A couple of us moms were still preparing — skewering the hollow eggs so they could be painted, squirting small blobs of paint onto plates, and tying toothpicks to strings. The kids had just come in from outside and were flushed pink. Ms. Hayes suggested they sing a song, drawing them into a circle, and they held hands. Mica and I had come for the afternoon, to celebrate the beginning of spring.

Mica joined the circle and sang along, though he had never heard the song before. It was sweet. Then there was a part where you hooked arms with another and skipped around. There were only six kids including Mica, and the pairing went fast — it was just Mica and Orlando left standing, and Mica approached Orlando and Orlando stumbled back. It was only a moment but crystal clear. Ms. Hays swooped in and took one kid in each arm, and skipped with them both. I thought it was an artful move, but then Mica sat on the ground and cried.

Ms. Hays stopped and bent down to him, “Are you sad because you wanted to be partners with Orlando?”

The tears were spurting out of his eyes and his wails were loud. He can’t really talk when he cries (can anyone?) but it seemed like he nodded and said “yes.” It was hard to tell. I squatted down next to him, too, and Ms. Hayes and I made eye contact. She went back to the other kids.

I sat with Mica a moment, and then picked him up. He relaxed in my arms and cried harder, and I realized that I wanted to leave the room, where the kids were still singing and dancing. I carried Mica out of the room and we sat on one of the couches in the hallway.

It was more private. I was more open. Mica was crying.

He was in my lap, facing me.

We sat for a little bit, with me comforting him.

Finally, I said, “Oh, you sound so sad. You wanted to be partners with Orlando?”

“Yes!” His tears were just popping out, his head thrown back. Then the kicker: “And he didn’t want to be partners with me! He never wants to play with me and I always want to play with him!”

Oh, brothers.

I murmured a few things, here and there:

“You are so sad…. and kind of mad.” (He often pushes against me when he is crying.)

“I was a little sister once, and I remember I liked playing with my sister so much.”

and

“It’s hard to be a little brother sometimes.”

He cried, and pushed, and pulled, and rested.

Mostly I was just still. Sitting soft in my body, attending but without agenda.

I don’t remember how it started — maybe it was because he was pushing on my breasts, but I took my finger, pointed to my heart and then made a bridge from my heart to his.

Heart to heart.

He didn’t like how it went from one side of me to the other side of him (not realizing that we were mirror images of each other), so he started doing it from both sides to both sides.

Then we sat on each part of the couch and did it.

He said at one point, “I don’t want to go back in there.”

I gave him a soft smile and a gentle shake of my head, “You don’t have to go back in there. Not unless you want to, honey.”

He started to draw a circle on my breastbone.

He told me, “It is getting bigger and bigger!” and I realized that it was a heart.

I drew a big heart on him, too. We were smiling at each other.

And then he made a wall of my hands in between our big hearts — “Oh, no!” he said, and then he took his finger from his chest and it went over the wall and touched my heart, and then back to his heart. He smiled and I did, too.

We made it.

Then the wall again, and this time his finger went through it. Another wall: dissolved into thin air.

And we sat like that, on a beat-up old fake leather couch in the hallway of a building reclaimed for public art and other endeavors — such as a tiny Waldorf classroom, where children were painting eggs.

Mica said, “I want to go in now.”

And that is what we did. We went in, and came out the other side.

~ * ~

“Soft hearts” is one of those everyday phrases used by Gordon Neufeld to point to a very deep and fundamental human process. While I wrote this post much as I’ve written so many dozens of others about being with my children and their feelings, I could also explain these beautiful moments with Mica like this:

When faced with frustrating circumstances, we can either 1) change those circumstances (if possible/plausible); 2) adapt to that which we cannot change; or 3) let frustration build and come out in the form of attack, e.g., hitting, screaming, irritability, sarcasm, et al. In order to adapt, we must feel the futility of the situation (e.g., Mica is and always will be a little brother), and move from “mad to sad.” This is an emotional process, not a thinking one. That’s why it doesn’t work to tell kids — or grown-ups — to “get over it.” We have to feel it.

