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. 

january in montana

The ice is thick in front of my house
deer hover together,
hoard the single patch of grass,
stare us down as if to say
I dare you,
you're on my turf now,
we walk up the slick hill
toes burrow into hints of dirty snow,
each move calculated, focused and
we talk and talk
debrief the two weeks apart,
I tell of sand and waves,
the little apartment by the sea and
how Eliana would walk to the tienda in the mornings,
safe to cross the cobblestones for
fresh eggs as we watch our feet
and a bald eagle,
huge, white and shining
sweeps right past our heads,
I've never seen one so close before,
he dares us to stop.
I smile into the eyes of my beautiful friends
Robyn tells us that when we see an eagle that close
it places reminds us how close we are
to the divine.
At the peace sign we look out over the valley,
I tell them about the mama and baby whale
their little show on our last sunset,
and the ridiculouly small sea turtles,
the way they made their perilous waddle down
the clean, raked sand,
and I feel so full
even though it's hard in the cold,
even though life is work,
I love this valley,
I love my girls,
my students,
my children,
my husband,
my home.
Really,
the divine
abounds.

little surfer

san pancho

On the last morning of the trip
the rooster's crow
peck around sand and debris,
a hammer rhythmic with
varying degrees of commitment,
Spanish voices blend with
birds and bass,
thatched palm roof above,
a steeple to blue sky,
vines twist to support us,
driftwood pillars,
a terracotta vase,
eggplant walls and
faded wisteria,
coconuts green and tiny,
their strange spindly stalks,
the rooster's again,
sun moving higher in the sky,
catches my cheek,
splays across this page
like another
unexpected gift.

 

Then there's the morning

when you know

you've finally slept,

no Mexican polka,

pounding bass,

motorcicletas,

mufflers,

the night was quiet

like the inside of waves,

quiet like your children

in the mornings,

the way they move into you,

full lips and full arms,

they're getting so big,

and day after day you

marvel at not much else,

the sea, perhaps,

a bite of raw fish,

but rally,

it's them,

the way silent freckles

spread slowly across noses,

so soft and light,

the way you can see now

what they'll look like

her ribs and breasts

outlined in slick, pale nylon,

his words and ideas

that form like soft, tropical rain,

a breeze you didn't expect.

We laugh again,

hold hands down hot sand,

race back and forth as

swells build like

the unexpected,

and he pads out.

Snuggle me,

lay with me.

Oh babe.

I love you so much I could explode.

You could only explode yourself wif a bomb.

Or I could just explode inside,

for pretend,

with happiness.  

II.

He's the king of a hidden cave,
his servant, a hermit crab,
moving fast.  They stare intently
at the crevices in rock,
a yellow butterfly flits past
and pelicans with equal parts
effort and calm,
guard the castle,
the boy's voice echoes through
eroded spaces as he
finds the babies and
the baby's babies,
miniature spirals sway softly
if you take the time
to watch.