Refocus

The day draws down as the sun sets, the house quiets, and my littlest one snuggles close to me in our evening ritual. He reaches out, grasps my hair, gazes into my eyes, and compels me to let go of whatever keeps me from complete engagement. As I watch the movement of his eyes and hands, I am overwhelmed with wonder by the coming together of instinct and personality, bodily and energetic processes, individuality and interconnection, all in this microcosmic, nourishing moment.

Ten short weeks ago, we were so new to one another this way; now, the habitual rhythm is easy to overlook busy hour to busy hour. It just happens, like the growth of my baby I only notice in sudden spurts of surprise. He is growing fast, and so am I, thanks to his tutelage. Neither of us is the same person as we were when we first met face to freshly-born face. Who is this small being before me? I look into his eyes and dream of who he will be.

Then, I realize this is another distraction from the present person I have the opportunity to discover here and now. I refocus. I listen to his grunts and sniffs, smile as he smiles and softly speaks in his own lovely song, breathe deep the smell of his skin, and gently trace my fingers through his fuzzy hair. We look and look and look at each other. Who does he see?

I am humbled by the thought that he does not dream of who I will become - he happily accepts me here and now. He is teaching me to do the same. In innumerable ways, I am a stranger unto myself, just as my child is both intimate to my being's core and simultaneously someone I can never fully know.

The world is just like that. We can dream of what it will become, but the only way to the future is through this Now. Who are you, new world quietly breathing? What do you see when you look at me?

The Pond

"Pink fish! Swim, swim," he remarks in a singsong voice behind me.

With my back turned to my child, I smile to myself at his innocent choosing of the wrong color to describe what he sees. "Orange fish - those are koi," I think to myself. But before I speak aloud my correction, I turn to glance at the fish resting at the bottom of the shallow pond. Peering into the water, I stop short. I look more closely.

Sunbeams play through strands of aquatic flora and algae, splaying in a cloudy rainbow of ripples. The fish are tricky to spot beneath the disturbed surface and many layers of light. When I focus fully on the fish, watercolor wisps against black, I realize that my child is right - at this point in time, from this perspective, they look undeniably pink.

When presented with a fresh insight that offends my former understanding, I too quickly decide I already know what is right or wrong about it without looking again. Even when I think I am holding an open posture, sometimes I notice I have decided what I am about to receive instead of gazing anew at a seemingly-familiar person, perspective, or circumstance. More often than I would like to admit, I shake my head and smile smugly, comfortable in my false security.

My boys offer countless daily opportunities to look again. In looking again, I realize I am actually not looking *again* - I am looking for the first time at a particular arrangement of elements and energies that have never been quite like this and will not ever repeat themselves exactly. Oak shows me that dump truck rumblings sound like thunder, and he isn't afraid to name the emotions I'm experiencing with initially intimidating but enlightning clarity. Ronin's eye color is ever-changing, some days the rich blue of a perfectly ripe blueberry, others a deep forest green, still others gray like the edge of a summer storm. Some mornings, I am aware enough to wake and honor my little ones as intimate strangers, containing multitudes, who I have a precious chance to meet.

What if we could greet every other this way:
I have never seen this YOU before.
What color are you?
What is your name?

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other"
doesn't make any sense."
-
umi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Noticing how I feel questioning what I believe I know - startled, anxious, afraid? surprised, delighted, awed? - brings me to the threshold of true attention. Practicing genuine presence helps me to see more clearly, which in turn leaves me humbler and kinder. Each moment becomes a treasure and challenge, glinting like a rose-gold scale in wet, green-black waters, mine to discover and allow to recalibrate my perspective as another tiny glimmer in the miasma of possibility.

Louisville to Orlando

A rainbow of balloons ascended into the air over myriad-colored crowds. Thousands of people walked together, toward one another, across a sky now clear of the storm.

I followed at the end, a straggler, my baby against my heart, both of us breathing the warm freshness of descending evening. Ronin craned his neck, looking in every direction, as we walked past people holding hands and talking and crying and laughing and singing, people pulsing and gathering and watching and holding, people emblazoned over and over with the word: Love, Love,  Love.

There were so many gathered that it was impossible to hear the remarks made at the center of the bridge. Then, suddenly, a roaring applause rose like a wave through the throngs and assailed me with noisy jubilation. No words were needed.

We stood over the river waters, united as people who approached from all sides to close a parted sea, washing away the threat of evil. Friends and strangers waved and embraced and sang. Lanterns were lit and released. I paused with dear companions to marvel at the sky, its own rainbow flag of Light.

In the twilight, children played and laughed. My baby boy rested his head on my chest. The darkness teemed with the resonance of possibility.

Always Enough

Today began in exhaustion. Ronin, Oak, and I have all been awake since 4:30am - Oak has been sick and having night terrors and Ronin is, well, a newborn. It's also my first, full day solo with my boys.

The past few days, I have created a lot of fear around not being, or being able to do, enough as a homemaker. I was resolving this fear with the closed perspective that I was just not going to be able to take good care of myself, I was going to fall short, and the boys' needs were simply not going to be met - that was that. No need to be falsely optimistic or upbeat. My exact words to Robby when he asked how I was feeling about his return to work were, I'm not proud to admit, “Well, it's going to be f***ing hard. That's about all.”

