clearframe

an invitation to rest

 

butternut squash soup

I've been feeling a bit weepy and moody this week, just wanting to curl up into myself. It's easy for me to find myself in here when I'm extra-tired and feeling pulled in too many directions, which has been the case as of late. When I feel the most overwhelmed and tired, taking time to rest and replenish usually falls way down on my list of things to do. Somehow, doing the dishes or vacuuming or catching up on correspondence always seems to happen first and then I just collapse from exhaustion without finding a few quiet moments to just be.

But this week, I've been thinking a lot about what this wise soul said about raising kids - that we can't give our children what we don't have and that finding time to rest and to invite creativity into our lives are a crucial part of it all. Because I know that I don't want to teach my daughter that taking care of herself isn't a valid priority through my refusal to simply slow down.

So, this week, I spent some time in my jewelry studio hammering metal and teaching myself a thing or two. As I played, I felt the pressure creep in - to get back into production mode so I can reopen my shop. And then I stopped and reminded myself that right now, this time at the workbench is just about play. And suddenly, I had dozens of ideas of things I wanted to make - this after months of feeling rather stuck. It felt good.

And this afternoon, while Thea slept for an unprecedented hour and a half, I chopped and simmered and stirred a most delicious soup. I felt grateful for the quiet when I could simply focus on the heft of my knife and the way the vegetables felt in my hands and the smells rising from the pot. And then it didn't feel much like work - it felt more like a salve for my tired spirit.

Welcome to the weekend. I hope you find a few moments to just rest, to just be.

you've come a long way, baby

Thea's first photo, just over a year ago.

And, my little toe-grabber at just over five months...

Are you the seed?
Are you a tree?
You can be anything
You want to be.

Everything is possible
Because you're a miracle
Everything is possible
When you're around
'Cause you're a miracle, uh-huh
A little miracle, oh yeah.

-from the album It's a Big World, by Renee and Jeremy

I'm in awe of how far we have come in just a year. This time last September, I was trying to hope, trying to trust, trying to believe.

Thank you, my love, for reminding me of what is possible - every day, every moment.

confession

You may have noticed that it's been a little quiet around here. Part of it is because my days and nights are pretty much consumed with loving on my little girl, and most recently, trying to coax her - often unsuccessfully - towards sleep. There's not much time left for blogging (or eating or showering).

But also, I've been wading through some heaviness in my heart, and I have been uncertain about how much to share. You see, friends, I am very much in need of a stay in what my friend Jen Lemen calls the "Soul Repair Garage."  Much of this heaviness is left over residue from our long journey to bring our daughter into this world.  I have found that my wounds have not completely healed, that the scars are still bright red and tender to the touch. I am trying to understand what these tender places have to teach me about myself and the opportunities for growth that they present. I feel they are leading to a deeper understanding of myself and of the shadows I have walked in for a long time, long before my journey to be a mother began, before all of the loss and pain cracked me wide open.

I have also been struggling with how much of my experience of motherhood to share in this space. Wrestling with this question has led me to reflect on why I started writing in the first place, why I continued to write through our experience of babyloss, and about what urges me to write now. I have always tried to be transparent in my writing, but for some reason, it feels quite frightening and overwhelming to do that now. I'm afraid that if I write about the hard parts - the messy parts - the battles with my ego - that it will appear that I'm complaining, or that I'm not completely and utterly in love with and grateful for my daughter. Because the truth is that I am in awe of her and the magic she brings into my life - every single moment of every day. I am completely and utterly grateful for her presence, and for the opportunities she gives me to stretch my soul, to widen my heart, to surrender.

So, that's what's going on in my little world. Thanks for being along for the ride - wherever it takes me.

 

unfinished thoughts

Since Thea's birth nearly 11 weeks ago, my heart has swelled - not only with love for my daughter and husband, but also with months and years of stagnant emotions that were finally forcing their way to the surface of my consciousness. My mind has been racing, trying to process all of the thoughts and feelings that I had turned away from during my pregnancy, when I was too fragile and tired and fearful to do anything but get through the day-to-day.

