grounded and steady

They ground me, my children.  I've always been so prone to over-activity, to a packed schedule, to running and running and running some more.  It's what I've known.  What I do.

When we were in Mexico, the pace was so chill.  The days unfolded - a simple variation of sleepy meals, games, beach, swim, repeat.  I never asked anyone to move quickly.  I never placed a demand on myself beyond what I felt like doing.  I read in the mornings.  I played gin rummy with the kids over breakfasts.  I didn't push myself to exercise or write or reflect.  I didn't have to do all of the things that I need to do when life gets hectic to stay grounded.  I was there.  I just had to move with natural grace, with acute listenings.

I've been back a week, and I'm settling.  My life is full and social and rich and layered.  The days are packed  and, sometimes, I have to move quickly.  I have to move others quickly.  There is no space for unfolding.  Shit has to happen and now. 

But I'm starting to realize something.  My natural rhythms in Mexico, on vacation, or retreat or on a long hike alone in the woods, don't have to be totally foreign in my daily life.  That grounding that comes from going slow is what my kiddos want from me all the time.  They want books and presence and long baths and unhurried evenings.  They want me when I'm relaxed and content and just there to enjoy them.  We have this capacity, together, to reach this new state of bliss.  They are logical, clear beings.  We are no longer at the mercy of nap schedules or feedings or witching hours.  Solomon can think somewhat rationally, doesn't freak the heck out for no reason, can get it.  It's a new day for our family and we are so utterly smitten with our grace.



That seems to be the biggest gift from our trip.  We are all just pretty darn in love with one another.  Jeff and I just can't stop talking about how cool the two of them are.  We hung together like champs, over oceans, across hot sands, through long, loud nights of roosters and thumping, Mexican bass.  We lazed in a daze of timelessness - there was no regard for bedtime, no regard for schedules or plans.  When we were tired, we slept.  We were allowed this sort of wishy-washiness.  Nobody expected anything of us and, therefore, we were able to give of ourselves so freely.

Tonight I chose to stay home with my kids.  All my friends and their kids were together.  I was invited.  It's Monday.  I knew in my gut that they needed to have a quiet night.  They are snotty and a bit wan, their skin itchy after a week back in the mountains.  Of course I wanted to see my ladies, I wanted my kids to be a part of the wild pack tearing around the house.  But this is not what I needed.  I needed my quiet home.  I needed a long bath and my book.  I needed to settle in a bit before I have to do it all again. 

I'm trying to listen and, in listening, learn a bit.