And the benefit of having felt it is that your heart returns to its natural softness. Not feeling our more vulnerable feelings and staying stuck in frustration keeps our hearts defended (the wall that Mica made out of my hands!), and sadly, defended hearts don’t keep out only hurts but everything else too.

Allowing in the hurt, being supporting through the hurt — going through the experience and coming out the other side — is really what makes our hearts more strong and resilient. And soft.

One year ago, I was inspired to spend 2012 practicing love, meditating on the four brahma-viharas (translated as “divine abodes” or “best homes”). I was to spend three months on each:

• lovingkindness — goodwill and friendliness toward others and oneself

• compassion — often felt as a quivering of the heart, a sense of caring for the suffering of others and oneself

• sympathetic joy (and gratitude) — happiness over another’s (or one’s own) happiness

• equanimity — an inner spaciousness and an the ability to hold all the experiences of life.

The last quarter of the year was equanimity. Balance. Like-a-mountain balance, with the spaciousness of the sky.

So the irony is not lost on me that I spent most of the time feeling dispersed and dizzy.

First, a re-inflammation of ye olde sinus and inner-ear infection. What a surprise to be lying on my cot at the meditation retreat at the end of September, and to feel the pinch and pain inside my sinus, the irritation in my ear, the pressure. Just like that — snap! — and my old friend was back. I was amazed. And curious.

Then two weeks later, I banged my head so hard on the banister (as I was standing up from leaning over) that I was dizzy ever-after. Each time I lay down or sat up or moved too much, it was if I had just stepped onto a roller coaster. Whooosh, I went whirling for seconds at a time, until I found myself again.

And two weeks after that, a cold — a deep, serious cold that gave me a crackly, sultry voice and a head like a brick.

Then I lost my wallet. And then I lost all our family photos — everything digital from 2001 to today — and paid a small fortune to get them back. Orlando started school. Rom started traveling for work, and began a weekly class. I started babysitting once a week and attending my twice-a-month practice group.

I stopped running, I stopped meditating, and I started spending a whole lot of time feeling wound up and groundless.

~ * ~

A mistaken belief about equanimity is one must be “above it all” or somehow untouched by the chaos of life. But the beauty of equanimity is that we find balance even in the midst of life. Equanimity means we can connect to what is happening with compassion and we can respond with wisdom. We move with life.

Some movements are more graceful than others.

In the middle of all the dizziness and sickness and wound-upness, I saw a dear friend for a type of introspective bodywork called the Rosen Method, and what came up?

Oh, just the fact that my two legs are completely different. One is strong and solid, and the other (the left one, the one I always notice when running) is small and sad. Hesitant and very quiet. If I could draw, the right leg would belong to a superhero — all defined muscle. The left leg would be a little chicken leg, much shorter than the other leg and curled inward at the tip. Unexpressed.

What do we stand on? Our own two feet.

Mine are very different. Not very balanced.

I had never seen this so clearly, but I had inklings of it for some time. Years.

During the bodywork, a lot of memories came up, and it surprised me that they were about Mica’s pregnancy and birth and infancy (which was when I first had the sinus infections, et al.). A re-experiencing in a completely quiet and held way. Just like watching my sinus infection come back, I was amazed to see what is happening in my mind/body/heart.

You could call all this — the last three months of the year — a lot. You could call it chaos.

You could also call it listening, and healing.

I realize in some way that I have been practicing equanimity all along — it is with compassion I see myself swaying and it is with wisdom that I right myself.

Balance is a verb.

Wobbling and righting, and wobbling and righting. Asking questions. Paying attention. Adjusting. Resting.

And now, these days, I am also sitting on my cushion.

I sit on my cushion, and invite the quiet. I say silently to myself:

Breathing in, I calm my body.

Breathing out, I calm my mind.

May I be balanced.

May I be at peace.

