“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” —Albert Einstein

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Praying_Hands

Etched in my mind is the image of my mother on the day she taught me to pray. She is sitting at a table, her back very straight, her hair curly. She brings her hands together in front of her, aligning her long slender fingers—one to the other—her elbows are on the table. Then speaking to us—a group of 10 year old catechism students—she intertwines her fingers and folds her head over against them reverently. She speaks of the, “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary’s.” She speaks of talking to God. I remember her at Mass in those years, coming back to our pew after Communion and settling into the position she showed us that day. I thought then and I believe now that my Mother said far more to God in those moments than the learned words of our Catholic faith. I don’t know what was in her heart but from her posture I knew that she believed that she was being heard. Although we never spoke of the exact nature of my Mother’s faith at that time, I believe that in watching her I first awakened to the idea of a higher being who was listening to and even observing me. This was sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening. I remember attending a youth retreat at our church in which a visiting priest interrogated me, saying to me over and over, “what did you do? what did you do?” because I was crying during my “confession.” My tears were tears of discomfort, tears of sadness even but this priest assumed I must have done something terribly wrong to be crying in front of him. He must have believed in a punishing God. I remember also a warm and loving priest, Father Balthazar from Hungary—lovingly referred to as “Father B” by the many who adored him. He hosted a day for blessing animals at our church and had a laugh that made you feel warm, like you wanted to smile. He was kind and remembered all of our names, the details of our lives, even in a very large congregation. I believe he knew a loving God.

I remember attending a warm and wonderful Baptist church in my teen years on many occasions with a dear friend. It was a humble place with after-service pot-lucks and the preacher’s house rested a stones throw from the chapel. Everyone was welcome. I remember several times looking around the congregation—with a lump in my throat—the many faithful were singing, hands raised up high in the air. I felt enveloped in love in that room. I felt envious and out-of-place and seen all at the same time. My prayer life continued and deepened in the years that followed and I attended both Catholic and protestant churches throughout much of college.

I remember sitting on an airplane when I was twenty-two years old and opening a book titled, “Living with Joy.” My older sister had given it to me and I was trying to ignore the fact that the forward of the book claimed that the writing had been “channeled.” I was trying to ignore the swirling, purple and pink cover so typical of late 90’s New Age books. It was the same year that my sister began telling me that she loved me. As I read the words in this book a tremendous peace began to come over me. I have often thought back to those tranquil moments. I can see myself then—as if on a movie reel—peering out the oval window to my left at mountainous clouds, taking in the warmth of the sun streaming in on me. Although I was ten thousand feet up in the air, I remember finding myself feeling grounded and settling into two very big new ideas. I was settling into the idea of being incredibly valuable just simply in being myself, all that I inherently am—imagined and created by the most magnificent energy in the Universe. In those same moments, I was settling into the knowledge that I was a part of something so much bigger than I could ever begin to be alone. I did not recognize what each of those feeling meant at the time, I just knew that I felt safe and at peace and in control and free and loved and cherished and a part of something and just very, very good for maybe the first time in my life.

I carried that book around with me for months and like an elixir, every time I read the words within I was healed. A fundamental change occurred for me with that book. It was a simple yet profound little book (along with the dozens of other like-minded books and teachers that followed) that took the many pathways that I had been traveling toward God and led me directly to *Him. It was then and over the course of the next nineteen years that I came into my beliefs about the God which I hold dear to me today. I believe that we are spiritual beings having a human experience and that we are here to grow and expand and to heal and become whole. I believe that we have the opportunity to co-create with God through our intentions and our words and even our desires and that we may not always understand why we have created that which we have. I believe there is no such thing as a coincidence. I believe that God hears us and sees us and knows us but in a way that is mysterious and with a wisdom so colossal that it cannot be explained. I believe that communication from God may come through the wisdoms of many different religions and spiritual traditions as well as from the headline of a newspaper or a graffiti scrolled on a highway bridge. I believe that there is a piece of God inside of us, near to our hearts, that is always accessible, but that we are free to ignore for as long as we choose. I believe that God is in the world around us—the acorn with it’s little perfect hat, the curl of a wave. I believe God is in our children—the miracle of their creation, the miracle of their coming here into our lives.

My desire is for my boys to start with God where I found him in my twenties. My desire is that they only know a God of love, not of guilt or need for repentance. I hope that they will know a God of comfort and guidance and feel powerful in their ability to co-create their lives and know their purposes by listening to their hearts. I want for them to know that the best expression of their love of God will be a life in which they use their gifts, are true to themselves and loving toward others.

