Writing for Me

For weeks I have been seeing signs (almost daily) telling me that I should do what I am afraid to do, that I should speak the stories that are getting caught in my throat, and write the ones that are making my hands shake as I clutch the pen or stroke the keys.

I had been ignoring these messages, but then I began to wake up with words on the tip of my tongue, and my heart felt as though it was near bursting for all the things I was not saying.

It seemed there were some secrets, some old hurts, some healing, some earned wisdom that were determined to make their way into the world, one way or another whether I allowed them passage or not. I realized then that we are not in always control of what we share, but we can have a hand in how. I am working on the how. As the words come to me I write them down. I don't worry about editing them, I just let them flow.

I go back, read them, feel my heart flutter with that familiar fear that says "you should not be writing this," and then I put them away before I am overcome by the urge to alter them, censor them, soften their edges. 

I hope to release these stories out into the world one day, but for now, the reader I am writing for is me. And not just present me, but also for adolescent me, young adult me. Though, I worry about how she would receive what I'm writing. What would she think of the way I see the life we lived? How would she feel about these lessons I wish I could share with her? Would she be proud of what we have become?

Love is patient, Love is kind...

When I hug my son he tells me, "I love you too, mama." When I lift him up first thing in the morning and nuzzle my nose in his neck, breathing in the last vestiges of baby that still cling to him, he says it. "I love you too, mama." All throughout the day, I speak no words, but he hears me anyway and acknowledges my silent gestures with, "I love you too mama."

The first time he did it, I froze. I just looked at him, and kept looking at him, long after he'd wriggled out of my arms, and moved on to some new activity. For him our exchange was nothing to ponder. It was simple. I thought about how we (we being adults on the whole) believe love to be some complicated thing, but maybe it's not.

Maybe love is simple. 

Maybe we come into the world knowing what love feels like, looks like, sounds like, and it's only what we learn and tell ourselves about what love "should" be, that makes it seem so complex. Maybe we could all use some time getting back in touch with our 3 year old selves, who knew love could be found in a look, or a smile, or even shared silence. 

My son has made me more mindful about the love I show myself and those around me, because it is so much than the words we say. 

We Shift With the Seasons

I was looking through old pictures this morning, and stopped at a photo of the first purple crocuses I saw this spring. I've made a game amongst my children and me of pointing out those first sentinels of spring, and am always excited when one of us notices them. Those little flowers, sometimes purple, sometimes white, occasionally yellow, are a sign that while the mornings may be crisp, and I may not have entirely been able to pack up my winter coat just yet, warmer, greener, longer days are in fact coming. I look forward to these spring feelings, and welcome them every year, but my body greets all of the seasons with distinct emotions. 

With the turn of each season I am aware of a change inside myself that mirrors the changes nature is going through.

Winter signals a need to slow down, to be still, quieter. During winter I spend a lot of time reflecting on the time that came before. 

Spring always feels like waking up from a really long, restful nap. It feels like the best of mornings, when you greet the day bright-eyed, fully refreshed and ready for just about anything. Spring is for planning and organizing and beginning. 

Summer is a time infinite possibility. The days stretch out before me, long and seemingly never-ending. By the time July rolls around, it feels like there is time enough for everything. Summer can be a double edged sword though. The illusion of so much time can be startling when the days begin to cool and shorten. 

Fall. Oh, fall. If I lived somewhere with more temperate (read non-existent) winters, fall might be my favorite season (don't tell spring). Fall comes in with so much urgency. Sunset creeps up minute by minute with each passing day, and even in September, when nature is still slowly relinquishing the heat of summer, my body still knows what season it is. It urges to me to double check to-do lists, bring projects to completion and pack my days before winter comes. 

I definitely have my preferences, but I have come to appreciate the place each season has in my life.