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. 

A child is a marvelous creation.

Early morning, he wakes, looking for me. I am not in his bed, I am not in my bed, and so he stands at the top of the stairs on soft, sleepy legs, calling, "Mumma." I am downstairs, sipping water and reading silently. I stand and climb up, up, up, and lift his warm, wobbly body and carry him down, down, down, and then over to the tall window where we sit in silence, rocking and listening to the birds and cars. Eventually, he climbs down and goes to the couch, which shines with morning light. 

I take this picture.  

I hope he always goes looking for the light, even if it means leaving me to do it.

I am so grateful and glad for these slow summer mornings. So much possibility. So much time! We could go anywhere. Do anything! Do nothing! We mostly do nothing - if nothing is reading library books, eating cereal, and meandering through the nearby woods and neighborhood, looking for dogs, puddles, climbing trees, boulders, gardens, grass, and wildflowers.

Paper

 accidental self-portrait

My six-year-old is reading and writing now. 

She writes lists (things, plans, ideas) and love notes. 

One day she wrote me this... 

Magic is rel. I love you. You or the best. wrc to gevr. You or the best! dep breaths

Translation...

Magic is real. I love you. You are the best. Work together. You are the best! Deep breaths. 

There are so many papers - school exercises, sketches, and letters. What to keep and what to discard? Some days I want to save every scrap. Other days, I frame a piece and recycle the rest. 

As the earth spins, we sleep and wake and sleep and wake and sleep, and as we live, the cells of our bodies die and are reborn and die and are reborn again and again and again, and all the while, our souls are either hiding or seeking, and all the while, the materials (the paper especially) are tricking me into believing that it is time. But only time can be time. It is unlike anything and yet a part of everything. And while it churns along with the oceans and lands and winds, I practice presence, learning more deeply that most of the things we save are simply souvenirs. 

I will forget so much. And that is what it is. I don't need to remember every love note, just that we loved. 

Wisdom

I listen and read, read and listen. Then, I rest. 

I must allow the wisdom to flow in and out of me as if I were a bay and it, the words, a sea sogging me, flooding and filling me. Eventually, my soul will swell with satiation and satisfaction. I must then feast upon space and silence until space and silence surround my soul's every cell. Feast and feast and then sleep and sleep. 

Oh how I want to find the babe inside of me - the powerful one unencumbered by culture, external expectations, and the thoughts of others. I want to be that raw, bold, strong wild woman child. I want liberation. And so I listen and read, read and listen. 

And then, I rest. 

The Audacity

Where do I get the audacity to be my deepest authenticity? To live with that little voice deep inside of me singing her strong song oh so very sweetly and oh so terribly boldly. To live listening. To listen and listen until there is less listening and more letting go and releasing of my bellowing billowing soul as it escapes and soars in the flow of truth and joy, until the depths of me are empty and light and silent. Where do I get the audacity? Perhaps, I get it from me, one small cup of universal energy. 

bunk bed

We buy her a bunk bed. There is an old man who lives north of here who builds them. He has built hundreds of bunk beds, he says. She wants one (she really really wants one) and the layering of sleeping children seems like a logical solution for this little room. Her father calls the old man who builds bunk beds, and the old man builds us one. The old man then drives south to our house, carries the bed up the stairs in pieces, and then builds it again. The yellow pine wood looks like honey against the pine needle green paint of the walls. Most nights, she climbs the ladder, a lanky girl of 6, and flops onto her mattress, shifting and sighing before eventually sleeping. Some nights, she is afraid to be alone waaaaaaay up there beneath the dark ceiling and her cold comforter. And so, risking a kick to the leg or head or hip, she slides along the wall of the bottom bunk to be beside her two-year-old brother. With gentleness, she pulls the blanket over her belly, smiles as she sinks onto a pillow, and closes her eyes. Soon, she is silent and sleeping, calm and happy to be close to the breath and skin of kin.