I later realized that, by believing in advance that I wouldn't be enough, I was attempting to avoid disappointing myself. After processing my feelings with Robby, I released some of that rigid negativity. Of course this transition will be hard and I'll fall short, but there will be good in it, too, I affirmed, and I'll have moments when I feel I have done well. I remembered that I have autonomy in how I receive my experiences. I attuned to my more naturally positive posture - rather than deciding how anything would be ahead of time, one way or the other, I would honor each moment holistically and resist assigning “Pass” or “Fail” marks to every hour.

Despite a rough start, the boys and I still had a pleasant morning. We took the new dynamic in stride. We made a brief venture to a park and had fun. Miraculously, probably out of sheer exhaustion on everyone's part, even nap time (my most dreaded time of the day to navigate solo) began relatively smoothly. Oak crashed in his bed with little effort on my part shortly before Ronin fell asleep. This happened around 12:15pm. Score! Beginner's luck! Then, both boys slept 2 hours. Holy moly. The universe granted me the extra sleep I needed desperately. Mama nap achieved. What a gift!

I heard Oak waking up and went to grab him, leaving Ronin sleeping in the big bed. Oak was still so drowsy and motioned to lay on the bed with his brother when we came back into the room. I laid him down - I thought he and Ronin were both waking up shortly. Nope. They both conked out again, side by side. What were the odds?

Then...Oak rolled over in his sleep and took his brother's hand. They snuggled for almost another full hour, both boys in and out of sleep only to physically reconnect with the other before drifting off again. It's a wild, cosmic feeling to look at two little beings so in love with each other and realize, "Wow...I made both of those." Yet the words of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran reverberated in my soul as I gazed at them sleeping:
"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you."
Nevertheless, my heart exploded with wonder because these two clearly belong to one another.

The sweet surrender of my children and their gentleness to one another granted their mother some grace today, allowing me to learn by example the balance between releasing expectations AND trusting in abundance, simultaneously. I couldn't have planned or perfected this joyful experience of presence by anticipating or prejudging it. I can only receive it, and the countless difficult and pleasant moments to come, with gratitude and humility as they arrive. I can only tenderly embrace my days like my boys embrace one another, as companions and teachers...beloved brothers.

I was afraid of being too tired to cope with today; I realize many more days like this will come and that they will not always go well according to my hopes or plans. I will not always cope. However, I can try to release my hopes and plans to be guided by my children, as The Prophet suggests:
“You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Oak woke up, snuggled into my chest, and said in his sweet, not-yet-two lilting voice, “I wuv you, Mommy.” Then he bent forward and kissed Ronin's forehead: “I wuv you, Ronin.” Trusting that there are hidden gems of restorative beauty along the way, both glittering jewels and diamonds in the rough, will keep me walking forward in the dark. I will never be enough...and yet there is somehow always, always enough.

Love Opens

LOVE OPENS

In the last trimester of this second pregnancy, I closed up. The physical and emotional demands were more difficult than I expected: running around after a toddler and meeting his emotional needs while feeling constantly uncomfortable in my body, managing blood sugar levels, and surfing huge hormonal surges that left me exhausted by myself. Going out in public most likely meant I would attract attention and comments from strangers about my large size, emphasizing my own insecurity and discomfort. I really did not want to be around people, even my dearest friends and family, because I could barely take care of myself, let alone give to my relationships.

By withdrawing my energy, I felt I was conserving what little I had to give to my family and myself. To be well, I believed I wanted to be closed off, locked away. I put my life on hold. I didn't reach out to friends, make outings, or attend events. Each day was punctuated by a fixation on baby's arrival because, once he came, it would all be over...wouldn't it? I ignored the persistent, internal question, “What will that truly change?”

I felt something happening at a deep level as I withdrew: other channels seemed to close off. I lost my perspective and patience easily. I felt less creative. I was less likely to be friendly to a neighbor or curious toward my son and husband. I was mentally and emotionally stopped up and stagnant. Instead of giving to myself, I realized in the last week of pregnancy that, by turning so fully inward, I was actually taking from myself by not allowing my life to flow. Instead of better loving myself and others, I was becoming bitter, despite my best efforts to stay aligned in seclusion.

I then came across profound words by Ina May Gaskin, the preeminent American midwife. She writes that in the thousands of births she has witnessed, she has noted a direct correlation between the relaxation and release of women's other bodily sphincters and the opening of their vaginas in birth. Simply keeping her jaw unclenched and her mouth open can help a woman dilate more easily and quickly, for instance - so can sitting on the toilet, a place where she is used to relaxing her bottom. But this isn't all: furthermore, receiving or offering words of affirmation and love also allow women to open. Hearing her partner tell her she is loved, expressing her own gratitude to those helping with the birth, and feeling the safety and security of a caring space allows a mother to give birth with less pain and more joy.