I’ve been surprised at how readily my four year old Jonah has embraced the idea of God. I’ve been careful not to be heavy-handed, knowing that within him he has access to a truth that for me I’ve had to unearth. I began with regular night-time prayers when he was around 2 years old but then backed off when it began to feel forced. Instead we now do spontaneous praying when the moment feels right. From time-to-time I will pray for guidance in front of him and my littler boy Adrian. We frequently pray for our family and share the things we are grateful for surrounding our breakfast and dinner. Together we attend a weekly service at a Unitarian Universalist Church and Jonah has stated that we go there to learn about God. He likes our having a church. He likes the Pie Sunday tradition that we experienced last week. Adrian does not like being left in the nursery and enjoys speaking loudly over the reverend when we bring him into the service with us. When my husband and I were married we chose to honor the religions and traditions of both of our families and so our wedding was officiated by both a rabbi and a priest. During the preparations, our priest was required to have us sign a document declaring that we would raise our children Catholic. A wise and incredibly loving man, he assured us that all this meant to him was that we would raise our children in a house of love. Let me be a loving example to my children. This is my greatest desire in sharing God with each of them.

Jonah has struggled at times to be gentle with his little brother. It has not always been easy for him to share me and to share my husband with another little soul. Witnessing this has allowed for me to see my older sister in a different light (here is an example of God’s wisdom that I could never have orchestrated myself). I have urged Jonah to listen to his heart so that he may know how to treat his brother. Developmentally I am not certain that it is correct, but I am listening to my own heart when I guide him this way. Last night, as he and his brother were bathing together, Jonah shrieked out in the most delightful and excited way wanting to share something with me. He said, “I listened to my heart! I listened to my heart!” He used a voice that could only be described as overflowing with pure joy. He went on to explain that he had experienced an urge to be less than gentle with Adrian and that all of a sudden he had listened to his heart and made a different decision. I shrieked out in joy with him not because he had done the “right” thing so much as because I could see the light of God in his eyes and hear it in his voice. I will tread so very lightly with this knowledge and try not to “use” it or manipulate this new knowledge of his in any way. I want for him to settle into the truth of his own heart in his own way and at his own pace.

 

*I refer to my idea of God as “Him” simply for editorial ease. The God I know is much too all-encompassing to be categorized as either masculine or feminine. He just is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.” — Helen Keller

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Water Dripping

I was recently contacted by the website, 27goodthings.com, with a request that I share three things that I feel are good to read, good to watch and good to use. I found the exercise to be interesting and thought it might be worth sharing. These are my three good things. What are yours?

Three Good Things to Read:

There’s a Spiritual Solution to Every Problem by Wayne Dyer
As a mother, I am met with countless challenges throughout my day. To someone without children, these hurtles may seem minor and kept in perspective, they really are. Things like, negotiating with a little one who doesn’t want to go be strapped into his carseat. Removing a toy being used as armament from clutched fingers—in a gentle way. Comforting hurt feelings and smoothing out misunderstandings between two boys who have only been walking around on this planet for less than five years combined. Maintaining patience and mindfulness for marathon lengths of time. Alongside these experiences, I am a human being with a journey of my own, sometimes struggling to overcome the various ways in which life can feel like an uphill climb. All of Wayne Dyer’s teachings speak about the wisdom we may find within and from our highest source, if only we take the time to look. It doesn’t matter if we are taming toddlers or negotiating world peace. This book in particular sits in plain view in my home always reminding me that I have a choice to choose a spiritual solution in any situation no matter how big or small a problem may be.

Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav
This is a book that was required reading for my husband if we were to continue dating more than eight years ago. To this day, we remain spiritual partners even when we have days when it doesn’t seem that way. Especially when we have days when it doesn’t seem that way. This book holds a special place for me because it opened my mind more fully to the idea that we are all spiritual beings having a human experience and that each person we encounter may be—if we allow them to be—a spiritual partner. Along with Zukav, I believe that even when our agreements aren’t conscious, we are all teachers to one another, constantly changing roles and living out various story lines as needed for our souls to grow and become more fully whole.

Quotes and Writings by Emerson & Thoreau
My favorite memories, my favorite days with my children take place almost exclusively in nature. Watching my two boys spin around and around looking up at the sky, then falling down at the beach last week with bare feet exposed but still snuggled in winter coats was pure heaven to me. Leaning back against a stone wall, heated by the sun, I thought about how time at the beach has long been a place of solace for me—the rhythm of the ocean grounding me and settling any rough waters I may be experiencing within. As I’ve grown more devoted to mindfulness, my love, my attunement to nature has expanded as well. With this I have discovered Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau and all of the Transcendentalists in a new way. Choose a quote of theirs, any of them and just sit with it. Sit with it in nature and discover a whole new way of looking at the world.

