Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.--Rumi
After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.
I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier.
Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.
However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…
Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home.
Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home.
Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home.
Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home.
Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home.
Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home.
Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home.
Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home.
Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home.
Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home.
Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…
The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.
There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.
In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.
I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…