My little gurus come
to me each in their own time
and with their own teaching.
My ignorance is revealed
not by my reflection,
but by their own actions.
I hear in them my voice
and see in them my face,
and know what I should change.
Generous Wisdom | Spacious Heart
Wise Heart Practices of Movement, Metaphor, Meditation & Meaning
My little gurus come
to me each in their own time
and with their own teaching.
My ignorance is revealed
not by my reflection,
but by their own actions.
I hear in them my voice
and see in them my face,
and know what I should change.
I.
My world is so close.
So tiny. So right before my eyes.
It is all little grabbing hands
and chubby feet and
eyes, noses, mouths,
bellies, arms, and legs
that all need loving, and I forget
to see God in it. I am forever looking down and in.
II.
In the vast expanse
of the horizon line,
in a surround of grass and forest,
in fields, on mountains, and shores,
I look up and out always
and am freed into a new perspective
and a new love of the old old God.
III.
I want to look up
when I look down.
I will see trees and sky
and vast expanse when I am nose to nose,
when I am lathering, rinsing, drying,
diapering, dressing, zipping.
When I am adjusting socks and fastening shoes,
I will look up.
When they come to me crying,
wailing, screaming, yelling,
I will be in awe of God’s power
to create such multi-faceted, complex beings,
and I will see their eternal souls
and I will see the God that they are a part of
when I look down, look over, look into
their sweet sweet eyes.
I will.
I stand in the hallway
screaming from my roots –
one long screech from the four corners of my feet, from my pelvic floor, from the tips of my fingers.
My two-month-old sleeps
in her bouncey chair not five feet from where I stand.
My 23-month-old kicks and scream-cries behind her closed door on my right.
My 6-year-old plays in his room on my left.
And my husband leaves work
to drive to the city where he stands at his mother’s hospital bed.
There is nothing pretty here.
My breasts leak milk
and my post-partum belly hangs
deflated over my waistband.
I call my mom;
I pack diapers, wipes,
bottles, formula,
breast pump, nursing pads,
clothes, toys, a sippy cup,
and buckle the kids in their seats.
We drive two hours north east
and meet my parents at my sister’s house
where everyone takes care of my babies
and I sleep.
Screaming cracks the bricks of my independent facade
and I ask for help.
Help is beautiful.