Three Good Things to Watch

Water Dripping
Last week I was traveling to an appointment when I suddenly realized that I was supposed to drop my car off for an inspection. I had to change directions, the loaner car that I was given was almost out of gas and when I arrived at my appointment one minute before I was supposed to, I felt anxious and ungrounded. In the waiting room there was a water cooler with a hot-water nozzle to make tea but there was no water bottle present and so to make tea I needed to allow a very slow drizzle of  the left-over water in the machine to make its way out onto my tea bag. I crouched down comfortably and allowed that moment to begin calming me. I watched as the water came out so very slowly. I noticed the way the tea bag appeared when the water dripped onto it. I breathed. I settled into myself and I made tea. These moments in life in which we must wait, the stop lights, the long lines at the market, can be incredibly grounding, incredibly soothing if we allow ourselves to slow down, sink into our bodies and just take them in.

Your Breath
In my mind breathing is incredibly underrated. It is that which ultimately allows us to continue living in this wild and magnificent and monotonous and exciting and lonely and loving and thrilling place that we call life. Sitting and closing my eyes, first deepening my breath and then beginning to watch and notice the circular nature of my breath—beginning to watch and notice all of the places my breath touches—I settle more deeply into myself. If all we do is begin to notice our breath, we begin to live more deeply, more meaningfully and with greater joy for all of the little miracles of being alive.

A Child’s Face
There is no more lovely place than a child’s cheek. With your eyes, trace their lashes, notice the precious nature of their lips, the curve of their hair. Observe a child’s face when they laugh, observe them when they cry or protest or are surprised. Watch them especially when they are watching you. Watch them as they take it all in and learn from you how to live. There in a child’s face are his joys, his concerns and all that we need to know to help him along.

Three Good Things to Use

Intuition
We have five senses that are commonly counted on to take in the world around us—sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Peppered in between the messages we receive from these senses are other signals found sometimes in our “gut” and sometimes posted on a billboard as we drive along a highway. Conserve time and energy in your life by tapping into and using these messages as guideposts along your journey. If you pay attention and tap into this powerful Sixth Sense, you will know clearly which job to take, whether or not you need to move and who to call at the exact moment needed. Among others, author and teacher, Sonia Choquette, was one of the first messengers who awakened in me a powerful appreciation for my intuitive gift, a gift we all have if only we may listen.

Forgiveness
It can be very difficult to let go of painful experiences and forgive those who have hurt us — it is a practice that has not always come easily to me. However, when we do choose and use forgiveness as a regular practice in our lives, we can move on more quickly to the real purpose of our being here. Carrying around pain, whether recent or very old, can be like carrying along an extra weight in everything we do. Knowing that we are choosing forgiveness as a way of being will set us up for easier encounters when situations arise that are potentially hurtful to us. This is not to say that we should allow people to continually injure us without some consideration for their role in our life but more of a plan to travel lightly. Unload the pains of your past, plan to keep your luggage light and move forward in being all that you were called here to be.

Gratitude
Oh-how-differently I feel when I choose gratitude. Like most people, when I examine my life closely and not-even-so-closely, I see that I have much, much more to be grateful for than to complain about and when I choose to focus on these things, I inevitably feel happier and more focused, more loving and connected to the meaning of my life. If only you may count three reasons to feel grateful at the start of your day, you will notice a tone of gratefulness rippling across your life and creating tremendously positive waters.

 

What are your Three Good Things?

“Freedom is from within.” —Frank Lloyd Wright

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Lower Manhattan at Night from Brooklyn Bridge ...

A meeting with Jonah’s teachers at his lovely, pink straw bale school house fills my early morning. A babysitter is home with my boys and I steal a little extra time to stretch my legs and my soul at the local YMCA. It’s a rare luxury these days, time alone on a treadmill mid-morning. I have forever loved exercise but lately my spare time seems to be filled-up with errands and long ignored doctor’s appointments—or with just finding a quiet place to sit and breathe. On the treadmill now, images of Jonah brought to life by his teachers swirl around in my head. I’m thinking about how they say they have noticed his depth, his wide-eyed observations of the world. I’m thinking about how they say they have noticed his “goodness” and how he—like all of us—is also interested in discovering the other, varied sides of himself, the varied sides of life. I am reminded of my own struggle to be accepting of the many facets of my being and how I would never want for Jonah to feel the need to live up to an unreachable standard—a need that I have been working to shed for nearly two decades now.

Nostalgic and poetic lyrics speak to me through my headphones and I am transported away from thoughts of Jonah—away from thoughts of my entire family who are almost always the main occupants of my heart and mind. On this day, I am no longer exercising at a YMCA in rural Maine, looking out at a wooded, still-wintery scene but back in New York City instead. I am meandering through the city with my dear friend, climbing over the Brooklyn Bridge. I have no diaper bag in tow. It’s September 11th now and I am stepping out of my apartment looking at the ash on my street and wondering if I should flee. I am meeting with a another friend in her Upper West Side apartment, plotting to save the world. I am looking for love in all the wrong places. I am schlepping giant paintings on the F train to fringe art shows in Brooklyn. I am being photographed on a tire swing, under the Manhattan Bridge—feeling like a dolphin. I am taking a leap of faith and buying an apartment, buying my first set of real furniture. I am dressing up as Pippi Longstockings for Halloween and staying out until dawn. I am picnicking in Central Park on my 31st birthday, falling in love in a better, more final way. I am so very, incredibly free and yet so incredibly filled with longing.

