You Could Die

One deep fear parents have is that their child might die. We have evidence to believe that it is possible. Those small newborn nostrils, for instance. Did you know that newborns cannot breathe through their mouths? Leo nearly died of congestion the first night he was home from the hospital. An old dusty rug, we believe, was the reason. A few years before, Amelia was so sick at age two that she was on oxygen for three days. All across the world, children die. My child could be one of them. Just the other night, Leo vomited in his sleep, choking silently in his bed. Amelia saved him simply by being awake and beside him. She called me from the stairs, and after a few stomach thrusts, he coughed, breathed, and slipped back into sleep. He could die. She could die. 

At age four Amelia stood at the top of our neighborhood's very tall metal slide, let her hands go, and started dancing. She was teasing me. I took the bait. "Amelia!" I called from the ground, "You could die." I said, warning us all. Sometimes children forget. We parents never do. 

It's important to learn how to live with fear, to feel for its pang, but then pause to observe it. Is this fear screaming at my imagination to paint a gruesome scene of blood, anguish, and injury? Do I need to intervene? Or can I wait a moment? 

Be alert, your fear is a killjoy. 

A tumble is far more effective at teaching careful attention than incessant intervention. At the same time, I always run whenever I hear a holler for help, or as Leo says, "I scared, Mumma!" I give the boost, snuggle, chat, and tickle. And they remind me how to follow curiosity, and seek connection, knowledge, and beauty. 

I try to be quiet. Talk less. Go outside. There we climb, play, run, bike, and balance. I want these children to have space and time to grow nimble, confident, and strong. Let them feel how wonderful it is to have a body. 

I live with the fragility of little human children by practicing presence. At this moment, she is alive. At this moment, he is alive. Additionally, they are a cluster of descriptive words. I am here as a guide, model, and (while they are still very young) bodyguard. I am awake to the dichotomy of love and fear. Aware that I cannot (and should not) prevent all pain in their lives. It happens. It will happen. They are little human children after all. They are born to live and bound to die, just like the rest of us.  We can know this and still go about our day, welcoming joy, abundance, and play.

the peacemaker

I am the peacemaker. I develop this pattern as a young child. It is a form of control, devised by the ego, and it stems from a fear of sadness.  

Everybody, be calm, quiet, and kind ... Please! My inner child would shout within me, causing me to shrink, please incessantly, or seek invisibility. Occasionally, she rises within me still, weeping for me to be small and to solve, fix, and soothe. Run and hide! She warns, whenever I feel unwanted or in the way.  Do not be a burden. Be breezy! Be easy! Go with the flow! Yes, even if it feels like lumbering upstream. Prevent sadness whenever possible.

Sadness enters every house. Sometimes it is a long stay. Other times it is as brief as a few breaths. Whatever the timing, the only way it leaves (without destroying everything) is to open all the doors and windows. To welcome it in and offer it a place at the table. To listen to it, and wait (silently and patiently), while it empties itself. I am learning to not send it away. It is here to teach me something. 

One does not need to seek sadness, it will come, and when it does, let it be seen. Allow it to hurt. Be in vulnerability. Embrace the empathy. Witness it, - for it is within the presence of witnessing, that wisdom rises like a pail from a well.  

I am not a peacemaker. Peace is not made. It isn't pie. 

Peace is a pure song sung within.  

Human Being

listen to Rachel read this piece here: 

HUMAN BEING on soundcloud

I am of this body. A communion of flesh and expression. It is form (like carbonated, caffeinated cells of soft universal stuff) - strong, moist, moving, touching, breathing, living. It is the temporary home of my infinite self - my airy essence.  I am here for this life, this temporary performance of experience and experiment, of flailing failures, and brave joy. It is a grand, spacious time and yet, a fleeting bit, a speck. 

I read books and then I want to change the world. When that doesn't happen, I allow it to change me. Then I read something else and again I am like putty between the pages, the print marking me all over. 

I think I might need to read with more sipping, less gulping. 

I can also crack a joke, and I have learned how to do so without hurting others, which took some time. I am very grateful to be partnered with a comedian. He is the cake to my kale. I am trying to live more in my heart, bones, and belly, and less in the helmet of my head. More love, less analytical thinking. Humor is a lovely gathering of the heart, belly, and head. I love how laughter tumbles out like a brook, washing us clean. So yes, I welcome the timely toot and the late-night silly pillow talk. With the children, I welcome the dance, run, climb, and imaginary play, as well as the song, story, and snuggle. Joy is found in connection, after all: connection with oneself, connection with others, connection with one's environment. 

I honor this ordinary life. I devour good bread. I sleep in a soft cotton kingdom. I allow all weeping, observe most boredom, listen for silence and stillness, chop, stir and cook, and receive the mystery better than I once did. I move through the daily doings and into the quiet being. 

I wonder when we were given the title of human beings. I wonder who wrote it down and if they knew then the wisdom of this name. 

Maps

I am an enormously small bit of universal dust and flesh. One who is part of everyone, and yet not everyone. I can grow and go and grow, but I also must remember, and I also must know, that I am one and so is everyone. I cannot move any other onto my map. My map is my map. The stars and I write it. It is secret and encrypted. It is worn, folded, and torn. For 38 years I have been opening and pointing, folding, and tucking.  38 years, I have adorned this cotton paper with sketchings and scribblings, stories and destinations, plans, and spontaneous adventures. It only fits in my back pocket.  

We all have maps. My map is my map. And yours is yours. Go on and open it. Look it over. Then tuck it in your back pocket for later.