"Let us be silent, that we may hear the whispers of the gods." ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m nestled in a silent, dark bedroom nursing my son Adrian, now 20 months old. He’s been awake since dawn and I’m preparing him for a mid-morning slumber. I find my breath as I let go of my thoughts and discover the moment with him again. It is a choice to be with him or to be in my head. I choose to be with him. I notice his body soften, his chest rising and falling with mine. After a while, I open my eyes and look down at his beautiful features. A sliver of light peaks from behind the shades landing on his silken cheek. His wild hair is outlined. His ears still little. There has been talk recently about it being time for me to stop nursing him. My chest tightens in those conversations – especially the ones heavy with “shoulds.” Although Adrian’s love of nursing disrupts my sleep, I don’t feel hurried. I need only look at my big-boy Jonah – now almost four years old – to know the preciousness of these moments of tender connection. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to forgo the laughter our family enjoys when Adrian goes running – oh-so-joyfully – through our house yelling, “deeeeet deeeeettttt!” This is his beloved word for nursing and I know that this merry sound will be missed. I also rest assured that when the time is right, I will know. I am listening for his whisper, for him to tell me that he is ready, that he has had enough. I haven’t heard it quite yet but I know it will be here in good time.

I had the pleasure recently of leading a Mindful Mothering Workshop. It took place over the course of four evenings in one of the coziest yoga studios in Southern Maine. In that time, one mother discovered that the emotional outbursts her young boy was having might be mirroring her own attachment to things unfolding in a too-particular way. I was so touched by this mother’s profession of love for her son. “He is my heart, my first real love,” she confided in us, her palms coming to her chest with emotion. She didn’t have to explain this feeling to us. We knew. Another mother spoke passionately about control and the way she felt compelled to hold things together in her household, in her mind, just-so-very-tightly. We applauded her when she came to class late one evening because she had been so wrapped up in being with her children. She released control and it was so beautiful. We laughed with her at her description of suddenly realizing that she was supposed to be somewhere else. We knew this feeling too! A third mother shared that our time together had allowed her to slip into the space behind her thoughts discovering a wisdom there to guide her day-to-day in the decisions she made for her children. She created a magnificent birthday cake to celebrate and honor her son – for all that they have been through together – from this powerful space behind her thoughts. With her littler one, she discovered a profound connection in peeling an egg with him in an unhurried way.

On my drive home from our first class together on a pitch black country road – lit only by my headlights and the moon – I contemplated whether I really have what it takes to help mothers in the way that I was envisioning. An old perfectionism in me was creeping up. I hadn’t been pondering long when all of a sudden there was a giant bird flying in front of me. Its wing-span was at least the width of my windshield. Upon seeing it, I slowed my car quickly and then realized that this enormous being was about to land on the road right in front of me. I slammed on my brakes. A stack of books between my children’s two car seats came flying forward with a loud crash onto the floor. I sat in the darkness of my car in amazement as this incredible bird slowly landed and then turned to look at me. There was a space between the landing and the moment when this beautiful creature languorously turned its head to look at me. To my amazement, there before me, was an elegant, white barn owl with golden eyes. It took my breath away. I looked into his eyes, almost not believing what I was seeing, and knew that I’d been visited. This moment was anything but lost on me. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the owl vanished, up onto a telephone wire, I think. I drove home in a state of complete wonder and amazement, my senses heightened, attentive to every curve in the road. I felt elated. I felt blessed. I felt on purpose.