The body has its portals between the inside and outside. So, it would seem, does the spirit; these portals of connection and integration enable our relationships and creative processes to unfold and flourish. Fear and threat close them down, which makes giving birth - or living a meaningful, generative life - a struggle. But other energies open them wide - most powerfully, love. Love eases, inspires, instills courage. Love allows us to be permeable and soft to life. Love requires us to be engaged and integrated with others. Love cannot flow if we close ourselves. Love is a verb, we often hear, and its direction is outward. Love opens.

The revelation came like a full-bodied flash from my mind and womb: Love Opens. My whole pregnancy, I found my life aligning more and more to connecting with people, putting ideas into action, and letting myself be led; it was impossible not to feel that my child was responsible for the palpable energetic shift. He infused his nine months in utero with dynamic, expansive possibility. But my own struggles and fears kept me from leaning into the current of what emerges when I surrender to life's flow and what is being created through but beyond me. Around and within, my withdrawal had caused pain. Now, I understood I had to let go. This was the lesson I needed to learn to give birth to my second baby: to open up wholeheartedly without fear of not having or being enough. Love is motion that simultaneously draws together and expands beyond conceivable limits.

When the day came at last when Ronin began to make his arrival, I was ready - ready to be led. I held back from nothing. I tried to receive each rush joyfully in the beginning. I played and danced and made love with my husband. I turned my attention away from the discomfort and tuned into my delight. My husband held my hand to keep me grounded as the intensity built. I made long, low “Om” tones to bring down my awareness into the pain, which I could endure without suffering if I didn't resist it. I let many hands - husband's, mother's, mother-in-law’s, nurse’s, midwife's - hold me, steady me, cool me, clean me, reassure me. I listened as my husband, my rock, told me again and again softly, lovingly, “You can do this. You are doing this.”

There were moments I felt the resistance within me rise and threaten to close me up: when the pain became all-encompassing, my self-doubt reared, or I succumbed to distractions from the present. I felt the temptation to create distance from the people and circumstances near me by believing my supporters could not understand my pain. That bitterness turned in my mouth a couple times. Nevertheless, I returned to the mantras that illumined the truth that I was held and deeply connected. “I love my baby, my husband, these women.” The words allowed a path to unfold in me, through me: “Relax.” “Open up.” “I'm going to get HUGE.” “Love opens.”

And, of course, soon and smoothly enough, I did open. As I began to push, I recalled the refrain that came to me as I painted Ronin's mandala: “Down and through, up and out.” I had made it down and through my body's process of opening, so now I ascended with vigor to push my baby out. I knew just what to do with my body because it told me. An intense push sent my womb waters spraying in a sudden burst that elicited surprised laughter from my caretakers. I heard all around me, “Good job! Oh, wow! You're doing it, you've got it, Mandy!” I felt my baby move quickly down and through and then, with a gush of blood and a flurry of limbs, Ronin came up and out onto my chest, over my heart. I met my husband's gaze in elation. I smiled as he took a picture of us. I cried, “We did it!”

And, through the portals of joy and collaboration and compassion and intention and perseverance and hope and mystery and great, great wonder, Love Opened, within and all around.

Morning Hymn

Birdsong chorus echoes starry skies
Aria chirps - ancient chimes
Red, blue, yellow feathers & frequencies
Tweeted rounds & turning spheres
Swelling moon sentinel soars between
Woodleaf Dawn & Dark Matter Milieu
Awareness takes flight - deams alight
Liminal mind traverses dimensions & distance

To Ronin

You began as the fruit grew heavy
on vines and branches, in the heat
of August - first a wish, then a will, then
a passionate union of elements
to fulfill a dream I held, second child.
You caught my imagination like the deer
I passed often in open fields that appeared
as summer messengers to herald mystery,
spry spirits and quick bodies foreshadowing.
You made your swift way through the shade.
Autumn leaves transfigured to falling snow,
seasons turning rapidly as pages in a new
story. Your name, whispered between lines
and through busy days, settled surely on my
tongue and heart, sparked an instant vision
of strength. Growing, you affirmed intuition
with boldness, presenting more grounded
connections, channeling words to action,
stretching my physical and etheric bodies.
You are breaking molds, a spring shoot
through old soil, harnessing energy to shape
what we hope for in what we touch. Your
heaviness teaches me how to be human, here
and willing to walk the path emerging
from fire and dust at the feet. My son,
the rains and blooms are yours, rinsing and
rising, your soul a legend for this new world's
map. I see you running through the thicket,
untamed and ready. I do not expect that I can
follow the way, or that you will turn back.
But I trust that when I catch your eye, I will see
where we are going, that our heartbeats will
speak the next, wordless chapter.

Wash Feet

Wake on a Holy Thursday from dreams of birthing babies to gray skies and tree blossoms, pink and soft, unfurling.

Watch your small son eye wind-tossed wildflowers, pressing his forehead to the window, and imagine the worlds he inhabits, holds.

Notice the curves of his feet, wrinkled like overlapping petals, nestled with patterns never once made until he became.

Feel your womb waters turn as your baby stirs those small tides; the strain of connected bodies when the closeness grows heavy; the sorrow of inevitable separation.

Carry the melancholy of spring rain on green grass, smelling the decay in each story of failure that foddered fresh growth.