So, now, I find myself full to the brim with all of these thoughts - of our long journey to today, of my pregnancy and Thea's birth, of my experiences as a new mother - as well as of my continuing task of discovering my dreams and passions, my journey of self-definition, and my struggle to build self-confidence, overcome my fears, and explore my creative energy.

[And yes, that giant run-on sentence is exactly how my brain feels most days.]

I've started dozens of posts only to watch them sit unfinished. I have ideas for dozens more that I haven't even begun. I'm learning to accept that I may not be able to fully form and write about these thoughts - at least not for a good while.

And then, like magic, I stumbled across the weblogs of several fantastic women who are writing about exactly the things my soul had been sifting through. I read their words, nodding my head, whispering, "yes, that's it." I am grateful for their honesty, for their willingness to share about these things that so often remain tucked away inside, for their gift of placing words together so beautifully.

So, because these women have so eloquently given a voice to these thoughts, I'll point you in their direction so you can experience this magic for yourself:

Stacie writes about giving yourself permission to pursue your own unique creative energy and encourages us to take risks and open ourselves to possibilities.

Jen Lee writes about authenticity and truthfulness.

Brené Brown writes about embracing imperfection. Her whole series on imperfect parenting is nothing short of amazing.

Jena Strong writes about the importance of hope.

Sophie's Press writes about over-thinking life instead of experiencing it.

I hope you'll go and soak it all up.

awakening

evening primrose

The other day, I was posting some photos to flickr, and I stumbled across some stunning photos. Curious, I clicked on the photographer's profile. To my surprise, the she's a senior in high school. I then realized that her little sister - just 14 years old - has a photostream too, and her photos are just as gorgeous.

It got me thinking about when I was 18, and about how self-conscious and uncertain I was - how my heart was often filled with fear, how I was constantly questioning my self-worth, how I doubted my abilities. I did not have the courage to expose my creative inclinations. In fact, I doubted that I had any at all.

It has just been in the past 5 years or so that I feel like I've started to uncover who I really am. Before that, instead of living in the world authentically, I felt paralyzed and exhausted by constantly trying to figure out what I thought other people wanted me to be. I spent a good bit of my energy trying to live up to those expectations. And I nearly lost myself.

Over the past year, I had the good fortune to be able to spend my days peering deep down into the caverns of my soul, searching for neglected dreams and unrealized hopes that may have gone missing during my years of babyloss. I worked with a life coach who helped me ask myself really challenging questions and who nudged me forward into the unknown. I sat in stillness more than I have in years. I listened to what my heart whispered. I tried my best to spend my days doing what I wanted to do instead of what I thought I should do.

For the first time ever, I found myself engaged in creative play. You know, the kind where you can separate yourself from expectations of a particular outcome, and just lose yourself in the process. This everyday creative engagement let me practice approaching my entire life in a new way. I began to see myself differently. I was able to release a good bit of the fear I have been harboring for so many years. I uncovered strength that had been buried beneath the piles of rubble that fear had littered around my heart. There is much more work to be done, but I recognize that I have come a long way. I feel lighter. I feel awake. I feel alive.

This work of excavating my spirit, of building my confidence, of embracing my unique gifts and of recognizing my individuality seems so much more important now that Thea is in my life. I want to be an example of strength and confidence for her. I want to be the kind of woman that I hope she will grow into. I want her to live fearlessly, to feel confident in the unique brightness she brings to the world. I don’t want her to be so afraid.

And so I wonder...How did self-doubt come to hold me captive? When did meeting the expectations of others become more important than being true to myself?

Who would I be today if I hadn't been so afraid?

[And what was I so afraid of anyway?]

into the light

Last night, I dreamt that I lost her.

We were waiting for her adoption to be finalized; I was counting the days until we could bring her home. Technically, she wasn't yet my daughter, but I knew that I was supposed to be her mother.