I take my time, and when I am ready, I turn my attention to the realization that all things arise and pass away: joys, sorrows, pleasant and painful events, people, buildings, animals, nations, even whole civilizations. I let myself rest in the midst of this, and I say…

May I learn to see the arising and passing of all things with compassion and wisdom.

May be I be open and balanced and peaceful.

And then, one at a time, slowly, I begin to picture a neutral person, a benefactor, a loved one, a person with whom I have difficulty, and then myself. I picture each, and I think about them, what I do or don’t know about their lives, and I say…

This is how it is for you in your life right now.

And I notice whatever it is that arises in my heart. Am I feeling distracted? Distressed? Am I feeling sad or hopeful or afraid? Or not much of anything? And I say…

This is how it is for me in my heart right now.

May I open with balance and ease to whatever is arising is in my heart.

It is traditional in the equanimity practice to acknowledge that all beings are heirs to their own karma. As Jack Kornfield says, “All beings receive the fruits of their actions. Their lives arise and pass away according to the deeds created by them. We can care deeply for them, but in the end we cannot act for them nor let go for them nor love for them. If it is helpful in freeing the heart, you can recite” something that acknowledges this. I often say something like…

I wish you deep happiness, all while knowing that your happiness does not depend on my wishes for you, but on your own thoughts and actions. I give a little bow, and say, May you be well.

Or sometimes I say…

I care for you but cannot make your choices for you.

Then at the end, I imagine all the people together, myself included, and I say:

May we each learn to see the arising and passing of all things with equanimity and balance.

May we rest with peaceful hearts.

May we have compassion and equanimity with all the events of the world.

Just as I wish these things for myself and all of you, I wish them for all beings, everywhere, without exception.

May it be so.

~ * ~

The following teachers have been invaluable in my practice this year. The above is based on their teachings.

Jack Kornfield, The Art of Forgiveness, Lovingkindness, and Peace (book).

Kamala Masters equanimity teaching.

Sharon Salzberg, Lovingkindess (book).

“You like Sofie more than me!” Tears spilled out of Mica’s eyes as the rain spit down on us. We were standing on the sidewalk. Sofie, the toddler I babysit once a week, was already in the car.

I was drawn into a squat before him, “Oh, Mica, that is not true. I don’t like Sofie more than you. But I see how sad you feel.”

We stayed like that, together. I was choosing not to talk too much, trying to make room for his feelings. Though it was also true that I was squatting in the rain, next to the car, on our way to pick up Orlando.

And soon that is just what we did — we got in the car and picked up Orlando. And went on with our day.

But I noticed a change after that… Mica was no longer as thrilled with Sofie (not her real name, by the way). He turned away from her when playing. He was generally less happy and more bossy. One time, as we were reading on the couch, Sofie arrived and cozied in with us, and I noticed him start chewing his sleeve (which is a sign of anxiety for him).

That night, at bedtime, he asked me, quite matter of factly, in an I-must-know-the-truth tone, “Mama, who do you love more? Sofie or me?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The question broke my heart in the way only children’s tenderness can.

I told him that while I like Sofie, I love him more than the entire universe. While he seemed satisfied, I knew it would take more than words. The child’s heart lies beyond rationale.

All of our hearts do.

Because how rational is it to think your mother loves a child she babysits more than you? Sofie is an incredibly adorable toddler, and I delight in her. But she’s only here for a few hours a week. Yet to Mica it is entirely conceivable that I might love her more than him.

I wondered, is there a kernel of truth in there? And when I reflected on our time together, I could see how much bigger my invitation was to her than to him — she was a guest and I was her gracious host.

In fact, the time at the car, I was struggling to get Sofie’s car seat installed. Because she had wandered toward the street (I had forgotten what it’s like to have a toddler — they don’t stay in one place for long!), I had scooped her up and deposited her on the front seat, inadvertently leaving Mica waiting outside, alone, in the rain.