Pray for children, present and future, whose knowledge of what can be comes to us as heralded Reign clouds, a perfect storm to part the dark and cleanse with light.

Recall the spiritual mandate to wash feet as you draw a bath, place your son inside the large basin, pour water across his shoulders, and offer gratitude that this moment is salvational.

Breathe into your belly, to your baby, to abate your fear of the death that always comes when you break open, to bring inspiration, to begin again for your children.

Close the ritual of the lived day by lighting a candle, laying your body to rest, folding your hands, closing your eyes, and letting the dark bury you.

Rise once more, your heart a bud.

Strength

I count the colors of the wrinked tablecloth
by naming them: orange, green, blue, periwinkle.
I try to make my breath emanate evenly
in that floral pattern, vines winding smoothly
from bud to bud through pounding heartbeats,
but the tears stream in wordless apologies:
'I'm sorry I am not stronger. Everyone,
everyone who is alive or will ever be, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, my boy, that you see your mama cry,
that I don't know how to hold suffering without feeling it.
I'm sorry there is pain in everything, especially love.'
Later, at the moment I finally request forgiveness aloud,
I step out of the car and am instantly startled by
the haunting calls of two, coupled geese sailing overhead.
Suddenly, I am awake. Their message hovers in a cloud
of pale gray wisdom. Despair's spectrum colors collapse;
the clear prism rests on my heart, under a child's hand,
between wings touching: "You are never alone."
I learn that a friend's baby, who was born today,
shares a name with my son. Once again,
I cannot stop crying, this time at beauty's clear patterns -
lines, wingbeats, pulsing hearts across space.
Tonight, I find a fragile day lily growing through black, broken
concrete. It does not see its courage or consider its strength.
It only disregards the wreckage and rises.

What is Always There: Four Ways We Can Remember to be Human

1. Oak insisted on pulling his wagon along the side of the road on our walk through the neighborhood. His pace slowed me and Robby into more steadfast attention as the labor of his small body led us to tend more carefully to often-overlooked bumps in the sidewalk, patches of mud, slight rises and dips on the path. The tedious work of hauling the empty wagon only delighted him. We meandered slowly but happily - there was nowhere else to be. Dusk settled as we completed the last leg of our little journey; flying bats overhead raised all of our eyes to the darkening sky, where we noticed the first star of evening. "Bat." "Dark." "Star." Our boy echoed each revelation with syllables that sounded like an ancient tongue resonating in his tiny voice. My heavy belly stirred as the baby within stretched. I murmured reflexively, "Being human is pretty wild, isn't it, Oakie?" His silence was a perfect reply. The three of us sang together as we walked, "Twinkle, twinkle, little star - how I wonder what you are..."

2. Early this morning, Oak and I went to play in Big Rock Park. The only other person there was a man in a button-down shirt and dress pants, walking with a plastic bag, bending every few steps to pick up another piece of trash. The place was littered with styrofoam cups and paper and bottles. His silent pilgrimage came to a close near the playground, where we caught one another's eye and smiled. I said with feeling, "Thank you." He told me that he enacts the same ritual every morning ("They try to keep it nice, I know, but it's hard to keep this place up."). He said the park always looks the same when he arrives, that he never thought "No littering" signs would be necessary. He lamented the many unused trash cans around the park. There was no trace of despair in his voice, only gladness to share with a stranger. When I repeated my gratitude for his kindness, he replied with a genuine smile and conviction, "It's the least I can do. Enjoy this place." I wondered how he spent the rest of his day. My boy waved as he drove away.

3. We spotted a robin tugging a worm out of the dirt, stretching it thin like a rubber band. His thick neck thrusted back several times to fully extract his breakfast, which he tossed back quickly. Oak inched closer and closer, watching intently; instead of flying far out of reach, the bird simply fluttered in short distances around the park. Soon they were playing a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse, or boy-and-bird, across the large expanse of grass. Why didn't the bird leave the arrangement altogether, or my boy sit down and abandon the chase? Neither party seemed confident they would catch up to one another, but that did not deter my boy's enthusiasm or the bird's measured retreat. The inevitable end of this futile pursuit was that nothing of any consequence happened - nevertheless, the untempered energies of the young human and woodland warbler lent themselves to an unproductive but intriguing flight of wing and spirit. After a time, the robin perched on a branch over the creek where we watched him until he sailed across the water and out of sight.

4. Tonight, we made another loop through our neighborhood in the dark and wet. Oak pulled the empty wagon, Robby led the dogs on their leashes, and I held Oak's hand. As we walked the last stretch, our little one craned his neck to look up at the cloudy sky and pointed. "Dark, star," he remembered. Shortly thereafter, he dropped the wagon handle and ran with joyful squeals to hug Robby's legs. "Dad! Dad!" he proclaimed with spontaneous delight. His father laughed in surprise and bent down to embrace him, saying, "I love you so much!" Oak then reached out a hand to both dogs - "Dogs!" - then rested his head on each of them in turn. "Mom! Mom!" he said, turning back to me; we squeezed each other tightly. Finally, he embraced his wagon in sweet abandon. Robby and I laughed in contagious happiness at his unselfconsious affection. We all held hands and finished walking the rest of the way home. Cast under the spell of spontaneous gratitude, the moment accompanied us like another, familiar companion, refreshing as rain on an upturned face. The wordless lesson hung in the air like mist. Our feet were washed clean by wet grass. We ascended our front steps and walked through the door.

