We face a forest from our bedroom and the blinds are never closed so I need only look out the window from the nest of my bed to see skeleton trees clad in heavy white. The man that I teased last night about the appearance of grey hairs brings our morning boy to our bed, followed closely by a pixie girl whispering about snowfall. 

Like almost every morning, we are a ritual, little girl to my right, little boy to my left, the foundation of it all curled around us, his eyes closed. We are watching the snow fall and when the wind moves the trees, the girl informs her little brother with great superiority that the trees are dancing. She absently strokes my face, the same way she used to do when she was just a wee baby with a triangle shaped mouth and my boy holds my hair in his fist again, they are both mine still for just a while longer and I’m trying to count the moments on a string of jewels.

We all lay together in the heavy silence of snow and winter.

He props himself up on an elbow and takes it in, my arms around them both, their whisperings about dancing trees and snow forts, plans for breakfast and pleas for back scratches, the way I am on my left side because of the weight of new life coming soon. 

There isn’t much of a dreamy magazine cover about the scene. Our sheets are old and I forgot to wash my face last night so I have a bit of mascara smudged around my eyes. We’re in our jammies and we need to brush our teeth, all of us.  But the light is flooding the room and the weight of all this is flooding my soul and I know that he sees it the way I see it.

“You look like an earth mother, all these babies,” he teases. “Like you’re the life source of us all.”

In a way, it’s true, isn’t it, mamas? That these tiny ones mimic, that their hearts are settled when my heart is settled, when I spill love and patience they are filled, that I am – inexplicably, amazingly, sometimes frighteningly – the influence sweeping them with me, one moment a river of life and the next a rooted oak and the next withering for water still, ever needing just enough for today. And when I take the time to savor, they savor.

When I have eyes to see, ears to hear, a voice of peace, somehow we all see, hear and still.

When it’s enough for me, they somehow believe this is enough for us all.

post signature

In which I choose to feast; this is Kingdom Come
Then what's the point? On life without hell
thank you for sharing...
  • Pin this page0
  • 0