Guadalupe

Mother of God. You wrapped me in your arms before I ever knew your name. When I cry out for help, you are the phoenix that rises within me. You fill my lungs with air and give me song.

You are the mystery that my life's poem seeks to unfold. You were there all the time, but I overlooked you. Dismissed you. You gave birth to God! Yet I recognized you only as a supporting actress in the play, and I wanted more. Forgive me. I mistook your simplicity for triteness. Swallowed the neatly packaged version of your story. Rejected it as propaganda instead of defining it for myself.

Then I found you in the dust of Mexico. Sacred spirit descended and embodied by someone so humble. You are not bound by the mirage of perfection. You accept your destiny without knowing the ending. The call is enough. You plead and grieve but manage to keep your feet moving along the road despite your fear. You surrender your entire being on the altar of transformation and know the pain of loss. You need no recognition. You move from the heart.

Giving birth to myself

At birth the one became two.

At her christening I stood before my community and surrendered her to the universe confirming my faith in a higher power that I trust to guide and care for her. I accepted my role as a vehicle for her soul to enter into our world. Promised to do everything in my power to create a loving, healthy, and stimulating environment for her to send down roots, grow, and blossom in.

But now comes the embodiment of these intentions. I have to become that person. Live up to her potential. Be the mom she deserves.

The tricky part is that being that mom means being more than a mom. I need to become the best woman I can be. I have to live up to my own dreams. Nourish myself. Send down roots, grow, and blossom. Live the words. Be the example.

The reality of my life right now means part of being that woman includes returning to work. Why does that cause such a fracture in my identity as a caring mom? Why can't I gather up the different parts of my life like a bouquet of wildflowers? Why does it have to splinter me? Why can't it be like adding spices to a soup to make it rich and fulfilling?

Why do I fear that investing myself in my work, in myself, in my other roles as wife and friend means less investment in her? Am I so shallow? Is there a limit on love? On passion?

Or could it be that the development of other aspects of myself would actually create more energy, love, and passion that I could then shower her with? Deepen the well. Might I just need a broader perspective? Maybe it is due more to a misconception of these parts of myself.

Have the perfectionism and extremist tendencies of our culture so tainted my understanding of what it means to be a mother, a wife, and a working woman that I feel each requires the sacrifice of the others?

I am reminded of the recurring schism between the sacred and the secular. Why must one exclude the other? Isn't the Truth that you find one in the other? Isn't the beauty in the blend?