And then she was gone. I wasn't sure how or why, but I felt certain I would never see her again.

I woke in a panic, my hands desperately searching for her. And there she was, sleeping soundly beside me.

It had all been a nightmare, a terrible mistake.

I wept, relieved, still trembling with fear.

And though she was safe - though she was right there next to me - fear gripped my heart tightly, refusing to release its grip.

During my pregnancy, fear found me on a daily basis. Sometimes it simply lurked near the surface of my awareness. Sometimes, I was nearly swallowed by its intensity. After everything, each day required a conscious decision to believe in possibilities instead of the past, to believe in hope instead of fear.

The passing weeks - weeks bringing us closer to her arrival - also brought new challenges, new complications. Toward the end of my pregnancy, John and I held each other close, whispering our doubts:

What if we don't make it?

What if we're not strong enough?

What will we do if the  unthinkable happens?

In hushed voices, we talked about death.

And now she is here. Each day, I spend hours gazing at her, marveling at her presence, often in utter disbelief that she is alive and well. And each day - at least once - {if not a dozen times} - I am gripped by fear, terrified that I will lose her.

Countless scenarios flash before me . Car accidents. SIDS. Horrible illnesses. These are just a few.

When these thoughts force their way into my mind, I attempt to bring myself back to the present. I try to pay attention to what is right in front of me. Over and over, I remind myself, "In this moment, she is safe."

But while I know that worrying about the "what-ifs" distracts me from the magic of the present moment,the fear remains - lingering, lurking, pulling me back.

And so, in those moments of doubt, I will continue to search for new ways to embrace the now, to face uncertainty, to walk out of the shadows and into the light.

in this moment

Living in the present moment is something I've struggled with for a long time. My mind is constantly racing with endless lists of things that I've convinced myself need to be done. An ongoing  "to-do" list  is pretty much always on my desk, and, on a daily basis, I typically add more things than I cross off. I also have a (separate) list of things I'd like to do, but never really seem to find time to fit in - craft projects to try, books to read, places to visit, classes to take, blog posts to write. Our bookshelves are overflowing with books on gardening, knitting, metalsmithing, connecting with your spiritual side, making relationships work, and starting your own business, to name a few.

You see, I'm often most comfortable seeking out information, gathering facts, making lists, and planning (or reflecting, sometimes endlessly - usually on what I could have done better). And, most often, instead of over-processing every little thing, what I really need to be doing is showing up in each moment mindfully, paying attention to what is happening around me right-this-very-instant, listening to my intuition, and diving into my life head-first.  Because here's the irony of it all - I actually learn best and figure things out by doing and experiencing, not by reading and thinking and  over-complicating things with too much information.

I've tried really hard, and I can say that it has become a bit easier over the years. But it is also something that I have to work at every single day. And often, I don't succeed.

Over the past six and a half weeks, it's gotten a whole lot easier. Having Thea in my life requires that I am in the moment - pretty much all of the time. This is partly because I have so much to learn about her to be able to effectively mother her and take care of her. But it's also because she is the most amazing, miraculous thing in my life and I don't want to miss a single moment. Suddenly, what the books say doesn't matter as much as what my heart whispers. And the best way to hear those murmurs has been to put away the books and to sit quietly while my intuition speaks.

For now, the lists are gone. Right now, the only thing that makes sense is to focus on what is right in front of me. 

And yet, I know it won't always be this way. Thea will continue to grow and change and blossom into  her own person. She'll become more independent. Outings will seem less complicated. Getting together with friends will feel more manageable. We'll get into a rhythm. I'll emerge slowly back into the world. I'll resume my work. Hopefully, I'll discover new ways of contributing to the community.  I'll make more commitments.

