ashes to ashes...

"What are you giving up for Lent?" my students banter amongst themselves. "Coke." "Mineral water." "Chocolate." And me? I've decided to give up my pride. I mean, do I really have a choice? I'm clunking around with a big ol' hunk of imperfection on my leg for all to see. A sign of my mortality, my limitation, my terrifying dependence on others around me. The ash on my forehead wears away in a matter of hours, but this leg? It will be reminding me every moment of every day for a long, long time.

It is so easy to get caught up in accomplishments, driven by goals, go to bed exhausted each night to wake up early and begin again the next day. Running an endless race. Proud when things go well, crushed when they don't. But a phrase keeps coming to mind. "It's not about me."

I'm not the one doing all this! Sometimes I fool myself into believing I have some modicum of control in the matter, but that usually doesn't last long. Life has a way of reminding me. And if I'm honest, I'd tell you, it's actually a relief. After weathering the customary panic attack, I enjoy falling again into the realization that I'm just an instrument on this earth. My only job to play the song given to me to the best of my ability. I enjoy stepping outside myself for a second and marveling at the masterpiece being played through me, through each one of us. Each of us playing a riff off the other. One day it might sound a little country, another kind of folksy, and maybe another with a touch of merengue... I just try to be true to the rhythm of the moment. Let it flow through me without going too far off key. Hold on to the spirit within that carries me through the ever changing melodies of each day. Sometimes I forge through, sometimes I dance, and sometimes I hobble. But it's not really about me.

Upside down flowers

When I was little there was a tapestry that hung on our wall that drove me crazy. It was huge. A lighthearted meadow scene with trees, woodland creatures, and an upside down flower... Sounds innocent enough, but there it was day in and day out. My eyes drawn to it every time I passed by with nothing I could do to fix it. It just taunted me. Almost perfect.

The story goes that Grandmom had left her needle in too long without working on it and it rusted. But instead of just giving up on it, or even covering it up skillfully, she memorialized the stain forever with an upside down flower.

Will I ever be so nonchalant about imperfection? Weave it seamlessly into the tapestry of my life as if it were part of the original design? I talk about it all the time. Hell, I have books on it, read whole theologies based on it. But here I am a month and a half into the new year and I'm already flat on my face with two of my three new year's resolutions and I can't help but feel the air knocked out of me. January completely slipped by without me writing my monthly gesture to this blog and I only played one soccer game before finding out I have a split tendon and am looking at three months of immobilization.

So I roll with the punches. Have a good laugh. But there's that upside down flower just staring at me every time I turn around. Why does it bother me so much?

I am blessed with an utterly amazing son, a stunning and strong young daughter, a gentle and understanding husband, and endlessly supportive family and friends. Why do I choose instead to see the unwashed dishes, the disorganized kitchen table, and unfolded laundry? Why do I focus on the unattained and possibly unattainable instead of wrapping myself up in the miracles all around me? Polo's going to be a US citizen for god sake! After 9 years of fighting...holding our breath, wondering, hoping, and pushing through. We'll never be forced apart again! My health has been given back to me. We have jobs and insurance. A cozy home to return to each night. Food in the fridge.

But it's never enough. There's always more. Things to tweak, things to dream of, things to improve. An ever elusive mirage like that infuriating line approaching infinity. You can't touch it or it would no longer be that which you seek. But it's immensity is overwhelming. Sometimes standing on the cliff's edge staring into the expanse comes in the form of a little flower...and mine just happens to be upside down.

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.

Día de los muertos

You were conceived during the celebrations in Oaxaca. Zócolo full of marigold altars, sand sculptures, music, and an undulating parade through the street. I was just beginning to relax into the rhythm of my new home. A dream growing in my belly, transforming me. I called you Aurora because you were the dawn of a new day for me. A new cycle. A new beginning. You made the loss of my old life worth while. Gave it all meaning. A new role to play in the world. A new husband. A new country. A new language.

Yet you were gone before February set in.

I lost more than a baby back then. More than my hopes for the future. I lost who I might have become and who I had been. I stopped believing in signs. Stopped inhabiting the world beneath the surface that made everything rich and plump, dripping with meaning and symbolism. Everything became flat and two dimensional. All my road posts were gone.

