{this moment}
a picture, from right now, to appreciate
Truly
As I lay sandwiched between two young boys — my sons — Mica flung his arms around my head and whispered with sweet urgency, “I truly, truly love you, Mama.”
And then, in case I hadn’t gotten it, “Truly, truly, truly, truly, truly I love you.”
How can I argue with that?
But it’s true: there is an argument somewhere inside me about being truly loved. I can sense it in my surprise that my children are genuinely sad when I leave in the evenings for some event or other. I feel slightly puzzled, “Haven’t we spent all day together? Are they really that sad to see me go?”
I have tried to explain this before and it is often misunderstood as an “I am tired of being with them/aren’t they tired of being with me?” thing. But it’s not that.
It’s that I am not sure I know how to take in the love they have for me.
In Hakomi, we have a sense to wanting to relieve ourselves and others of unnecessary suffering, of understanding the ways we’ve come to manage ourselves and our experiences that may actually preclude us from experiencing all there is to offer. There is nourishment in the world, available to us, if we are able to take it in.
Right now, I am just noticing my inability to take something in — this unconditional and virtually unstoppable love my children have for me — and becoming conscious of it, of some pattern or belief or habit… a trailhead, we say. A place to come back to and explore.
There is nothing to take apart or clean out or tear down. Just a contour in my inner landscape I had never quite seen before. I see now that it’s a beautiful landscape, and I want to keep looking.
Just looking, taking in every detail with an effortless gaze, feeling the whole of it, even the parts I cannot fully feel. Yet.
May you filled with lovingkindness… toward yourself, all parts of yourself.
May all beings be filled with lovingkindness.
~ * ~
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Attending to the Moment
I heard the tell-tale sounds from upstairs and could easily envision the scene: a child on each side of the bedroom door, pushing and pulling, simultaneously reinforcing and fighting the barrier between them.
Orlando wanted privacy and Mica wanted to be with Orlando.
Isn’t that always what it is? Two people who want different things?
I walked up the stairs and sat on the floor near Mica. He put his head in my lap and he cried. I said, “Oh, Orlando wants some privacy and you want to be with Orlando.” And I told him, “You have tears.”
Already that morning, he had cried over something else, briefly, and I must have sensed something, there. Because he had a lot of tears today.
He cried and I sat with him, stroking his hair, offering him my presence. Orlando was in the other room with the door closed. After a while, I asked Mica if he wanted me to hold him, and he did, and I held him like a baby, and he cried.
Eventually the door opened a crack, and Orlando peeked out, looking concerned and tentative. I made eye-contact with him and smiled a little. He approached and stood near us.
I said, “Mica is crying.” And then, “I am holding him.” And lastly, “You’re standing near us.”
Mica reached out to Orlando and pulled him into us, and we were a three-way hug. He was done crying, and we toppled and wobbled and giggled. Two boys filled my lap, for just that moment. And then Mica was up and off and Orlando followed, and I remained kneeling, for just that moment.
Thankful.
~ * ~
That’s the thing about attending to the moment: The moment is always there to attend. And it’s as if the act of attending changes the unfolding and flow of those moments, almost always for the better. Th0se moments are often so memorable, rich, full; as if the thing that needed to happen gets to happen, and a sense of completion settles upon us.
Until the next moment, when we begin again. When I stand up and go downstairs and make the snacks and ask the kids to find their socks, please, and we get in the car and drive somewhere and I look up and around. Listen.
We come together. We want different things. And I either attend — give space to the wanting, the differences, and the possibility of a solution (or no solution) — or I bang on the door, pushing and pulling at once, or I fade away, wanting it all to go away.
When a moment pulls me into the heart of it, I remember all the times I’ve gone missing, been distracted, overcome.
Over-attending, not-attending.
When a moment pulls me into the heart of it, that’s when I realize: Oh, these kids are still here. They still need me. I still need to be here.
I need to be still, here.
Joys
My birthday celebration — a neighbor and I, who share the same birthday, cooked an Ethiopian feast for our community. It was a lot of work, and so much fun. I felt so amazingly content and happy that night!
Beaches… so many beaches.
Visiting our favorite on my birthday, another one in the city on Sunday, and another on Monday. There are more to come, I’m sure.
Our homeschooling community. Feeling a sense of settledness and connection with other families, enjoying the sunshine together and having people over and meeting at parks… seeing the kids playing, deep in their own groove.
Attending Orlando’s outdoor school evening program…
playing games in the woods, sharing food, watching a sweet play put on the kids. He is in his element.
Playing around with my new camera.
A date night with Orlando — thai food, watching some amazing soccer players (just by chance), a quick pop into the best bookstore, and attending Annie to see a friend perform.
And now, into a busy Sunday… the beginning of a new Gordon Neufeld class and later this afternoon, the closing meeting of the parenting and dharma group I have been a part of (on and off) for seven years, a facilitator of for two.
linking up with Mon for Joy Pockets
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