I’m walking on the treadmill and as these images flood my mind—and my heart, and my soul—I am wondering how that girl from long ago can be the same person who is now the mother of my two boys. I am wondering how that free-spirit with her total disregard for bedtime can be such a force of reliable rhythm for her children now. How can that young woman who teased her then boyfriend—now husband—about his constant need for an itinerary now be the one often in need of more certain plans. How can that girl, then on a constant roller-coaster of emotions now be the one kneeling down before her boys—often creating a lap for two—offering comfort and stability. I am wondering which parts of that girl have been tucked away and which parts of her have permeated her (my!) life today.

A few weeks ago my husband and I had a morning to ourselves and visited a few art galleries in Portland, ME. There was one studio that caught my eye from a distance—it was the vibrant colors of the paintings in the windows, colors in my own palette, that drew me in. We made our way toward the gallery and stepped inside, discovering an artist at work amongst his many paintings for sale. He and I had an instant camaraderie—we shared my maiden name. He was around 80 years old but his eyes were as shiny and tickled as a twenty year old. We chatted for a few minutes and he asked us where we were from. We said we were from “here.” He said, “Hmmm. I would have thought you were New Yorkers.” His comment made my heart sing a little. That life in New York—that decade plus a few years—unfolded me. It made me into the woman that I am today. It made me into the mother that I can now be to my two precious sons.

It turns out that artist—my namesake—is looking for someone, an abstract expressionist like myself, to take over his studio so that he may go away for a while. It did cross my mind that maybe our meeting meant that I should be the one. Ultimately, I knew that it was not for me. Crossing paths with him did reinvigorate something within me though. It reinvigorated my need to not  fall in line. It reinvigorated my need to live unabashedly and to allow my children to do the same.

Looking around my home and at the way in which I live my life, I see that girl has been making herself known in the best way that she could between diaper changes and nursery school pick-up. I see her in the colorful drawings pinned-up in nearly every room. I see her in the picture collage on our hallway wall. I see her in the wild imaginations of both of my boys. Still, as my little ones grow, I hope to unearth her further and share with them a little more of the fun that can be had when we set ourselves free.

“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Bubbles.

I’m driving down a country road heading to pick up my big boy Jonah from school. I notice that the fields—blanketed in white for many months—are now patterned like a patchwork quilt or a checker board, the snow only a fraction of the landscape. I am donning a spring green shirt, light in weight and with white dots peppered throughout like so many Easter eggs in a field of grass. In my car I notice that my blouse is too breezy for the still chilly weather. I turn up the heat to warm me and it makes me feel drowsy. Adrian is in his car seat behind me chatting away. He loves to be at home and often when we are out and about he will ask to, “go to mine home?” I’m thinking about how my husband called me a, “tough cookie” this morning at breakfast when Jonah left the table prematurely and I asked him to come back, sit down again and make a request, “to be excused.” I can be tough about good manners. And kindness.

A few nights ago, my boys and I were headed upstairs for our nighttime routine. We sing a little song that Jonah learned at school, “fol-low, fol-low,” as we climb our tall staircase.  When we reach the top of the stairs each night, my boys love to run away from me to Jonah’s room and jump around and play like little bears, tumbling and bumping into one another. With Adrian still small, I usually do my best to either stay with them or herd them right back to the bathroom, with the gnawed bristles on their tooth brushes and their “Overtired and Cranky” bubble bath. Instead I thought that night that I would just let them be free and play alone while I got the bath filled, the toothpaste on the brushes, the pajamas laid out. I could hear them laughing and clearly having fun and then I heard a sound that all mothers are loathe to hear. It was the sound of a thump—the sound of a thump that only a head can make. I ran down our hallway sliding on my SmartWools and finally reaching Jonah’s room. Adrian was lying on the floor on his back looking stunned. Jonah was standing on his bed looking sheepish. I regretted my decision, was grateful for the thick rug on Jonah’s floor and I gingerly pulled Adrian to my chest. Jonah told me of bed-jumping on his little low-to-the-ground bed and arms flying and Adrian flipping. We all made our way to the tub, my heart the only thing thumping now and everyone in one piece.