I was alone when you were "born." Sent unceremoniously from my womb turned tomb with a cough. I'm the only one who saw your body fully formed, chest round and proud but painfully still. Sometimes I wonder if I might numb myself from feeling the intensity of joy in the details of living because of the fear of its reflection. Terrified to ever feel the way I did then staring into the emptiness, the excruciating pain of you ripped from my world before we ever shared the same air. It was then that you became my "Angelito."

Now I stand eight years later tears flowing fresh and cold down my cheeks before a simple alter whispering a prayer to you huddled with my arms around my family who give me strength but also stir up a faint sense that I am betraying you by loving them. My heart is heavy, my stomach constricts, and the questions explode. Where are you? Why did you leave me? I don't think I'll ever shake the sense of being an abandoned mother. Staring alone at my unborn child. The insecurity of that. The sense of rejection and helplessness. The hole remains no matter how much happiness wraps layer upon layer on top. Pain hides beneath the skin. The slightest scratch can release it like a bomb. And I am blindsided.

Angelito, are you watching us? Do you see your little brother and sister growing up in our arms and miss us like we do you? I wonder sometimes what wisdom you would have passed down to them. What kind of mother you would have molded me into. I feel less of a person for not knowing you. And the world seems less real without you here. But this is the real betrayal.

The words of Kahlil Gibran reveal the deception in these waves upon waves of feelings and doubts: "Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that it's heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain." I know that it is precisely this pain that has fertilized the soil and made me the mother I am today. So you are molding me even as I write, and I know that I must honor your sacrifice, celebrate the role you played on earth to create the masterpiece that I am living today. This is the wisdom that will be passed down to your brother and sister. If I don't acknowledge your loss, I will never be able to fully enjoy the wealth that surrounds me allowing the love to penetrate the pain and make it more bearable.

My son bit me today and my world crumbled

My son bit me today.

It was like a demon possessed him in his complete frustration with me telling him NO. Why then and not the thousands of other times I say no throughout the day, I don't know. But for whatever reason this particular NO set him off and I watched an alien energy fill him like a balloon. He floated a million miles away. I was a stranger to him. All he saw was some outer force trying to limit him, and he lashed out. I can see that now, but then I was in shock. Awash in anger, fear, and a deep feeling of betrayal.

All this time I've felt a secret pride for raising an energetically independent but considerate child. He is kind and compassionate, wonderful to his new sister. Tells me he loves me regularly and that he misses me when I go on a run. He holds my hand so consciously. Curls up in my lap in the morning. Throws his little arm around me when he climbs in bed with us in the middle of the night. He even shuffled into the bathroom last week and patted me on the back whispering "It'll be ok mommy" while I was hugging the porcelain bowl during a particularly nasty bout with the stomach flu. This sweet, gentle soul bit me, and bit me hard. Broke the skin through my jeans. Now every time I look down at my leg I remember and suddenly I don't feel so sure.

Is this what raising children does to you? Leaves your heart dangling on your sleeve, a ridiculously easy target for the whims of life to knock it off and smash it on the ground. Just when you think you are catching on, letting yourself feel the slightest comfort that you can dance to this crazy rhythm. There's an earthquake. All the pieces shift. The familiar suddenly doesn't feel so familiar; everything's just slightly off. Guess I should know it's coming by now but it still catches me off guard. The thousand balls I have carefully timed to throw then catch and throw again start to fall one by one and the air is so knocked out of me that I just watch them fall.

Then he just goes on. Forgets and forges ahead and I'm left still picking up the pieces. Wondering if I've done it all wrong. I marvel at his happy disposition, confidence, and self awareness. But have I given him too much freedom? Have I not drawn clear enough boundaries? Do I need to assert my authority more? I pride myself in finding ways for him to participate in the many decisions that fill his day. But might I be misguiding him and setting a dangerous precedent that makes him think he is in charge and therefore not able to respect the decision of others when necessary? Handle disappointment? Or scariest, won't listen to me when his well-being and safety might most require it?

Raising a child is a dance. Sometimes we step on each others toes. Through my fear I have to remember that he's a complete person inside that little body. There's no going back once the music starts. As he grows, I have to allow him space to lash out, test his limits, and hit the wall. And I have to be that wall sometimes. But then I also get to be the arms that wrap him up when the demon has passed. As long as we don't let go of each other, it's still a dance, no matter how awkward and out of rhythm we may be sometimes. And when I think of it, that's the best preparation for life I can ever give him.

mother & daughter

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?