Full. Real. Unfinished.

I need you now. Right here. In my bedroom at 11pm on this random Tuesday evening, I need you now. Give me your lap, a large and spacious place to rest. Give me your arms around my body, embrace me as I touch them. Give me your kiss, a soft reassurance that I am seen. Give me your gaze, your eyes tell me I am known.  I'm not the first to feel the bigness of all this.  You know.  Your eyes show me that I am not alone. Give me your smile, the shape of your mouth reassures me that this is ok.  I'm falling apart, but your smile tells me that the million pieces of me will all be restored. They will come back together. They will heal. In my bedroom on this random Tuesday evening, I need you now.

You smell familiar while My tired body rests on your solid ground You inspire me to more as You calm me with your steady hand My head rests on your sandy breast and You hold me without judgement Caress my face with wind Smother me in warmth Pierce me with quiet You are  Mother

It all makes perfect sense to me.  You spent the last nine years of your life trying to protect your children from the world.  You spent a decade making it your full-time job, and you succeeded.  They are amazingly kind human beings. You feel anxious, because you don't want that all to mean nothing. You don't want them hurt.  You don't want their innocence lost.   This comes out of love for them…but, there’s a love that goes even deeper. The deepest kind of love speaks a truer truth: "They're gonna be hurt.  Innocence must be lost.  Sit next to them on the ground.  Squeeze their hand in the dark.  Model how to rise.  Continue to show up.  Welcome discomfort.  Feel the fullness of being human.  Trust that you're resilient.  Trust that they are too. You are simply a witness to their story.   Hold it sacred.  It's not yours.   THEY are not yours.  Bless them on their way."

Last night Gary came home from a school dance, curled up on my bed and cried. From 2:00-3:00 am, I did nothing but hug him and rub his back. We didn't talk. I still don't know what caused the tears. This morning I sit and wonder what it would be like to be him. For 16 years he had a plan to leave on a mission when he turned 18. A year ago that plan changed, and now a new plan has yet to emerge. He's in the messy middle- Act 2 of the 3 Act play. It's the time where we flail and struggle. It's dreadfully uncomfortable. And if we are brave enough to stay and not run or numb- It's the time where we witness what we're truly capable of.

Today is the first day in my life that all of my kids are in school.  So, in essence, I've been a mother for 17.5 years, and never had a day that felt like today.  I felt anxious in the morning.  I had to remind myself again and again that this is about love .  They took their first steps with confident nervousness and I felt so proud of them. When I walked back inside my empty home, I could instantly hear the silence.  It enveloped me like a peaceful embrace.  While it held me, it whispered in my ear, "Good work, mama.  You've done a great, great work." It was as if the silence knew.  Or my home knew. She knew how much I've sacrificed.  She knew how many years I've been surrounded by children, and she knew how long those years felt at times.  She knew this was a first for me, and she smiled warmly and said, "Welcome back." Back home to myself.  Back to a life I choose.  Back to a life that I now know belongs to me. The quiet s...

I've been a writer for over 30 years.  And I'm 37.  My entire life I've written and written and written.  Desk drawers and boxes now overflow with journals and notebooks of essays, narratives, poetry and blog articles.  I just can't stop. Writing to me is a salve.  It's like pouring cool Benadryl Gel on fresh mosquito bites.  It feels like holding a steaming cup of tea to my chest on a stiff, cool morning.  To me, writing is everything soft, soothing, and real.  It highlights the color in my otherwise gray life.  It opens space for love.  It brings with it something holy that I can't quite put my fingers on. Natalie Goldberg's perspective, "This is what it is to be a writer: to be the carrier of details that make up history... our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist-- the real truth of who we are... Writing is a deeply political act, because you are not just staying in the heat of your own emotions....

Good morning, Beautiful One. No, not good morning. Fantastic morning! Exuberant morning! Holy, anointed, awe-inspiring morning! You are here again. Faithful as ever. Steady as nothing else. Steadier THAN anything else. I love your steadiness. You come every 24 hours. Regardless of what's transpired in the past. You come. You show up full. Giving your whole self to the world. And you warm us all. All 7.8 billion of us-- all trillion of the other living things. I'm sure it's more than a trillion. Maybe a trillion trillion living things. All full of life because of YOU. Now THAT is something to hold space for. Holy Ground that's a tad bit bigger than me. Sometimes I think about how long you've been carrying this mantle. How you rose for Adolf Hitler and you rose for Viktor Frankl. At. the. very. same. time. How you rose for Caesar Augustus and your rose for Jesus. How you rose for my grandmother. And her grandmother. And hers. For some reason this...