Then, just as I had latched the car seat into place, she started to fuss. I hopped out of the back seat and passed by Mica, pulled open the front door, spread my arms and eyes wide, and exclaimed, “Oh, there you are!! Thank you so much for waiting!” She responded in kind, with a big smile. Cue Mica’s outburst.

Anyone could see that Mica was “jealous” but what Gordon Neufeld might see is a child experiencing attachment alarm. Mica’s body was alerting him to a separation from his most important attachment — me.

You would think our children would know how much we love them, and that we are not going to abandon them, but it became clear to me that Mica had his doubts and that my actions with Sofie were communicating more than I realized. Rather than try to talk him into believing there was no reason for his worry, I decided to put energy into our attachment, and see if that would help him feel more connected, secure, and at ease.

Neufeld suggests that there are six levels of attachment that deepen over time given the right conditions — the senses, sameness, belonging and loyalty, significance, love, and being known. I’ve been working to bolster them in the following ways…

• I engage Mica’s senses. I make lots of eye contact with Mica. I hug him, and touch him. I include him when I talk to Sofie, and invite him when I tend to her. If I hand Sofie an apple slice and notice Mica coming for one, I get there first and hand him a piece with a smile in my eyes.

• I point out some of what is the same between him and Sofie: “You are both enjoying the bath so much!” or “You both have blue coats.” I have also been noting how Mica and I are the same — we both have curls in our hair, love books, etc.

• I emphasize belonging and loyalty by telling Mica that “we’ll” be taking care of Sofie at “our” house. I’ve talked about how me, Mica, Papa, and Orlando make a family — and that Mica will always be in our family. I am his Mama and he is my son.

• I tell Mica his birth story and that he is the only Mica ever. In fact, a few weeks ago, Mica would say in the middle of the day, “Let’s get in bed, Mama.” I would lie with him, we would cuddle, and he would ask me to tell him his birth story. At the time I didn’t connect it with babysitting Sofie, but wow! one of the ways we communicate significance — how much our children mean to us — is to tell them their birth/arrival story.

• I love him up. I say things like, “Oh, Mica, I love you!” “I like being with you.” and “I am happy to see you.” When Mica and I are apart, I write him love notes, give him a special rock to hold on to, or a sweet to eat ­(his suggestion . We talk about how the sweet turns to sugar in his blood and becomes my love inside his body. He loves all this stuff!

• I show him he is known. I point out ways that Sofie and I are both watching him do whatever funny thing he is doing. That we are enjoying him. That we see him. I remember he doesn’t like it when I pretend-bite him and stop myself from doing it. I surprise him with something I know he will enjoy — a book from the library or a sweet treat (this kid LOVES sweets).

Many of these actions are simple, and many of them do involve words. But the words are evoked from a heart-space and intentionally initiated by me. I am calling upon a sense of bigness — of being able to hold Mica and Sofie and whatever else comes our way.

I noticed an immediate change in Mica’s mood around Sofie. He even told me, out of the blue, “I like Sofie more now. We are getting along better.” But most importantly, he no longer has to ask if I love him and I no longer have to explain or convince him of my love. I am conveying it to him, and he is receiving it.

When things first changed with Sofie, I considered stopping babysitting. In some cases it would be right to alter one’s schedule or activities in order to limit separation. Yet it’s also possible to bridge separation, repair hurts, touch on the sadness, and shore up attachment without necessarily making logistical changes.

It is quite powerful knowing that I have the tools to reach Mica in this way. I am amazed to find that our hearts can communicate perfectly in this imperfect world.

~ * ~

This post also appears today on the Seattle Neufeld Community blog. Please pop over to check out stories shared in the spirit of more deeply understanding human development and attachment while in the midst of raising up these lovely young ones (and sometimes ourselves, too).

Over stars is the mother wandering

In her mantle’s flowing folds.

Threads of gold and silver starlight

for her little child she holds.

Throngs of stars behold her passing,

all the sky is filled with light.

With her hands she weaves and gathers

blessings for the candle-lit night.

