pause

It is so easy to want to speed things up right now.  I’m living in the anxious limbo of baby-almost-here.  But I am constantly engaging in this self-talk of slowing down, pausing, to remember these moments.  I’m not sure if I’ll be pregnant again; I want to remember what this feels like.  Every squeeze in my belly, every swift kick to my ribs is a reminder of this miracle that I am chosen to be part of.  I’m not sure when The Littlest will sit in my lap and rock, as The Littlest.  I want to remember her body in it’s perceived smallness, because I know she will appear giant the moment she meets her new brother.  There is chaos in this swirling time: coming down from the intensity of the holidays, filtering through all the indulgences that came with them; honoring this nesting instinct (which at times has felt more like a panic!); bridging the gap between family of four and family of five.  Within this chaos, I’m choosing to pause; to know the peace that is mine for the taking, the peace that I can give to my Little Ones.  Instead of speeding up, let’s slow it down.

Our house is a little up-ended.  We’ve scurried around, putting away Christmas decorations in a hurry, not knowing when I’d get to them if left a bit longer to linger in the sacred space of the twelve days.  We also needed to make room (a theme for us, always) — all of our bedroom furniture had to be moved out of our bedroom for new carpet to be laid, in an attempt to make our room a little more warm and cozy for a newborn.  It’s not like we have anywhere extra for this stuff to go, so piles of books, laundry baskets, dressers and yes, our bed, landed in the family room.  For one night, we experienced what it might have felt like to our ancestors, as our living space doubled as sleeping quarters, too.  Though our house can often feel teeny-tiny, I’m thankful for the bedroom that we do have.  And after ripping up lots of carpet in our many houses, swearing we’d never put intentionally choose it, I am thankful for the thick padded warmth and the degree or two it will add to our chilly bedroom above the garage.  While the timing of this project, of course, has added another dimension of crazy to these days, it has also encouraged it’s own sort of pause.  Pause to take stock at the stuff I’ve been moving around: the books, the journals, the nick-knacks, the baskets, the clothes. A nesting purge has settled over this room now, and we continue to make room.

There is lots more to be done in order to feel prepared.  But I know that this baby cares not if my clothes are folded and put away, if the kitchen is mopped.  This baby will care for little else than a warm, tender breast and arms to sleep in.  This is what I love about newborns: they are so simple!  He will have clean blankets, clean clothes, fresh diapers.  He will have his family to love and adore him.  And that is all that he will need, for a while.  This is another reminder for me to pause, and lavish the Little Ones that are here now with the extra that I have to give, now.

Instead of wearily living in the anxiety of the question mark of time, I’m going to emphatically say “yes” to today.  Yes, let’s sit on the floor doing puzzles!  Yes, let’s read another book!  Yes, I want to play play-doh with you!  Because today I can.  And today, I’m pausing to do it. I will answer to Wendy, and call you, oh Littlest, Bob, all day, lest I forget.  (Though this is where any similiarity between Bob the Builder and her imaginative play ends).  I will thoughtfully answer the questions that the inquisitive Eldest throws at me, even if it means having to search with him for an answer.  I will lay my hand on my belly, forever imprinting that squeeze, this stretch, in my brain, and bite hard my tongue when I want to complain of the back ache and indigestion.  I will pause, and rest, too, so that I can have it all to give when the time is ready.

 

of celebration and rest; breathing in circles

We found our way through the mystery and joy of Christmas this year, and have come out the other side.  It was a glorious treasure to share these celebrations with friends and family alike, but always, (always) after times like these I find that we need to recalibrate — to fall back into the familiar, unhastened rhythms of our own family, in our own space.  This year, more than ever, I’m feeling this heavy return of the pendulum as we share this last few weeks as a family of four.

Blessings abundant have been poured out onto us — in time, food, love, attention, devotion, hugs and kisses, laughter — but of course in gifts.  Real and tangible, things to hold and cherish.  I truly blush at the myriad ways that my Little Ones especially have been lavished.  It is good; of course they are beyond thankful. But all of these blessings, all of these gifts are now lined up in my family room, staring me down.  I’m being mocked by my desire for simplicity, scoffed at by these piles of toys and books.  What I know this means is that it is time to sift and sort, time to cultivate and curate.  But oh, how easy it is to be mastered by those piles!