A few nights later I was putting Jonah to bed. Adrian was already fast asleep and so I was lying in Jonah’s bed with him. It was later than usual and I was eager to get Jonah off to dreamland so that I might have a few moments to myself before another day began again. Jonah and I were facing each other and he reached over and squeezed my nose. He was expecting me to make a honking noise—a game we have long enjoyed and one that is not conducive to rapid slumber. I paused, then honked. He laughed hard and I couldn’t help myself, I laughed too. He did it again and there was just something in my honk that night that was hilarious to us both. He squeezed, I honked, we laughed. I gave myself over to the game and to laughing with my son. He did eventually fall off to sleep and I think I might have responded to one or two of the hundreds of e-mails in my inbox that night.

Mothering, to me, is like breathing. Pulling my children near and caressing them like an in-breath. Releasing them and setting them free like an out-breath. And at the same time experiencing them, each and every day, each and every moment that I let them, as the very oxygen that I breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” —Henry David Thoreau

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Geese flying in formation

My newly four-year-old Jonah has an adventurous spirit. In a past life he must have flown fighter planes or climbed mountains. He loves to go to new places and together we have already begun a sort of “bucket list” of adventures we can look forward to exploring together when the time is right. At the top of his list is visiting “the desert,” riding on a roller-coaster and going on an African Safari. He is also fascinated by space and imagines himself becoming an astronaut. Sometimes when I am lying in his bed with him—erroneously believing he is about to drift off to sleep—he will suddenly perk up and announce, “Mommy, do you know that it is really, really hard to get up into space? And did you know that the sun is very, very hot?” With a long-standing wanderlust of my own, I very much enjoy imagining the experiences to come. I try not to think of the many adventures he will choose to have without me.

It was with this curiosity, this need for exploration in mind that I decided recently to go outside of our normal routine and take my two boys to a community play space that we had never been to before. Clearly not Kenya, but still a little farther from our home than we would normally travel and unexpected, so exciting for Jonah. I felt excited too as we journeyed down the highway, glancing in the rear view mirror at two happy boys.

The play space was very “hip” feeling and very promising with it’s industrial frame, cafe with lattes on the menu and a wide variety of toys new to my boys. All three of us bibliophiles, we bee-lined for the book room. There was an old Walter Farley book, “Little Black Goes to the Circus,” that we read. I winced at the themes, the images that seemed so coarse now. Adrian—my littler guy—found a familiar book, “Mr. Brown Can Moo,” only this version had even more sounds to make than our smaller copy at home. We snuggled up. I felt at peace. I hadn’t eaten though and there was that cafe so we ordered some food next and the boys wandered off finding various other toys and children to play with. After a while I noticed another mother come in with her two children similar in age to mine. They settled into play at a large barn with many animal figures surrounding them. Jonah became interested in these new faces and in what they were playing and found his way to them.

In the meantime, I was sprawled out on a fluffy couch with Adrian where he was surrounding himself with cushioned blocks. I needed to stay near because I thought he might bounce right off if I left him. Jonah was not far and I could see that he was struggling. His horses were acting rough, like they were wild—a little too wild. I thought it might be a tip-off to his being tired, too much “travel and adventure” after a full morning of play at nursery school. Or maybe this was Jonah’s way of exploring the full range of how life can be. Jonah is well acquainted with the beautiful—the kind doctor and heroic life guard, the delicate nature of a flower petal, a sweet song. He seems now— as his 3T’s become high-waters—to want to complete that circle of knowledge. He is so interested in discovering and understanding the scary dragon now, the “mean guy.” Oh, how I wish I could keep him from ever wanting to know about the “mean guys” of the world.

Sometimes when I give my boys a bath I will sit on the floor beside them reading as they play. Tonight though, bathing them before coming out to write, I curled up on a towel in front of the tub and emptied myself to them. I set aside my worries for what life could do to them. I set aside my fears for how I will handle it all. I even set aside my hopes and dreams for all of the beautiful ways in which the world will open up and allow them to unfold. I dedicated those moments instead to truly seeing them. I saw them outside of what I want them to do and or not do. I saw them for more than what I hope for them and fear for them. I saw them only as the incredibly beautiful and magical creatures in my midst that they are—new and fresh and oh-so-very-full-of-life. First I witnessed Adrian, reveling in a little time in the tub all by himself. It is rare for him—play without the directives of a bigger boy hovering over him—and he seemed so at peace. He spun three little wash cloths around with his still-tiny-hands and toyed with a baby duck sitting in an inner tube. When Jonah joined him, the water became less calm, but I observed how they moved about each other like a flock of birds flying in a v-formation, only rarely running into each other and causing a commotion. Then I saw Jonah. For a brief moment, the boy he is so very quickly becoming—older, more aware, less pure, decisive—was gone. Instead I saw him in a total state of purity, knowing that on some level this still remains. This still remains in all of us. I saw his rosy cheeks. I saw how earnestly he played with a little plastic monster, joyously squirting water from it’s mouth. I saw his body, so vulnerable still. Leaning forward I asked if he would like for the monster to sing a little song. He wasn’t sure at first but then suddenly, eagerly agreed and I took the monster and sung a silly song with a funny voice that I hadn’t done in a while. He remembered and his face absolutely lit up and he began to laugh. His laugh is contagious and his brother and I both began laughing too. There was no listening or not listening in that moment. There was no getting along or not getting along. There was no past or future. There was only bliss. Pure, simple, heart-warming bliss.

