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Growth and Agitation

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I am writing my way in to my body. This is difficult, but not counterintuitive. In the last ten years or so, I’ve discovered that what I used to think was counterintuitive was simply fear. Instead of doing what I was told to do (don’t poke at that, don’t examine the pain, pretend it isn’t there or deny it or minimize it) for most of my life, I have learned that opening up, asking questions, and leading with curiosity is actually the most intuitive thing I can do.

So, while it has been a while since I sat down to write, I am agitated and hyped, uncomfortable and tense, and too far in my head. It is time to write my way in to my body.

The word agitated conjures up the washing machine of my youth – the golden colored 1970s top loading contraption that swirled clothes to clean them by violently twisting them back and forth. The one I had to stand on my tiptoes or levitate off the ground in order to reach that last sock or pair of underwear caught on one of the fins of the center agitator before tossing it all in to the dryer. Is this agitation getting things clean? Is it separating the dirt from the substance?

I am an extreme empath, especially when it comes to my daughters. When they are overwhelmed or upset, joyful or incredibly excited, I am too. I feel it in my core – like that washing machine agitator of old. I think sometimes I need that twisting motion, that constant shifting and moving inside me in order to parse out what is mine and what is theirs. Especially when the intensity is driven by fear.

It is my job as Mom and holder of space, purveyor of radical acceptance and unconditional love to operate from a place of calm and curiosity and centeredness. In order to do so, I have to filter out the fear.

It is Spring and I am eager to burst forth in to new growth and projects. Last fall I went to a plant sale and bought two tiny dogwoods and a lilac. They were in 1-gallon pots and at the time, they were simply sticks standing upright – not even impressive enough to be called a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. I was skeptical that they would grow at all, but even after the 15 inches of snow we got this winter (unheard of in Seattle), a week ago, they each sported one tiny leaf. Today, they are all decked out in green, leaves growing by the minute thanks to the rain and sun breaks we have had. I like to imagine that all winter they lay resting, knowing that the time would come for them to busily push forth new leaves, maybe even agitating deep inside as the Earth rotated and the days got longer, readying themselves for the burst of energy it takes to produce new growth.

I think I’m a few weeks behind, but I’m going to get there.

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Ritual and Change

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I am not much of a routine-loving person. I hate the idea of going to the gym and working out on the same piece of equipment every day or every other day. When I was working a job that required me to do the same things pretty much at the same time every day or every week, it wasn’t long before I got bored to tears and quit to find something else. Even as a writer, I’m much more productive when I write as inspiration strikes instead of sitting down in the same place at the same time every day.

However, I do love rituals. My coffee routine is the same every morning and when it isn’t, I often feel as though something is off. Often, on weekends, Bubba and I will get up with the sun and walk a couple of miles to our favorite coffee shop and back before the girls are even up, but even though the coffee and the company are exquisite, as soon as I get home, if I don’t get busy doing something else pretty much right away, I begin to feel as though I need to make myself coffee at home, too.

I also love the predictable things that come around once a year – my sister-in-law’s annual Easter dinner and egg hunt that includes a different mix of friends and family every time, but is always fun and festive; the way our neighborhood comes alive in the evening just after Daylight Savings Time when parents and kids are out playing catch or walking the dog and visiting on the sidewalk with other folks who are taking advantage of the fact that it isn’t dark at 5pm anymore. There is something comforting and grounding about those occasional events that I forget about and then find myself welcoming back.

I think it is against the backdrop of those rituals that I can feel confident about big changes. Lola is graduating from middle school this year and heading off into the world of high school. Eve will soon have her driver’s license and is increasingly away from home doing things with friends. My work seems to be on the verge of something big as well, but instead of feeling overwhelmed and freaked out, the touchstones of family dinners at Easter and cherry blossoms bursting out all over have given me a safe container in which to sit.

The trick, I think, is to spend as much time honoring the rituals I love as I spend thinking about the new, exciting things that are to come.

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Spring in the Northwest

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Maybe it’s that I have a lifetime of memories that involve rain, having spent most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, but I truly don’t mind the grey, wet days.

“I hate the rain,” Bubba grumbled as he pulled on his sneakers this morning and grabbed the umbrella on his way out the door for his morning walk.

“I know.”  There was nothing else to say. He knows the rain doesn’t bother me, even when I have to walk in it. Especially on a day like today, when yesterday afternoon brought brilliant sunshine and I was lucky to walk under a canopy of cherry blossoms with the dog, a pink carpet of tissue-thin petals lining the sidewalk.  Everywhere I went, I could smell the sweet perfume of daphne and I watched with a keen eye for the season’s first tulips in someone’s yard.