The Form of What Has Never Been Before

"Early this morning, there was fog & as the sun rose around us, everything began to glow & it made me wonder what this world will become for us when we remember in our bones that even the darkness is just another shape of light." - Brian Andreas

The day before the Unity Rally, I listened to Reverend Ray at Unity of Louisville share that their congregation believes every human being carries the Christ presence deep within - every human, even Donald Trump. They believe each person harbors at their core the capacity to be transformed and liberated in as little as a single moment. Therefore, although opposing people's unjust and violent actions is necessary, so is maintaining respect for their dignity no matter how abhorrently they have violated the dignity of others.

The next day, neighbors from across our city gathered in Unity to celebrate connections across boundaries and revel in the common Light of our being. While Trump spoke words of hate and division from his podium and his constituents instigated violence, those who attended our rally intentionally chose not to share negativity toward him or any other, instead holding up our common hopes and love. The clashing reverberations of Trump's rally further downtown and the lyrical, musical, community gathering at which I stood were almost as palpable as the thunderclaps overhead.

In spite of the beauty of the Unity Rally, this week has been shadowed by dark clouds of suffering and righteous despair in our city. Last night, when a friend invited me to meditation at the Drepung Gomang Center, I went to find some space to be silent and release my internal anxiety and fear. I sat and let the monks' mantras wash over me in cleansing sound waves that spoke of cosmic compassion, the noble venture to unify all beings, and the human task to honor our emptiness as individuals and awaken to our common identity.

The prayerful syllables painted mental pictures of snowy mountains and clear plains: soft, fresh, open spaces.I felt my awareness pan out to our planet as a collective Lifeform...and let myself dissolve into the silence, imagining generations of humans seeking to bring forth a new world. In the dark, I envisioned swirling particles and gasses aeons away in supernovae and nebulae, striving to form something that had never been before.

"If there were no internal propensity to unite, even at a prodigiously rudimentary level — indeed in the molecule itself — it would be physically impossible for love to appear higher up, with us, in hominized form...Driven by the forces of love, the fragments of the world seek each other so that the world may come into being."

"There is almost a sensual longing for communion with others who have a large vision. The immense fulfillment of the friendship between those engaged in furthering the evolution of consciousness has a quality impossible to describe.” - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Last Saturday, I saw a Facebook status posted by a friend that articulated his vision for a peaceful, celebratory event in opposition to Trump's political rally happening Tuesday. I knew of Jaison from his extensive community work in Louisville but had never met him personally. Nevertheless, his idea resonated deeply with me: being 7 months pregnant and knowing I would have my 20-month-old in tow the day of Trump's rally, I, too, was looking for a nonviolent place to share with others. I reached out and agreed to make an electronic event for organizing.

Little did I realize that having my name on the electronic event would mean taking on a significant role in bringing it to life. Over the three days in which we planned this rally, I came to meet (first in virtual space, then face-to-face) many incredible, compassionate people I perhaps would have not otherwise met: Jaison, Muhammad Babar, Pinky, Reverends Valerie and Ray, and scores of others who showed up at the rally to make our time one of true community. 

Standing onstage and looking out at the bright diversity of ages and colors, identities and imaginations represented in those gathered together, tears sprang to my eyes. My son and nephew played drums and danced at the back of the room. I saw family members and friends and unknown faces that shone with a familiar longing. The baby in my womb kicked. I felt overwhelmed by the wonder of what can happen when we seek each other out and choose to recognize one another as extensions of the same body.

None of the key organizers had met prior to this event, but the mutual respect and trust shown between us in our planning, even as perfect strangers, left no one alien. All were invited to create this place of joy and celebration. It would have been impossible for any one of us to make the gathering a reality on our own. Tapped into the well of human potential, honoring the light and dark of each one, we gathered as a beacon against the gray hatred seething to the north. Here, simply by sitting together in our humanness, we demonstrated how our country can be great.

"In every age, no matter how cruel the oppression carried on by those in power, there have been those who struggled for a different world. I believe this is the genius of humankind, the thing that makes us half divine: the fact that some human beings can envision a world that has never existed.” - Anne Braden

I continue to read the rolling updates of the horrors that happened down the street that day at the other rally. Slurs and hate speech, attacks and assaults, outright recruitment for hate groups, all from people blazoned with ball caps declaring that such demonstrations will "Make America Great Again" swim across my screen. My chest tightens and my heart aches. What am I thinking, bringing babies into this world? How will I begin to teach them why these evils persist? How can I address my regular complacency when the injustice isn't echoing so loudly in my city streets? How will I know that I am tending well to myself and my family instead of escaping from the horror?

