Look!


Today, I fell off a chair flat on my tailbone and into sharp shelving, bruising my spine up and down. I was hurrying too much, worrying too much. I was frustrated with my limitations (short stature, impatience, exhaustion, chronic forgetfulness as a result...). I was reaching too high on an unstable pedestal, not intentional about or mindful of my grounding. Laying on the floor of my closet after the fall, I breathed through the tears of hurt and humility, the fears of injury, the shock of being planted firmly by my mistake.

My kids were seatbelt-ed in the car in the driveway; I'd just run inside to grab something really quick before our next stop. We'd ran four errands by 9:30am. I was tired and stressed from the demand that those couple hours of activity had required and, simultaneously, the fact that I *needed* to be out of my house and doing something to maintain my sanity. But the surprise of the physical pain, and the imperative to get to my children, was enough to clear some of the mental buzz. After a few minutes, which felt eternal, I was able to recover myself enough to hobble back out to the car and get us to our next destination: Mama's Hip.

The best friends in the world tell you you're doing a good job, that you are seen and loved, and remind you you're still in the trenches. They show respect to your children and treat them like real, whole people, even at a difficult time. They acknowledge your hurt and still stay honest about their own struggles. They hold wide, open space for the suffering world AND for small-big explosions of wonder, simultaneously. They can see how everything, all the effort of a day, can be made worth it in a moment of joyful song when everyone sings together, focused on the light and beauty of being alive. And they know how important it is to turn to you and tell about it.

My people are in the trenches all. day. every. day. They do not shy away from tension or tenderness. They make their work through laughter and tears. They help to pull me back up again. They brush me off and give me a hug. They say, "I'm right here with you." They bow to me in a million ways that center me in what's possible. They are waystations and fellow wanderers. They pay attention, weep and smile, and despite everything, keep declaring of the heart of the matter, "Look!" ❤️