 

 

 

“From a small seed a mighty trunk may grow.” —Aeschylus

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Sure sign of Spring - Robin - Bird

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.

10 Ways to be Mindful with your Children Again

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Winter butterfly

One week ago I way lying in a hospital bed with my mother, holding her hand, my cheek next to hers, wading through an illness that had stopped her in her tracks. I thought about how it must have felt to be a baby in her arms so many years ago. I looked at her skin — so beautiful to me. She thought she needed makeup, but to me she was just perfect without it. I thought about how I’d always wanted her curly hair when I was a little girl, mine so straight then. I asked her what her favorite moments were with my sisters and me when we were growing up. Eyes closed—as if transported to another world—she recounted her joy in making oatmeal cookies with us for a 4-H program, picnics by our pond and days spent at a local pool. “Just spending time together,” she’d said wistfully. I asked her about my father, about her favorite moments with him. She told me the story of him getting ready for a ceremonial event in the Navy and how he’d had his dress whites on but she had to send him back into the house to change because he had put on underwear that was bright in color and could be seen straight through his pants. She thought it was very funny. I had never heard this story before.

When I saw my children again after that week away I felt elated. I had never been away from them for more than a night or two. We were all in the car together and I kept turning to them from the front seat, soaking in their brilliance, the tremendous light in their eyes. I felt flush with the excitement of being reunited and I was overwhelmed with the love I felt for them. In the days that followed though, my head began to feel cluttered. I was trying to be in two places at once — one part of me with my mom—thousands of miles away—another part, here at home with my children.

I’ve needed to draw on my devotion to mindfulness again and again in order to stay in the present and through this I have begun to observe the methods that I use to get there—or, right here, rather. I have also reflected on the signs that I can take note of when I am not living in a present way. All families have challenges and we all go through our ups and downs. My hope is that these suggestions may come to mind when you next find yourself drifting—getting caught up in the worries of life and the world around you—and in need of returning to your children again. I hope these ideas will help you come back to the joy, back to the light, back to the beautiful moments with your children—in all of their glorious perfection.

10 Signs you may not be Present with your Children:

  1. You find yourself talking to your children but not connecting with their eyes. You are talking at them but not to them
  2. You are speaking, maybe even saying the same things over and over again, but not connecting to the meaning behind your words. Playing games and reading books, maybe, but only going through the motions
  3. You are checking your phone or email more than necessary, maybe incessantly
  4. You find yourself physically forcing your child to do something (get dressed, leave somewhere, etc.)
  5. You are counting the hours until the end of the day
  6. You are not having any fun and neither are your children
  7. There is a tightness in your chest or abdomen and you catch yourself holding your breath
  8. You are saying “no” more than “yes” or generally have a negative or critical attitude
  9. You have slipped backward on previously successful breakthroughs in your parenting efforts
  10. You are judging your day based on a single moment or experience

10 Suggestions for Returning to Mindfulness with your Children:

  1. Start Again! You always, always, always have the opportunity to begin again in life and to begin again with your children. Hug your children, hug yourself and simply start over. Your dedication to a mindful approach to parenting means so much. Forgive yourself, breath deeply and recommit to this beautiful path and know that it is worth it.
  2. Breathe! Make a commitment to breathe throughout your day. If you need to, set a timer for every 30 minutes or so to remind yourself to check in with your breath. Oxygenated brains function better and deep breathing promotes relaxation. This change alone will set you back on your right path.
  3. Commit to responding to your children instead of reacting. Live in the pause between your children’s actions (“good” or “bad”) and what you say or do afterward. Allow this space to inform your response.There is great wisdom to be found in waiting.
  4. Slow your pace dramatically. Take in all of your surroundings. Feel the texture of your children’s clothes as you dress them. Inhale an orange once peeled. Notice the wind or even a slight breeze as it touches your skin when you step outside.
  5. Become acutely aware of your children’s words. Stop and really listen. Soak in what they are telling you. What you say back is less important than their sensing that you are truly listening. Respond the first time when they call out to you.
  6. Plan a day at home in which you are fully focused on your children’s needs. If you can, forget about bills and correspondence, cleaning and errands for a single day. If you cannot commit to a full day, set aside a few hours and do the same.
  7. Reflect on how you want to experience your children. Consider how you want for them to experience you.
  8. Get some exercise. Try to find twenty minutes to burn off your worries and allow a sense of peace to come over you as your body moves and bends and breathes.
  9. Revel in the memories of your children’s first days. Remember the promises you made. Remember their preciousness. They are as golden and as perfect as they were that very first day.
  10. Be gentle and kind with yourself. Find at least one thing you could do for yourself to care for your own inner child. A warm bath, quiet writing in a journal or a long talk with a friend, will go a long way. The way we treat ourselves translates into the way we treat our children. Love, forgive and celebrate all that you are and all that you can be.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.” —Henry David Thoreau