This morning, like a prayer or a gift or an invocation, thick flakes of snow began to fall as my family watched through the window. The spontaneous beauty took our breath away. In the half-light of morning, my boy and I settled in the dark for an early nap. We are tired, but this exhaustion empties me of my desires. Instead, I feel welling up an energy deeper than wakefulness. This awareness is light and dark, illumination and mystery. It is the look in my son's eyes when he says, "I love you!" and nestles his face in my neck. It is my husband's steady hand on my back when he knows I am afraid but am acting anyway. It is the knowledge that I do not stand alone and delighting in the discovery of each fellow companion. It is honoring my own faults, looking squarely at our country's gaping wounds, and feeling the pain. It is knowing that the body is not healed until all parts are healed.

I feel peace settle like snow across a tree branch, ephemeral and transient, sustained by each falling flake. I trust we can only create the world anew if we notice and try to create examples of how it can look. I believe we must let our children speak to us about their dreams to know what the future holds. I have faith that filling our hearts with music and poetry, celebrating humankind's myriad manifestations, and honoring each person as something precious to the earth will teach us why we stand together. I honor the cosmic movement in our collective efforts as we strive to form something that has never been before.

"Suddenly there was a great burst of light through the Darkness. The light spread out and where it touched the Darkness the Darkness disappeared. The light spread until the patch of Dark Thing had vanished, and there was only a gentle shining, and through the shining came the stars, clear and pure." - Madeleine L'Engle

Zone of Awareness

Tonight, I intentionally carved out some space once Oak went to bed to give some attention not only to weary legs and achy joints, but to my sleepy spirit. I took a few celebratory, *I'm 30 weeks pregnant!* selfies, prepared a mug of dark hot chocolate with marshmallows, and walked with it into the bathroom. I was getting into it: the self-care zone. I took a few deep breaths, lit a candle, and drew back the shower curtain to run my bath water.

Oh, yeah. Three dirty cloth diaper covers were sitting in the tub because I had hastily thrown them out of the toilet when I had to pee earlier - they had been soaking in the toilet water to get all the toddler poop off. Sigh. Well, that meant I probably needed to clean the tub a little; by "clean," I mean splash some warm water around to remove obvious particulate. "No problem," I thought, gingerly grabbing the covers, "I'll just throw them in the sink and rinse it well later..."

Oh, right. There were already a dozen tiny cups of varying shapes and colors in our sink, left over from my boy's "sensory play" with water and bubbles. Sigh again. I threw the diaper covers back in the tub, careful to avoid dripping anything into my hot chocolate mug, and piled up the cups in our overflowing tiered basket of bath toys before moving the covers again. I hastily "cleaned" (rinsed) the tub, awkwardly huffing and puffing because my lungs were constricted by my pregnant belly when I bent over so far.

NOW, the space was ready! A sink of diaper covers and a hanging basket of toys, plus an elegant arrangement of plant life and a candle perched on a scratched-up toilet lid in my feeble attempt to beautify the space: what more ambiance could I want in a bathroom that's approximately four by five feet? (It's the only bathroom in our house.) I suddenly realized I had to pee again and that, unlike during a shower, I can't pee during a bath. Sigh once again.

After another series of rearrangements, I ran the hot water and watched as the steam began to rise from the tub. Adding baking soda and Epsom salts infused with eucalyptus and lavender, I could feel myself slipping back into the self-care zone. I stepped into the fragrant water, lowered my body down...and remembered just how tiny the tub feels when I'm 30 weeks pregnant. I could sort of lay down in it if I curled my knees to my belly and folded my 5'4" frame to fit the short length of the tub. But the heat and buoyancy nevertheless brought quick relief and reverie, and I let my inner monologue silence into stillness...

Oh, yeah. I am so damn lucky to have clean, hot water and a private space of quiet to cleanse me. I have good friends and community around me that teach me ways to care for myself and offer me constant reminders to do so. My body is strong, healthy, even beautiful, if I give it the chance. I am floating in a moment graced with simple bliss.

I rolled over in the tub and felt Ronin stir inside. I pressed my hand to my belly and, to my delight and wonder, felt a little hand? foot? press back. His slow, sweet movements took my breath away.

Oh, right...I am in love with my family. We are living a full, privileged life. The evidence is everywhere, from the dirty covers and strewn toys to the abandon of Oak's activity and the joy in his laughter. I remembered Robby's gentle hand on my back earlier after I bemoaned the possibility of never again fitting into a favorite shirt, then recanted my angst by tackling Oak with kisses and exclaiming, "But why would I care - look what I've got!" His touch, Oak's pealing giggles, Ronin's small tumbles, all rearranged my insides toward better alignment.

After a time, I sat up and watched the water drain. I covered my belly with oil and drank cool water. I replaced the diaper covers in the empty tub and cleaned (rinsed) the sink. I slipped into oversized sweats, then into bed next to my sleepy husband. I had forgotten whether or not I was still in the self-care zone, but my aches and exhaustion were gone. I felt present, more than a little amused at my humanness, and thankful.

Now, Oak is crying from his room. I'm going to hit "post" and go to him. And, although I did let out a sigh when I heard him call out, I also felt happy to take him in my arms, to let him know I'm here, to hold him in the dark until we both drift off to sleep.