To wake up this morning to the sound of the water gurgling in the gutters conjured images of fat, shiny worms making their way across the pavement. I could hear the birds in the magnolia tree right outside my bedroom window and I always imagine they are celebrating the rain, anticipating puddles to splash in and the droves of worms coming out for an easy breakfast.

I sit at the kitchen table, the house silent except for the gentle swoosh of the dishwasher and there is something about hearing the movement of water as I watch the rain fall outside that feels cozy and comforting.  The dog, still damp from our morning walk, lies breathing heavily at my feet and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a huge crow descending into the yard.  My first instinct is revulsion.

Ugh, crow. I think. Why couldn’t it be a robin or that sapsucker I see every once in a while? But I catch myself. Why not a crow? Because they eat garbage instead of worms and bugs or seed?  Because they are big? Because their cries do not sound like songs to me? In that instant, I feel a softening and turn to watch the crow more closely.  A smile spreads across my face as I watch it hop with a little jaunt across the stones toward the planter. He has every right to be here, too.

My pants are speckled with raindrops, the bottom cuffs soaked from puddles we walked through this morning.  The cherry blossoms were raining down on us and are stuck to the sleeves of my jacket like translucent pink polka dots.  The flagstones are shiny wet and I can’t resist stepping hard into the puddle that forms right inside the gate, although I do look around to make sure none of the neighbors was watching.

When Bubba comes back from his walk and leans in for a kiss, I love the way his cheeks feel cold and damp against mine.  He smells fresh from the outdoors and I close my eyes and inhale deeply. This is the scent of Spring.

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The Balm of Spring

Spring is certainly coming.  Every morning after I wake the girls up, the dog and I go for a 10 minute stroll around the neighborhood and in the past week I have noticed that we aren’t walking in the dark.  I no longer need to use the flashlight app on my cell phone to find the mess he leaves in the neighbors’ grass and clean it up.

During our mid-day walk, I have seen tips of crocus and daffodil bulbs peeking out of the ground and the camellia bush someone has espaliered across their front fence has five open blossoms already.  This morning while I prepared my coffee I saw the little black-masked chickadees chasing each other through the air around the branches of the cherry tree just outside the window.

As I packed snacks for Eve’s class this morning (they are taking four days of standardized tests and some of the parents have volunteered to bring in ‘brain food’ each day for all the girls to help them make it through the endless, boring hours of answering questions at a computer screen), the paper towel I was using to hammock the bunches of grapes split down the middle and grapes went everywhere, collapsing the bag, rolling across the counter, landing in the sink and on the floor.  I was instantly aware of a message playing in my head:

Today is a day to pay attention.


I realized I was simply going through the motions, not paying complete attention to anything around me.

You see, yesterday evening I was responsible for causing psychological and physical trauma to another human being.  Directly responsible.  And while it was entirely accidental and I never would have intended it, I still felt the weight of it in my heart this morning.  Despite the fact that I did the right thing and stayed to ensure that everything was okay, despite the fact that the man I hurt, a complete stranger, assured me repeatedly that he was fine, that I shouldn’t worry, I saw the faces of some of the witnesses.  I watched one woman cross her arms and close her face in judgment. I heard the sharp words of another who questioned me and I felt Wrong.

I engaged in all sorts of self-talk last night when I was done sobbing and questioning myself.  I reminded myself that one accident does not change the person I am, does not negate the warmth and love I intentionally radiate out into the Universe every day.  I progressed to wondering why I thought I was exempt from making big mistakes, effectively reminding myself that I am human like everyone else.

But I still woke up sad.

During a break in the rain this morning, I pulled the leash over CB’s head and we quietly strolled through the neighborhood.  While I recall looking at this house we live in during the Spring months last year, I have not yet lived a Spring here and I was reminded of the potential beauty that will surround us in a month or so.    Trees are beginning to form the tiniest of leaves and buds, bulbs are poking up all around in flower beds and the birds are flipping from bush to bush gathering nesting material and chatting all the while.

I came home, lit a candle in my office, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Ever since the accident yesterday, I realize I have been working hard to find some reason that this happened.  I have also been working really hard to ‘talk’ to those two women who were so angry with me last night, to defend myself and explain when I know their judgment was more about themselves and their fears than anything they thought they knew about me.

What I learned this morning by being quiet and really listening, really paying attention, is that Spring is coming.  I need only to settle in and raise my head and heart to the sunlight and continue to stretch for the warmth in order to use what is already within me to rise up and flourish.  That by listening to myself and the core of who I know I am, I can truly hear what I need to and express it in the best way possible.

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