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Big Wave Surfing Teahupoo Tahiti

My car is toasty warm. I can feel the muscles in my back relaxing, made loose by the heat of my seat warmer. I come to the parking lot of a large Methodist church in rural Maine—snow dusting my windshield—and pull in. I choose a parking spot facing the road with my back to the church. I’m not a Methodist but there is something about this particular church with it’s large cross on the exterior coupled with the dual red flame insignia that feels comforting to me. I’ve parked here many times—never entering— finishing up phone calls with sleeping babies in carseats, passing time for one reason or another. I’ve seen their sign for pot-luck suppers and have imagined myself attending. It’s unlikely that I ever will. This is a place whose energy I’m meant to absorb through osmosis, I think. I don’t know how I know that what goes on in there is good, except that I can feel it. I find myself here after a challenging morning—a very ill family member on my mind. As I sit in this heavenly spot, observing a snowstorm come in less powerfully then predicted, I feel at peace. I take note of the absolute calm and groundedness that has come over me and feel grateful.

Never having really surfed, I think about riding waves often and how we may find ourselves upright and gliding at the most unexpected of times in life. I think about how this summer our sweet swimming lessons with Jonah took a turn unexpectedly and became more challenging. Previously excited about his lessons, Jonah, at a point began to resist. I didn’t blame him. His teacher had decided unexpectedly and without warning to suit him in a “bubble” floating device with less strength than he had previously worn. This change caused Jonah to inexplicably go sinking under the water, his teacher’s back turned toward him. It gave him a good scare—her delay in responding especially alarming. It gave me a good scare as well. And from then on, he struggled with the lessons. I tried to convince him that he was safe but he was understandably afraid. It made our journeys to the YMCA a little less enjoyable. I remember one afternoon finding myself using manipulative language to try to convince Jonah to join in his class. I caught myself and stopped. I was feeling underwater myself not knowing how to best handle this situation. The opposite of riding a wave. I just kept moving ahead. We played in the shallow end, Jonah enjoying himself there, with his little brother Adrian who lacked fear altogether and kept trying to swim away from me at less than two years old. My fingers were numb from the too cold water as I gathered my boys up and we headed for the shower. I carried Adrian right into the shower with me and (a first) he didn’t want to be put down. Jonah was occupying himself with the sprayer and Adrian had curled his body up on me like he was an infant again—almost as if he was going to go to sleep under the warm waterfall. I relaxed into his arrangement and then suddenly found myself riding a glorious wave. I pulled myself up and was gliding. Along with the water, a wonderful sense of calm came over me and I felt distinctly like a Koala bear holding her cub. I allowed for the moment to linger on and on. I felt cleansed of my words to Jonah. I felt like I was in a spa. I have long thought water to be healing, to be centering, and in that moment it was for me.

One day, I would love to have the opportunity to learn to surf. It is not a stretch—me at surf camp. I have put it on the list for when my children have grown and are ready to surf themselves. Until then, I will look for the many, many beautiful waves that come crashing through my life and be ready for when one of them sweeps me up and allows for me to ride along, joyfully and at peace.

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” —Aristotle

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Bernardo Strozzi - Sleeping Child - WGA21930

It is 2:30 am in a hotel room in Wisconsin. I am awakened by the sound of my son Jonah—a shiny, new four year old now—crying from the queen bed next to mine. He’s twisted in his sheets.  “My leeeeg huuuuurrts,” he sobs. This pain has been happening to him on and off now for over a year and seems to be related to his growth, both mental and physical. The wind howls outside along with him and I crawl into his bed trying to soothe him. I’ve learned that these moments need to be waited out and so I whisper my words of comfort and allow him to cry. I’m temped to remind him of the man downstairs who complained of our family making too much racket the night before. I restrain myself and wait. I think about the fact that my alarm will be going off in less than an hour so that we may get ready and catch our 7am flight out of Milwaukee. We are heading home from our Christmas holiday away. Jonah suddenly realizes he needs to go to the bathroom and jumps up from the bed. I follow him, grabbing his clothes already laid out for our travels. I change his first layer. He’s calm now as I walk him back to bed and he snuggles right up in his fresh skivvies, pants and turtleneck. With Jonah nearly dressed, I decide that we will try to transfer Adrian into the car in his sleep and dress him at the airport. I turn my alarm off knowing that my day has begun. After quietly showering and getting myself dressed I go back to Jonah and sit near him. He is in deep slumber again. The bathroom light illuminates the room enough for me to gaze at his cherubic face. He still has soft baby skin and even his chapped, rough lips look beautiful to me now. I stroke his hair and kiss his cheek gently. I bring my face so very close to his and tell him I love him.