Imaginations of America

Rain taps our open bedroom window as the thunderstorm begins. In the dark, I run my hand over my taut belly that moves lazily as the baby within strains and settles. My own sleep lingers at the far edge of this wave of insomnia. For now, my wakefulness feels welcome; the weather patterns are a break in the silence of early morning. I am still reveling in yesterday's glimpse of springtime at February's close - warm air, blue sky, bodies everywhere seeking healing winter sunshine. Brave crocus blossoms and buds tempted me with their promise that this season is ending and a new one will soon begin. I feel a longing for brighter days and for the birth of my second boy. But we must still endure March's turmoil and April's rains to find rightful delight in May's blooms, made more beautiful by the aeons-old natural progress through gray months. As I lie still, I feel the breeze from outside turn colder.

Someone recently remarked about the current U.S. political climate, "I'm starting to think that this is the last season of America and the writers are just going nuts." Whether to laugh or cry at this comment, or to become angry or apathetic at its truth, seems a far more complex dilemma than realities publicly entertained by politicians. I find myself lost in a sea of superficial sentiments where the lives and deaths of millions of vulnerable people in this country and billions of people worldwide are reduced to platforms and propaganda, if they are regarded at all. Among those in power, I hear little inspiration or hopeful promise, see no healing champions, to truly make America great again. A season of darkness and chaos reigns in my psyche as I search for direction. Where should I start to scratch the ground to usher in a spring for our collective moral soul?

"Hearts on Fire" by Molly Costello

Juvenal, a satirical poet writing in Rome around 100 CE, commented on his country's politics, "Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses." Consumption mentality, lack of education on civic duties and rights and processes, divisive atmospheres that deter dialogue, enough shallow reporting to leave us thinking we are informed on "news": with these distractions we become engorged, transfixed. We succumb to alluring pleasures cloaked as revolutionary political talk. The clouds gather and darken overhead but we never look up to see what causes the thunder, or down at the pooling waters at our feet. No matter where on the political spectrum we stand, we are drowning together, too busy bickering to build an arc.

But this flooding, barren terrain is not a new landscape. The words of Langston Hughes, who wrote of the United States in 1935, echo the truth to which some of us may just now be waking:

"O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

"A Power of My Own" by Molly Costello

"...O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!"

In my final trimester of pregnancy, physical marks greet me with the reminder that the trajectory of particular journeys is understood, is revisited again and again, and is nevertheless a surprise and challenge. My stomach is surpassing its old capacity: this week I noticed new, pink marks against the faint paths of formerly stretched skin. I am only now seeing them, but they have been forming ever since I conceived. These red streaks are as inevitable as the at-times aloof certainty that this child will truly one day emerge Earthside. Bringing him to birth means I have to be reshaped - and that the process, though long and demanding, will end...or, perhaps, just change.

An anthropomorphic image of our country may be conjured in our collective consciousness as a strapping young man, white and wealthy and war-ready, independent and imperial and immortal. These days, however, I envision America as a dark woman standing in labor, innumerable forces screaming for her to lie on her back. She has been crying out for centuries through her children who are oppressed and killed. She is longing for us to see her in the hills and valleys, marching in the streets and crossing fences, working to shatter the frozen, metallic face of Lady Liberty and emerge as Mother Freedom. "On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing," says Arundhati Roy.

"Inexplicably Interwoven" by Molly Costello

But we do not like for her to breathe. We resist seeing images of women giving birth or noticing them feeding babies at their breasts but demonize them for giving up their children. We spend energy debating what constitutes a person instead of acknowledging the infinite ways we have desecrated our human heritage or working to heal the harm. We condemn saying loudly, in public, "Black Lives Matter" or standing next to our Muslim neighbors. We assert that common images of relationship and family and community are the only possibilities. We do not believe our lives of excess and comfort are correlated to or causal of child labor, sex slavery, or war. We call what has been hidden from our sight, "new." The unknown author of the ancient text Ecclesiastes writes,

"What has been will be again,
    what has been done will be done again;
    there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there anything of which one can say,
    “Look! This is something new”?
It was here already, long ago;
    it was here before our time.
No one remembers the former generations,
    and even those yet to come
will not be remembered
    by those who follow them."

Instead of allowing this context to humble us into reverence for the complexity of our small lives, we fly our hubris patriotically like flags. We become violent in our fear when we are told the stories that have survived with resilience despite our ignorance. Sometimes they are even our stories, but we interpret them as foreign threats. "How could we ever have been so blind?" The question rings in vengeance, not lament. Losing confidence in our way - the way given to us - poses the risk of losing any way at all. The populace steels in fear, chooses its commanders, rallies its armies to defend what never was. War games and fairy tales, panem et circenses: these parades of powerful ignorance perpetuate the winter of our country's imagination.

How do we reconcile the nations within our nation? Can we? The word "country" derives from the root word that means, "counter to - in opposition against." Are we courageous enough to integrate ourselves? Like labor pains, the seismic shift from the embryonic America to one with its unsure feet touching the ground of what is real will happen suddenly. It has been beginning since the beginning. There will come a time we can no longer live as a country without dying. The truth will not set us free until we can set free the truth from its small womb. The secret will be revealed: all birth is death, and all death is rebirth.

