Wind for Wings

I bring our children to a protected wildland. We breathe the air. Smell leaf, dirt, and pine. They call to me, and one another.  We sing to the birds and look for toads and turtles in the pond.  In the woods, we find joy and calm. We hold hands. We let go. We run, stand, listen, giggle, and throw cattail cotton to the marshy meadow. We walk and walk, surrounded by green and goldenrod. 

I wonder if I could build a home that feels like the woods, - quiet, empty, still, and yet buzzing, vibrating with life, with air, plant, and animal. 

When we feel it is the moment to move from one house to another, I will look for a home beside a meadow. I want a meadow. Not to own, but to hold with my soul. But let's not call this future. Let's not call this wishing. Instead, I write this as an intention for manifestation.  

I want to eat, bed, and love beside the wildland. I want wind for my wings. I want swallows, willows, and fog out my windows. I want to be in a meadow. To be in a space where birds race, swoop, cluster, and soar. A place where grass grows and grows, tangling into nests and hay. 

I want wildflowers tangled my feet in the spring. I dream of stony streams, blackberry brambles, and a vegetable garden in summer. I imagine the yellow of autumn, and in winter, white. 

Oh, look how the plans unravel. 

Here I am at this moment, carrying our bodies, by car, to the meadow, mountain, sky, and water. 

We are worthy of this devotion. 

Perhaps that's when it will be time to move house, when I am fully settled in my self-devotion. When I have the belly for such feasting. 

 

Embodiment

What if I moved in a dance? Spoke like a poet? What if I was strong and still like old birch, yet shining like the sea under the sun? What if I felt breeze, dirt, and water like a ragged wildflower, - rooted, swaying, sipping, shedding, singing? Could I be like a dog, sprawled and sleeping, or galloping, sniffing, slurping, kissing? Might one day, I be a flock of black starlings? Connected and free?

HIERARCHY

I want to write about hierarchy. I want to write about how I believe it is an antiquated attempt at control over the wild world around us, - the wild world of continuous change, billowing transformation, and unpredictable individual selves and cells, vibrantly vibrating and expanding. There's always the pullback, the "no no no!" The "we've always done it this way" folks. But let's talk about the talk. Let's talk about hierarchical communication. 

I believe there is never full truth nor entire authenticity where there is status and hierarchy. Hierarchy is fear, no? Fear of losing something like a job, belonging, or safety? And when we act through fear. For instance, "I need to do it this way or I could lose my job". It lacks intrinsic motivation and joy, which leads to a lack of commitment, which stifles abundance and slows the energy required for inspiration and creation. And thus causing community-wide and internal stagnation and frustration. Plus, power struggles!

This way of communication splinters connections and separates us into teams, into enemies.  

Think job. Think home. Think children and parents. Think fear, think control, think correction, and think shame. Think of threats, yelling, and violence. 

Now imagine true community, connection, flow, and joy.

 

Non-hierarchical communication is communication that connects. Communication that expresses - WE ARE ONE! We are in this (this thing called life) together. I am you. You are me. You are not perfect. I am not perfect. Like you, I struggle and strive to be better, I want a journey of joy, and I care about myself and the whole wild community.

What if our communication (external communication and internal communication) was nourished with connection? And yes, when needed, firm containment and boundaries. What if communication too had attunement. Do you know about attunement? I just learned about it through my coaching institute with Dr. Shefali. It's like an energy exchange. A meeting of verbal and non-verbal vibes between persons. Attunement is presence too. It is a watchfulness and an awareness of the flow, - the flow of conversation, connection, and relationship.  

I want to contemplate and write about hierarchy not to shame any of us, but to allow us to see one place we wound ourselves and others. May we find these hurting places and wash them clean so that we can properly and deeply care for ourselves, so that we may properly and deeply heal ourselves, and therefore, who knows, maybe even heal others.  

Sit a moment and consider this: where are you above or below others? 

Can you, instead, meet them in the eyes? 

The Song of My Truths

What precious little lambs are you sacrificing to feel belonging? 

So many of us seek affirmations from others, others who are seeking affirmations from others, who too are seeking affirmations from others... 

What if we gifted ourselves affirmations? What if we listened deeply to our inner knowing? What if we loved ourselves more deeply, more completely?

We won't find deep belonging with others until we first find it within. Only then will we be free to see that we are all connected in community, within humanity, and part of this enormous and powerful universal energy. Only then, in our pure authenticity, are we free to be and free to belong. 

We need belonging. We as babies, for instance, need so much. Then still as small children. We need assistance, guidance, and love. We need to know that we belong. That we are safe. That we are cherished.  

As we grow, there will come a time when we lose ourselves to the expectations of others. We will wear costumes. We will walk in a funny sort of way. And our voices will not sound quite right. When this happens, we must (quickly or eventually) bring ourselves to the mirror of our truths. 

There, in silent stillness, we will hear our hearts cry out, "Oh! Wait. This isn't me."

And then, "Oh. Here I am. Yes, this is where I find my bliss. This is how I want to live."

My belly has always sung the song of my truth. Sometimes, the song is soft and I must reach into silence to hear it. Sometimes, the song fills the sky like a storm, blowing me in or out a door. And sometimes, the song is clobbered by the cacophony and clutter of culture, and I am left feeling confused. It is during these moments that I must return to the mirror, to the quiet, and allow the song of my truths to rise once again. 

What precious little lambs are you sacrificing to feel belonging?

 

I sacrificed my little lambs many times: my lamb of authenticity, my lamb of self-worth, and my lamb of self-love. 

Now, nearing 39, I hold my precious little lambs in my arms. I let them slumber in the sun. And I feed them all the grass, clover, and water that I can muster. 

House Guests

Your child is simply eating melon. And you? You are hovering with a towel as if life is not meant to be messy. Yes, it is dripping and landing on the upholstered kitchen chair, but look at his face wet with juice. He is sweeter than the fruit. 

The presence of one's children is like a lamp shining upon all the darkest places.  

You are afraid. Afraid they will break or stain something. Afraid they will be a bother, a nuisance, a pain. And so the fear turns into control and correction.  It happens. After a day of this, you pause and look within. This feeling, this fear, is familiar. You are afraid of upsetting others. 

Be silent. Be still. 

Look now to the body. 

Feel it. Oof! - it is as tense as a weight lifter! 

Let it go. 

Surrender. 

They are just wild animal children and you are just barely an adult and you all have time to grow and flounder and blossom. They haven't been tainted by shame yet. This is a beautiful thing. Don't let them feel your unnecessary worry. 

And so surrender. 

Fill your belly with air. 

Empty it. 

Now, continue breathing like this until you feel no worry, 

until you feel empty and worthy.

Look at her, nearly seven, and demanding money for muffins, begging her grandfather to take her walking. Look at how she loves, without abandon, without worry. She doesn't doubt the love of others. She knows it is pure. They take her swimming, feed her, speak with her, and hold her in their arms. Just the other night, your mother, their grandmother, read them story after story even after her own eyes started closing, her words tangling, which then turned into giggling. 

And so surrender. 

You are not a burden. 

You are love, and you are loved. 

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.