I think about how at home I lay with Jonah every night as he drifts off to sleep in his new big-boy-bed. I’ve been advised not to but I do. Sometimes he will tell me what he is thinking about while we are laying there and his thoughts go on for a while. He turns back and forth from one side to the other and I am meant to turn in whatever direction he does although recently he’s taken to our facing each other. He tells me that he likes to look at me and we hold hands. Sometimes he drifts off very quickly, having been like a spinning top for twelve hours straight. Sometimes he will sit straight up and put his hands behind his head and then slowly fold back down, like a man in a hammock. He resists closing his eyes until just before he is deeply asleep. Sometimes I fall asleep too. Once he’s drifted off, I always lean over close to him and kiss him softly and tell him I love him. I tell him that I will always be there for him. I whisper the things that I want for him to know at his very core, at the place before his thoughts. I wish for my words to wipe away any indication I might have given him otherwise. I want them to wash away my impatient outcry at his rivalry with his little brother. I want them to wash away all of the many, many “shoulds” of the day. I want for my words to become his words to himself, the place where he lands as he grows into a man.

I finish dressing Jonah in his sleep. I delicately pick up each foot and put on his shoes. I sit him upright and put on his sweater—thankfully, a zip-up. He’s an excited flyer, so as I’m finishing I begin to tell him that it is time for us to get up for our flight, and he is happy about that. He manages the early hour very well. I walk over to where Adrian is still fast asleep. Before I wake him, I lean down slowly, bringing my cheek so very near to his, giving him a kiss and a testament of love.

“Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven.” – Henry Ward Beecher

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Child's Hands Holding White Rose for Peace Fre...

It was quiet in the house for the first time since Friday’s news. I imagined for a brief moment what it would mean for my home to be quiet for reasons besides napping and an outing with Daddy. I nearly crumbled. I called my sister and cried hard for the first time. Those faces. Those beautiful, lovely, angelic faces—imprinted on my mind since catching a glimpse of the news reports at a sporting goods store. I was on my way to an appointment with my midwife and stopped to buy my husband a pair of new sneakers, a surprise for Christmas. There, huddled around a TV—hanging above a treadmill—patrons looked on in dismay. The store clerk made a point of stating that the shooter was (at that time) thought to to be the son of a teacher from the school, an adult son. I had actually heard of this horror via a New York Times text notification a few hours before but seeing the story unfold on the television, without my children at my side, brought it home in a different way. I held back what could have easily become sobs. Looking at another woman’s face who stood watching, I could see that she was doing the same. A collective sob could be felt across the globe.

Everyone seems to be asking, “why?” Why would someone commit such a horrendous act? Why would God allow something like this to happen? Why haven’t we done anything about gun control and better mental health screening in this country after so many atrocities? The list goes on and on. I have not been able to go there yet. Gazing at my son Jonah engrossed in a book, all I can think is, “how?” How will those parents ever go on? Observing my smaller son Adrian, his sparkling eyes, the ways he says, “niiiice” when I stroke his belly, I wonder how those poor souls will ever recover. Looking around our home with the fingerprints on the fridge and the sticky noodles in the floorboards—unchanged—I wonder how some parts of our society go on so swiftly? Many, many are in the grips of this tragedy—many of them parents—following every related news story. Many are getting to work—signing petitions relating to gun control, raising flags about the state of mental health care in this country. And some are moving on either unaware of what this tragedy really means for those who have lost or just too afraid to face what it means that something like this can happen in this great and prosperous place. My heart weighs heavy. I watch almost none of the coverage on television—wanting to shield my children, wanting to shield myself. There is a newsreel going on in my own mind though. There is one child—an angelic little girl—with eyes like my son’s. There is another with eyebrows arched like my nephews’. I shutter a little every time I think of them. I think of them all the time.

Those poor parents will benefit from any changes we may be able to make to prevent further tragedies like this one. With this they may feel at least as if their children have not died in vain—that this devastating event was a turning point for our country. What they will want for us to know, though, is what we must do. For them, we must treasure every single moment that we possibly can with these beautiful creatures in our midst. For them we must embrace it all. Every single cry and protest. Every single expression of joy. Listen, so closely, they would tell us, for the laughter. Listen to their questions, their many, many questions. And touch them so gently. Forgive them for being little and not knowing. Allow them to learn at their own pace. Appreciate them and cherish them and let them know how very much you care. Spend with them, each day, as if it were their last. For in truth, we can never really know when that time will come.