Likewise, though I was more protective of our family time and our need to just be in the holiday, instead of making our way, doing the holiday, it still is just so much.  There are people who love us dearly, whom we love, that need our time and attention.  While spread over the course of four days, it was definitely a long four days, and even with copious amounts of time at home to play and drift and nap, by that fourth evening out I had two fragile Little Ones.  And really, I of course can’t say that I felt any differently.  When I had to prompt the Eldest, who is usually overly polite and bursting with manners, to say “thank you” for a gift, and received defiance and tears, I knew that we were on our very edges.  And oh how I long to teach my Little Ones to respect their edges!

The overcast sky and its imposing drops of rain tell me today that we are right at home: resetting, finding our center.  The Eldest is still cozy in his pajamas; I’m still reaching for my tea cup.  I’ve traded our endless loop of Christmas music for a soundtrack to mirror the darkened sky.  Laundry is being pushed through, a constant reminder of the circles we weave in our home, leading us back to center.

The Blessing of the blessings is that we breathe; we settle in. We circle ’round.  We continue to make room.  We make room for Light that has come into this Dark; we make room for the toys and gifts that will rearrange our play area.  We make room for newborn diapers and burp cloths; for swaddling blankets and newborn hats. We make room for Peace, incarnate, and peace in our home.  We leave space for fragile ones, arms open wide with extra grace.  And rest.  Deep, abiding rest.

November’s Call: on seasons, ritual and hibernation

It is with a sigh, of relief, almost, or more accurately surrender, which I see this November sky.  It is familiar: gray and haunting, threatening snow from the formless clouds, curlicues of wind blowing crunchy leaves skyward.  This makes more sense.  Yesterday’s rain storm brought down what was left of October’s regal color: hues of burnt sienna traded for shadows of heather gray. This is the weather that, though I don’t long for, I do sink into because it is just so November.  Unlike the days we’ve had recently, full of sunshiney surprises.  But the truth is that I need these authentic November days to remind me of where we are.  This sky acts as a compass, pointing me away from October’s harvest, towards November’s feast.

We’ve turned our clocks back, tucked into the darkness as it creeps closer to our living space.  In college, once that change took place we would even eat our dinner meal earlier, longing for the shelter of the warm dorm against the blistering reality of winter in upstate New York, swapping clothes for PJs, microwaving  hot chocolate to nestle in for studying.  There is something about the gray, the dark, the barrenness of this landscape, that feels like a natural reprieve: a calling towards hibernation.  I, for one, am thankful for the call to stillness, especially to ready myself for the jubilation of the holidays.

There is rhythm to the seasons, ritual that has been integrated in the lives of generations past, as we mimic this change.  It is one thing that I yearn to teach my little ones: the sacredness of each season.  The new growth and promise of Spring means little without the desolate underbelly of a dark Winter.  The harvest celebrated throughout Fall is not possible without the sweat-drenched long days of Summer.  Though our lives are more about this metaphoric rhythm than the literal dependence of previous generations, I feel it is still important to stay connected to these rituals.

This sense of rhythm, of ritual, of time moving forward but with repitition and familiarity, is something that I want to incorporate in our family life.  I want my Little Ones to be influenced, as I am, by the movement of the sun, the moon, the earth around its axis.  I want them to know this air to feel different in their lungs, recognize it’s perfume in their noses.  Just like I crave this hibernation and stillness in these November moments, I want to give this gift of season to my Little Ones.  I want them to feel freedom in the unfettered glory of sitting before a fireplace and peace in those places where only piles of books in pajamas will suffice.  I want them to know the way a mug of hot tea feels on these cool days, just like a cold lemonade quenches July’s blistering heat.  I want them to lean into the full days in the kitchen baking up pumpkins and apples, knowing that it will one day, not too long from now, be time again to return to the simple meals of grilling outside.