And with these changes, I'm afraid that I'll drift back into the endless lists and the over-booked days. I'm afraid that I will return to looking outside of myself for answers when I should be searching for answers and guidance deep in the trenches of my soul. I'm afraid that I'll stop paying attention to the little, ordinary things that bring such joy into my life. I want to show up in my life mindfully. I want to continue to pay attention to the magic of the everyday. I want to do all this as I re-enter and reconnect with the big world out there.

So, I will go forward slowly. I'll try to carefully consider how I spend my days. I'll try to make sure that what is most important always comes first. I'll try to continue being guided by my intuition.

But I know it won't be easy.

So, in the midst of your busy life, how do you stay connected to the present moment? How do you find ways to slow down and enjoy what is right in front of you? How do you remember to listen to your heart? To follow your spirit?

a love letter, of sorts

Last Friday, when Thea was four weeks old, I bought this journal. I had been meaning to start a journal to keep track of all of her daily changes and developments, and to have something to give to her so that she could know what her first year was like (and to remind myself).

(I must confess that I did not come up with this idea on my own. I have just started reading Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, where she journals her son's first year. And when I say I have just started reading it, that's exactly where I am - I've just gotten through the introduction.)

On Saturday afternoon, I sat down and started to write. Having missed her first four weeks, I filled several pages catching up on milestones of her first days. I promised to backtrack and fill in the details of my pregnancy, her birth, and her time in the NICU. I felt I was off to a good start.

Over the next few days, I picked up the journal several times. Just as quickly, I put it down again.

Things had been tough.

I didn't know what to say.

The only things I could think of to write about went something like this:

Dearest Thea,

Today was another tough day. You spent much of the day screaming and crying. And please believe me, you weren't the only one in tears. 

You wake up screaming, no matter day or night or how long it has been since your last meal. I think it must be very jarring for you to move from dreamland to the world of the awake. I wish that there is something I could do to ease this transition for you, but even holding you tight in my arms doesn't seem to help.

We spent most of today trying to work on breastfeeding. This has been very challenging for us. For the past few days, I have wanted to give up. It is almost unbearable for me to know that I am part of the reason you are crying - knowing that giving you a bottle or nursing with a nipple shield would settle you down, but not doing it. It's a fine balance between stretching so we can grow and learn together and stretching so far that we break.

To top it off, you must be going through a growth spurt, because you are insatiable. We will try to nurse for hours and I think surely you must be getting enough, yet you scream for more no matter how hard I try. I've been having to give you a bottle with nearly every feeding. This seems to be the only thing that will settle you down.

You also scream bloody murder during every diaper change, or whenever I need to change your clothes (which is quite often because you are quite the spitter). Some days, I feel like all you do is scream and sleep. It breaks my heart that I can't make things easier for you. Please believe me when I say that I'm trying the best I can.

I love you with all my heart.

love,
Mama

This isn't quite what I imagined I would want to write in this journal. It's certainly not what I originally had in mind for my daughter to read on those journal pages.

But it is exactly where we are.

So maybe this is what she will end up reading - the down and dirty, undisguised truth.

Maybe this is what I really need to remember.

Because while I'd like to simply celebrate each day's triumphs, the truth is that our days are filled with hills and valleys, with frustration as well as joy. After all, we're just getting to know each other.

And as tough as some days are, I cherish the process of us learning together. And I think I'd like to remember these days just as they are; I'd like to remember us just as we are.

A Mother's Intuition

This entry is a cross-post from my babylust weblog.

Since so many people have asked, I'm posting my essay below as it was originally published in Richmond Health Magazine (Spring/Summer 2007 edition). My friend Sarah, the editor of this magazine, did an amazing job helping me with this piece, and I am grateful to her for that. Also to be thanked are my darling husband John, and my dear friend Joriel, who both offered their editing skills.

A Mother's Intuition: Help with finding peace after a loss

We all carry hidden sorrows within us, I once heard a rabbi say.

The sorrow I carry with me, tucked away in my heart, is the grief of four miscarriages.

Grieving a miscarriage is often a lonely experience. Unlike the death of a person born into this world, there are generally no funerals, no established rituals to help one gain a sense of closure, no traditions to guide one through the grieving process.

