long hiatus. It’s a few days since a gorgeous snow storm left our Pines heavily coated, the view from our home looking perfect—all flaws blanketed with the snow’s immaculate coating.
There are so many things that I should be doing—things that matter to me hugely but that I put on the back burner instead. Bills unsent yet nearly due, children’s clothing piling up and needing to be organized, dear friends and family neglected for months—for years even. Given a few moments to myself, though, I almost never want to tackle my to-do list. My inbox remains full, gifts un-purchased. I long for breathing instead. I long for connection with the part of me that has dreams bigger than a balanced check-book. I long for the part of me who is loved despite being out of touch. I choose in these moments—even as I write—to be with who I am beneath all of the stuff, beneath the powdery surface, down in that very perfect place where I am as real as soil and seeds.
In these precious times I push away the should’s and the need to’s even just for a few hours knowing that it is in this rich and fertile place that I may connect with the possibilities of my life. In these moments I quietly sink into who I really am, knowing that when I return to the responsibilities of my life, I will have something of value to share. Here I connect with the life that I feel called to experience. Between my breaths (and yours), in the space behind my thoughts (and yours) there is great wisdom. There is guidance. There is even great love and forgiveness for all that we as mothers (and fathers and human beings) do and fail to do.
When help is scarce, I know that these moments may also be experienced in the presence of my children. When I’ve allowed myself to, I have found this deep inner silence among my two little boys, cherishing a quiet moment inside of myself when I see that they have embraced each other in play. I have found these moments in the space between the pages of a story I am reading, anchored on either side by warm, little legs. These magical moments can even be experienced in seemingly painful times, like when I am waiting out my two-year-old son Adrian’s cries as he himself expands—wanting and needing to be in charge. There are certainly occasions when I fill my time alone with shopping, the endless gathering of foods and things—and there is absolutely a time and need for this. But I have found, over and over and over that filling myself instead with breath, with connection to the source of all that is beautiful and magical in this world is so very, very beneficial to me and to my children. I come back to myself, I come back to my children a more complete and centered being.
While the covering of our (last?) snow of the season was experienced as so magical and made everything look so very beautiful, we—in our home, and in my soul—are eager for the first signs of Spring, for the unearthing of our garden, for the further unearthing of ourselves and for digging our hands into the earth, planting seeds and growing in the process.