Posts

“Silence is also conversation.” —Ramana Maharshi 


My husband was away—traveling for work—when I began my pre-daybreak awakenings. I meant to rise early so that I might shower and dress, then fill the lunch container and set the table with breakfast items prior to the calls from my two boys announcing their own rise to the day. They’ve held onto this ritual of our morning greeting stemming from their long-departed need to be lifted from the crib and on most days I still go to them when they call. Opening their door, the warm and sleepy smell of them wafts through the air to greet me—the room still quite dark from the blackening shade. I go to the bed of whoever called out first. Adrian, my littler boy, stretches and moves like a cat when he wakes sometimes crawling his legs up the wall and launching right into a commentary about some obscure fact he’s discovered or how stretching is a form of yoga or wondering about whether or not this is a school day. With his shirt hiking up his back as he stretches, I massage his still-warm skin and notice his eyes—puffy from sleep. Jonah is more still and needing of tenderness before he rejoins us in this realm. I come to him and rub his legs, maybe lie down next to him. When he finally opens his eyes fully, he might make a comment about his dreams—how good they were, or how scary. His expression remains supple and pure like a baby in these start of day breaths. I began rising early so that I might meet this morning reverie with a sense of calm.

I’ve long been drawn to the magic that lingers in the alluring darkness of the pre-dawn hour. There is a silence that is both palpable and vibrating with anticipation—especially in a household normally brimming with boisterous boy energy. On the first day that I rose before daybreak, I allowed for what I thought would be just enough time to prepare myself. When the favor of a few extra minutes came, I found my journal and a cozy place on the couch to write, legs propped up with a fluffy pillow beneath my knees. Words of gratitude fell to the page—long held feelings unearthed—if only briefly. And then the call came and I headed upstairs. On the second day, I allowed for more time. I completed my tasks quickly and by firelight, I soaked in the conspicuous sound of creaking inner doors cracking opening, Spirit gliding in oh-so-discreetly and settling at my side. I began to notice the way in which these stolen moments were informing all of my day. I noticed that I was called to sleep earlier in the evening. The external need for this ritual has since passed and still I rise earlier and earlier—thirsty to drink in the stillness, called emphatically to peel away the crumbling veneers and prepare my skin for a deeper listening—one that I am capable of at dawn’s first light.

Last year I began working on a “Wild Woman Collective”—a collection of sculptural collage showcasing women in various states of communion with their inner-spirit, their creative-self, their connection to the Divine as depicted by their interaction with a wolf. I am currently in the final stretch of the third installation—a woman arched into an almost backbend position and levitating with head dropping down toward the wolf who is meeting her with his upward stretching nose and mouth. Her legs are dangling down too in a state of surrender and resting against the sturdy body of this wild beast. Her posture is an act of acquiescence and one of faith in which she gives herself fully to this place of inner wisdom. In the final stage of bringing these wild women and their wolves to life, I must do the intricate work of cutting away and freeing them from the constraints of the paper surrounding them. It is a delicate work trimming away these facets of their beings that although once critical in their creation are now—quite suddenly—no longer serving them. This process requires patience and precision and focus. It requires a commitment to the process of unfolding and it requires stamina. It requires all of the things necessary for a genuine soul in her very own journey toward fruition.

 

If you would like to receive Meghan’s Journal Entries upon publication, please share your e-mail address below.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” —Mary Oliver


I’m sitting again, this time in an artsy, yummy restaurant housed in an old warehouse and my belly is full. My belly is full and my head no longer pounds and I was able to choose both yoga and writing on this chilly, grey day in Maine. I recognize the privilege and offer thanks. Spring continues to reveal herself oh-so-slowly and the fire is lit again and again in our wood stove at home, keeping us toasty even as we watch our yard carefully for emerging green. There have been some sun rays, but our clothing remains layered, our socks woolen. My own socks have grown so thin on the soles of my feet that my skin can be seen through them. I don’t mind, though. I wear them as a badge of honor for having chosen such a place to live —a place with epic winters and meandering Springs. A place where my heart feels that it belongs. My path has been one of listening and of taking steps in the direction of my soul. My path has been one of coming to understand the power of the mind. And now, my path is winding differently. My ears have suddenly become tuned-in to the distant whispers of the wild women who came before me, beckoning me to see my worth. They are coaxing me to know the ways that the droughts or storms of my own being may impact the climate of my children’s inner landscape. 

What better way to bring deep comfort and love to your children—these wild women whisper—than through the arms of a mother who bears witness to her very own right to experience the same? What better way to truly see your children for their inherent value—these wild women whisper—than through the eyes of a mother who recognizes her own worth regardless of what she does or says or is in any given moment? And what better way to teach your children—these wild women insistently whisper—than through the lips of a mother who is forgiving and gentle with herself in the lessons the turbulence of her own bumpy life provides?

I acknowledge these whispers as I page through my well worn copy of “Women Who Run with the Wolves,” and reflect on the fact that I have been gifted with boys in my life.  I reflect on what I would like for their impressions of women to be. I reflect on what their impressions already are—some I would like to remain, others I wouldn’t mind erasing. I am thinking about the way in which Adrian—well into his three year old exploration—loves to nestle into me and smell up and down the arms of my clothing. I nestle into him—and my bigger boy, Jonah, too—trying to hold on to the distant smell of the celestial that lingers even now. I’m thinking about the many ways that they feel free to be themselves—speaking shyly behind my leg to a stranger and floating quietly in the tub and yelling loudly when they feel compelled and screaming in frustration and laughing until they can’t breathe and falling on the floor in a fit and shouting in jest and running with abandon and confiding in a whisper and dancing wildly and being naked comfortably and moving their bodies luxuriously and stamping their feet in protest and singing unabashedly to their own tune and stomping on someone’s work and saying they are sorry and hugging their brother and forgiving their mother and being mischievous and angry and oh-so-very loving. I think about all that they are free to do and feel and say and how uncomfortable it can make me at times. And yet, more deeply than this surface panic that sometimes arises is an otherworldly, inner-knowing about the vast power of this allowance that will surely ripple across the landscape of their lives. I do teach and correct and help to make things right as necessary—and I stifle them at times, too—but in coming to accept the many aspects of myself—some of them quite unappealing—I am also coming to accept many more aspects of my two very precious, very alive, very vocal and very free-spirited boys.