Therefore, embarking on my healing journey required me to forge my own path: exploring various cultural and spiritual traditions — both mainstream and alternative — and piecing together ways of coping.

I attended a support group, joined an online message board and began writing about my experiences in a blog. I sought out medical providers who could help me find answers and restore my confidence in my body. I continued working with an acupuncturist who helped balance the hormonal changes in my body, and I received massages from a practitioner who was also trained in reiki, a type of energy work that can be used to alleviate suffering. With the encouragement of a skilled grief counselor, I pieced together a small, private ceremony to honor my pregnancies and miscarriages and to help me find closure.

By the fall of 2006, I was still searching for ways to find peace. I realized how much my sense of womanhood had been defined by the anticipation and expectation that I would give birth and become a mother. I became unsure of how to define myself once these dreams were clouded with doubt.

In November, I had the opportunity to meet with an intuitive, an individual who senses information about a person, such as underlying illnesses or imbalances or parts of one’s history that may be affecting his or her current physical or emotional state. I told her little about my current circumstances before initiating the meeting.

As she massaged the various parts of my feet, she explained how each region corresponded with a particular aspect of physical or emotional being, and how the shape and structure of my feet in these areas, along with the energy she picked up from me, was able to provide her with information.

With an eerie accuracy, she described my patterns in relationships, my fears, and my preferences. When she asked if I had ever been diagnosed with a hormonal imbalance, and I shared with her my history of miscarriage. Her fingers moved to the part of my feet associated with fertility and reproduction, and a few moments later she told me that she could sense the sex of our last baby. Then she shared, accurately, that our last baby was a boy. Immediately, tears welled up in my eyes. She said she could sense that his was a very bright spirit, and that he had chosen me to be his mother. She could not feel any energy from my previous pregnancies, perhaps because these losses were so early, all occurring before six weeks. The rest of the session is hazy for me, as I was overwhelmed by my surging emotions. I do recall her assurances that I would someday give birth, and that my body was healthy, capable, and whole.

In processing this experience, my intellectual self kept saying that with 50-50 odds, the intuitive had a pretty good chance of getting it right. However, I deeply believe in the power of my own intuition and the strength of the bond I had with my baby, despite the fact that he never took his first breath of air. While I kept it to myself, I knew early on that our baby was a boy. My instinct was later confirmed through testing conducted after the miscarriage, indicating that our baby was in fact a boy with trisomy 21, the marker for Down syndrome.

I would like to say that I walked away from this experience with my confidence in my body’s health and its capacity to bear a child repaired. I wish it were that easy. I know that the healing of those wounds must come from within me, that the assurances of a gifted intuitive, while comforting, cannot completely restore my faith, and they certainly cannot guarantee the future. However, I am deeply grateful for the gift she gave me in affirming my connection to my son. I feel deep comfort knowing that some essence of his spirit still lingers, that his energy was so clear and present. This solace gives me strength to dig deep into my soul for the strength and inner reserves needed to continue the rest of my healing work — work that only I can do.

deep breath

This entry is a cross-post from my babylust weblog.

For some time, I've been pretty comfortable talking about my experience with miscarriage. At first, I was so lost in my grief and overwhelmed with my personal tragedy that I needed to talk about it all the time.  Having this weblog has been an important outlet for me, and it has been quite therapeutic, really allowing me to sift through the layers of my emotions, helping me to make sense of the highs and lows and in-betweens of this journey. For the most part, I think my life has pretty much been an open book.

Yesterday, the spine on book of my life was stretched a little further when I received a copy of our city's magazine - Richmond Magazine - in the mail. The supplemental issue - Richmond Health - that came out with this month's magazine contains an article that I wrote on finding peace and healing after my losses.

It's there for the whole city to read.

I hope that by reading my essay, even one person will feel less alone. I hope my words can bring comfort and understanding to someone, and maybe even just a little hope.