This weekend we prepared for solstice by walking the spiral of light. Each person walked to the center of the spiral carrying a delicious-smelling beeswax candle held in an apple. At the center, he or she lit their candle, and then placed their apple along the path as they returned to the beginning.

We sang songs — the one above, and the one below:

We are a circle

within a circle

with no beginning

and never ending.

Blessings to all.

Getting ready for Solstice…

sunshine

+

salmon

+

sweethearts

=

a simply wonderful afternoon

I was covered in kids, both of whom were unhappy and insisting they had had the smaller share of mama-cuddling. We were a pile of tired and I was in surround-sound stereo: “But I want as many minutes as Orlando!” and “Mica went first last night!”

I rose up, if not bodily, then in energy, exclaiming, “Everything can’t be the same! Because it’s not the same! You are fighting to have equal amounts thinking that is the answer but it is a losing proposition! It will never be satisfying!”

I was lecturing, which never goes well. I managed to gather myself, slowing my words, winding down, eventually arriving back on earth. Breathe, Mama.

Breathe in.

And I breathed out a story about the Same Monster.

The Same Monster… do you see him over there in the corner of the room? I heard him talking just now, he was saying that he wanted the exact same thing as brother! It couldn’t be even a little bit different. It had to be exactly the same. If brother had two minutes on Mama, he wanted two minutes! If brother had fourteen grapes, he wanted fourteen grapes! That same monster stomps around the house, insisting that things are the same!

But then when he gets the same thing, he wants the next same thing. He doesn’t always feel happy. In fact, I think he’s feeling a little sad, over there in the corner.

“It’s okay, Same Monster,” I said into the corner of the room, “to feel sad. Sometimes it’s hard not to have the same things or do the same things as brother. Sometimes you wish you were smaller or bigger or faster. Sometimes you wish you had Mama all to yourself.”

The children were quiet and still, listening. And then the Same Monster got up from the corner and went down to the garden, where he noticed something. Of all the cherry tomatoes on the vine, not one of them was the same as the other! He picked a few and ate them. They were juicy, cool, and sweet.

In the darkened bedroom, Mica asked where the same monster went next. It turned out he went to the beach, where the rocks were purple, green, grey, black, brick-red. Where each wave was its own size, shape, and arriving in its own time. We traveled through a lullaby of detail, difference, smells, tastes, and sights, until finally the Same Monster came back home, where he got into bed with us, and cuddled with all three of us together.

We were in a pile, but no longer bunched up — the kids were not starving for more and I was free from the spasm of Stop energy.

Later, when I first reflected on the Same Monster story, I was feeling proud that I was teaching my children to appreciate differences. But then I recognized the real importance of that story: when the Same Monster was feeling sad and I could sense my kids peeking into the corners of their own sadness. Into the grief of realizing that they are brothers, that there are two of them, and that sometimes they get different amounts… of time, of grapes, of Mama.

The story has provided a short-hand for us in the days since… Now we can summon the Same Monster to help us see our desires, to feel our feelings, and to conceive, just maybe, of a new possibility. New possibilities which can’t be seen until the feelings are felt.

From Gordon Neufeld I learned about something he calls the traffic circle…

Imagine a circle. Frustration goes in and it comes out in three ways: by making change, by adapting to circumstances we cannot change, or by attack. If we are unable to make change and are able to feel grief about that, we adapt. If we are unable to make change but are also unable to feel grief, our frustration turns to attack (which can take many forms, such as acting mean and rude, hitting and fighting, foul moods, self-deprecation, sarcasm, irritability and impatience, etc.).

My children were feeling the frustration of not having the same things, likely masking even deeper feelings about not wanting to have a brother. Trying to convince them to stop acting or feeling frustrated would not help. They might learn to mask the frustration, but it would still be there, and instead of coming out in bickering it might come out later in a secret punch or pinch. Or maybe older brother would develop a taunting tone when talking to the younger one. And we would never get to the feelings underneath.