Of course, the school calendar and curriculum dictates some of this seasonality, and the commerical consumerism we see every where supposedly taps into some sort of change.  And it is easy to see one day bleed into the next, and forget to even notice the changes until all of a sudden it’s dark at 4:30pm and we have a long list of Christmas goodies to shop for.  I guess that is why I so strongly want to root myself in what I feel is more natural: to choose our own rhythm and ritual, to emphasize what we already hold sacred instead of glumly swallowing the mock values around us.  It takes intent: to choose how we see this season, how we live into this Fall, this Winter.

I will put on my pajamas after dinner tonight — a dinner, set with candles,  a bit earlier than our summer meals.

golden november

I had no idea what was in store for me as I stepped out of bed this morning.  I did not anticipate the blessing, I could not have imagined this glory.  This, a golden, stolen, sun-soaked November day.  The juxtaposition of brown crunching under our feet as we peel off layers of clothing, freeing limbs to run and climb and stretch forth in the warm air.  I hold my breath, want to make time stop, to listen, see these moments for what they are: endless, but delicately finite.  This morning’s strong battle of wills fades from my consciousness, the fresh air wrenching tension from my shoulders, the breeze reminding me of my own breath: inhale, exhale.

Some gifts are easy to recognize: they come wrapped with bows, handed to us graciously, enthusiastically.  We pull off the paper, eager to experience some goodness.  Today is one of those gifts: the trees are decorated in their finest glory, brilliant reds and oranges calling us into their presence.  This day was enthusiastically given, I know, without disguise. As we set our clocks back, darken our evenings, look towards our hibernating routines of winter, I know that the sun is bending earthward today, lighting her beams on our backs, our faces, to remind us to be thankful for this time before.

The Eldest ran and jumped and did things I didn’t know him capable of.  He is athletic, instinctually strong and agile, like his father.  His darkening locks fall shaggy in his face; he pauses by my side for a sip of water, brushing them out of his eyes.  He’ll tell me later: “Mommy, I need a haircut.”  He runs back to join his friends, bodies falling on one another with peals of laughter, chasing across the playground.  He has heart-ties, strong and deep: these friendships are formative, lasting.

The Littlest has been content to keep company with the adults, sharing her snacks with the smallest amongst us, tender in her care.  But she watches: her eyes following the bigger kids until she feels brave enough to join.  And when she does, her tenacity takes her to the edge, pushes my comfort level as I run wildly after her on playground equipment too high, too big for her tiny arms and legs to master yet.

And after, quiet settles on this house, because not even these strong bodies can maintain this pace.  Pungent autumn air trickles through unexpected open windows.  I move swiftly past the laundry whispering my name, knowing the gift of this quiet is mine, too.

When the house awakens, darkness will threaten, the golden moment lost.  Chores will take precedence, routines of evening will creep in, demands of the day threatening to rob us of our gratitude, our peace.  But I will know this gift; I will tuck it into the creases of my heart pocket, procure it the middle of those other moments, to remember, to give thanks.

I doubt that there is such a thing as a measure of spirituality —but if there is, gratitude would be it.  Only the grateful are paying attention.  They are grateful because they pay attention, and they pay attention because they are so grateful.”  (~Barnes, The Pastor as Minor Poet, quoted by Douglas Wilson).

learn to like what doesn’t cost much

Learn to like what doesn’t cost much.

Learn to like reading, conversation, music.

Learn to like plain food, plain service, plain cooking.

Learn to like fields, trees, brooks, hiking, rowing, climbing hills.

Learn to like people,

even though some of them may be different…

different from you.

Learn to like to work and enjoy the satisfaction of doing your job as well as it can be done.

Learn to like the songs of birds, the companionship of dogs.

Learn to like gardening, puttering around

the house and fixing things.

Learn to like the sunrise and sunset, the beating of the rain

on the roof and windows,

and the gentle fall of snow on a winter’s day.

Learn to keep your wants simple and

refuse to be controlled by the likes and dislikes of others.

Lowell Bennion

I’m letting these words wash over me, settle in my soul, today, this rainy-play inside-stay in pajamas ’cause we’re not feeling all well-day.  It seems to echo a theme for me, of the lessons and truths that we’re embracing as a family.  Frugal Girl illustrates this beautifully with some gorgeous photos.