"So Much a Part of Each Other" by Molly Costello

The U.S. motto states, "E pluribus unum" - out of many, one. My state motto declares, "United we stand, divided we fall." We can begin to live into this potential by being still and listening carefully, especially to those who have been silenced. This will take generations of teaching and learning how to listen. We can begin to hear the sacred solidarity reverberating in each life: the threads of love for our children, the desire to do meaningful work, the hope for peace and security. This work requires us to lay our old visions to rest so that our common yearnings can resurrect in new structures and systems reinforced by what we share, not what we withhold. We can attend to the signs of life ever-emerging: children telling us who we are meant to be, young people with fresh idealism in fervent action, families living in healthy, respectful spaces, elders treasuring the fruits of relationships and work that honored their dignity, business and politics centered on care and community. These have always been and can be - rather than profit, materialism, militarism, or belligerent dogma, we can decide to pay attention to, value, and work for Freedom.

In uniting the nations within this nation, our anthem could become "America the Beautiful," or this Unitarian Universalist hymn with lyrics written in the time between the World Wars by Lloyd Stone when he was a 22-year-old man:

by Molly Costello

"This is my song, O God of all the nations,
a song of peace for lands afar and mine;
this is my home, the country where my heart is;
here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine:
but other hearts in other lands are beating
with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,
and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine;
but other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
and skies are everywhere as blue as mine:
O hear my song, thou God of all the nations,
a song of peace for their land and for mine."

A new America can break through like sunshine that was always there, suppressed in the places and people we have most marginalized and neglected. We could warm our bodies and enlighten our spirits by the rays of the dreams we have carried through illusions of separateness. We can see the abundance at our feet. We can tear down our walls and build big, long tables at which all are welcome. Our children may inherit a land to tend with love and joy; their caretakers may breathe deeply the clean air ushered in by generations and winds of change.

In the dark, my limbs curl around the little boy nestled against his sibling in my belly. The baby kicks out to him gently. My husband reaches to touch his children, his partner, and form a human seed in our quiet bed of rest. The rain slows and stops - the sounds of night become birdsong of morning. Our breathing begins to sync in a common rhythm. We slip for a little longer into the dream realm, leaving our entwined bodies for a plane of imagination, a place where we dance as spirits of tomorrow over frequency fields of possibility, of peace.

Visions

Faucets flowing with rusty brown water - black children carrying clear water encased in transparent plastic - murky politics, artifical responses - citizens roaring like a mighty stream for justice.

Small mosquitoes, a biting virus, mutating fears - babies with shrunken heads and wide eyes and uncertain futures - lack of vision in nearsighted responses - high-pitched insect whines and warning sirens.

Babies washing ashore with blue lips, abreast waves safer than land - small ones throwing stones at soldiers, dancing on dungheaps, feeding the even smaller ones - young ghosts haunting the cells and streets where black bodies lay for hours unattended as secrets seek cover - the eyes of the future looking back at us through lids closed in death, begging.

Why? - How long? - Who? - What am I to do?

Mother and children born and unborn nestling in complimentary forms - lovers surrendering at the edge of separation - pairs of geese sail home overhead - heartbeats aligning, bodies uniting, wings falling and rising.

Circles of friends and children praying and singing - making meaning, telling stories, speaking truth - gazing at the stars and into one another's eyes - seeing the flame at the center.

The sun flaring for aeons unaware of its giving - Earth swirling and solidifying unconsciously - air, soil, water, fire forging Consciousness - the moral arc of the universe bending in humanity's call to look, to challenge, to transform.

Happy New Day

Do not look forward to the ineffable New Year.
Devote yourself to the mundane, fresh New Day.
There may be no countdown or confetti
but, always, when you pay attention, there is a sunrise
that is a spectacle, even through the clouds.
There is stepping lightly over the wood floor
and breathing, aware of each movement.
There is a heavy globe of grapefruit to slice,
every jewel segment savored for its
bittersweet tang, its red juice running.
There is looking into your love's familiar, green eyes
and seeing the human who steadfastly wakes next to you,
behind any tiredness or distance, a vow
of disciplined love, untapped wells of joy.
There are soft pitter-patters of small feet
and sticky hands that come to lead you
to your next adventure-lesson or struggle-insight
that will make you humble and in awe.
There is something growing inside you, kicking.
There is the daily work: a sink of dishes,
maintenance, trying a new idea, and
tending whoever you meet with reverence.
There is turning to others, inward, and seeking
the path leading to the better world hidden in this one.
There is injustice and devastation to heal, first within.
There is learning to keep searching when
your heart's burdens are ice-cold and heavy.
There are sudden, seismic leaps for Good from
the cosmic consciousness that leave you bewildered.
There are miracles that come after aeons of effort.
There is grieving, celebrating, tearing down, building up.
There is always more work, perhaps not for you.
There are relentless deaths and births.
There are countless occasions to uncork champagne,
reminisce on what the past has brought,
toast to what the future may bring,
and sip life's fizz with good, faithful friends.
There are burning stars and infinite, unanswered questions
to guide and ground your imagination.
There is never a day, or year, or life, that does not end 
with your eyes closing on a planet continuing beyond you.
Evermore, there is night leading to New Day,
darkness rising into light.