The way to resolve frustration (and in the process, change behavior — a great side benefit!) is to feel the futility inherent in the situation: They each do have a brother. That’s a fact! And it is simply not possible to have the same things all the time. And sometimes they feel sad about these things. I want them to feel that sadness, not because I want them to be sad, but because the sadness will help them adapt to the way life is.

After they’ve felt the sadness, sometime later on, maybe they could consider the idea of appreciating differences. But to be honest, that was an idea from my very adult, thinking mind. These children need to feel their feelings more than they need my ideas. And in order to feel, they need soft hearts. To have soft hearts, they need safe spaces. As Gordon says, children need an invitation — for all parts of themselves — to exist in the presence of their parents.

That is why, now, when the Same Monster comes around, I welcome him with open arms, and we listen more closely to his sadness, and to all his feelings.

 ~ * ~

This post also appears today on the Seattle Neufeld Community blog. Please pop over to check out stories shared in the spirit of more deeply understanding human development and attachment while in the midst of raising up these lovely young ones (and sometimes ourselves, too).

“Without movement life is unthinkable.”

“What I’m after isn’t flexible bodies, but flexible brains. What I’m after is to restore each person to their human dignity.”

“If you know what you are doing, you can do what you want.”

“…To make the impossible possible, the possible easy, and the easy elegant.”

— Moshé Feldenkrais

On a five night retreat, settling into the quiet of self among many others. Listening, walking, sleeping, waking, sitting, walking, receiving what comes. Noticing so much.

Over the last year during my Hakomi training, somehow I became friends with my hypervigilance. A friendly recognition of how quick my mind is, how my mind is counting and organizing, keeping track of the comings and goings of people, what we decided yesterday. I used to think it was effortless — it is going on in the background after all, in my unconscious — but I realized, with a great big sobbing relief sitting on the cushion on retreat just how much energy it takes. It is not free. And to have that energy available again — to imagine it available to me… incredible.

Our home is nestled among twenty-two other homes. I am continually trying to understand how this impacts me. I know it has meant that I’ve retreated. I retreat into myself. I don’t come out. I hold back. I am still holding my breath, who knows how many years it’s been, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe I don’t have to do that anymore.

I am sitting now, practicing the fourth brahma-vihara: equanimity. Balance. Using both my legs to carry me as I run and move and walk and stand. Unwinding the wound up and bound energy. Release.

And reflecting on the grasshopper totem not just as a sign for our journey with Orlando, but for my own journey. Giving myself time, and trusting slowness and and inner stirrings and big ideas. Accepting unorthodox methods of progress. Moving toward unbridled joy. Yay!

~ * ~

So many kisses and cuddles from my boys.

~ * ~

Babysitting our neighbor’s 20-month-old daughter. I spent the whole time utterly delighted by her toddlerness, because she was so delighted by everything! Water running down the sidewalk. “Zumpeen!” on the trampoline. Seeing Mica, which occasions a great big “Hi Ica!!” from her. I toted her around on my hip as if she were my own.

~ * ~

My weekly Neufeld group with other homeschooling moms. I am so, so, so happy and into it and getting so much out of the material (about childhood development and attachment). Clarity, and purpose, and such deep community.

~ * ~

Orlando’s new school — I can hardly believe this exists five minutes from our house and is just what he needs right now.

~ * ~

Smelling the scent of wood smoke in Orlando’s hair and clothes when he comes home from outdoor school.

~ * ~

Mica running all over the house today completely animated, showing me the amazing paper airplanes he and Papa had made. Baking an apple crisp with him, and him telling me, “I like to bake things. That’s just the kind of person I am.”

~ * ~

The million and one tiny drawn jack-o-lanterns the boys taped to our windows and doors.

~ * ~

Running errands with one child — so quiet and quick.

~ * ~

That we can always learn and grow. That I am learning and growing — I am even learning about how to grow!

~ * ~

{joining mon for joy pockets}