Last night, in my so called storybook life, I watched my children take a bath. I became fully present in the moment and watched the innocence of their childhood moment of playing in the tub. My son’s eyes surveyed the tub while he looked for what toy to play with next. And the thought very clearly came to me:
It's not a storybook life.
I felt overwhelmed with love and acceptance at this thought. No, it certainly isn’t. And for now, they do not know this. There is not a clear space on any counter in our little storybook home. I have been overwhelmed for so long I don’t know the fingerprint of anything else. I saw their beautiful faces and suddenly felt so much for compassion for my journey. We all had so many ideas of how it would be when we had kids - especially when we waited until our thirties to have them. It is all so
surprising to discover that not only am I not in the space I had hoped to be when these precious beings arrived in my life, it’s as if I have slid backwards… with no idea how I will dig out. If I can’t even keep my kitchen clean, how in God’s name will I give them what they need?
And last night, there was a beautiful release. A sigh of, “It’s okay” and today I do indeed feel different. Calmer. As if I have really accepted the mess, the mistakes, the journey, the many imperfections. How is it that I believe in creating my own reality and yet as my friend so eloquently and beautifully put it in an email last night, “I feel sad when I read through some of your blog posts (because you seem overwhelmed with a crap-storm of hard circumstances).” I love that she wrote that.. it was beautifully validating. I also love the crap-storm. It might be my new favorite expression. I vow to use this in a sentence at least three times today. Preferably in meetings.
This has been undoubtedly the most challenging year of my existence. No level was left untouched – spiritually, physically, financially, emotionally.. all of my stones have been turned. I have a great appreciation for my life, as I have felt dangerously near my death several times. Anyone who has experienced the pain H. Pylori bacteria can cause understands that it is not hard to imagine cancer must exist where the stomach once did. About a month ago, after realizing the pain that I have lived with and its underlying bacterial cause is linked to cancer, I again contemplated not having a lot of time in my storybook life. I walked to my bedroom window and looked out at the astonishing night sky. The moon behind the clouds created a stunning picture. I looked at this as if I might not get the privilege of taking it for granted.
With great clarity, I had this thought: “No. I can’t die. I have not
yet experienced love.
In that moment, I decided that I had been alone long enough. I have experienced the deep, enduring, nothing-can-shake-it love of a mother. For this, I am deeply grateful. But I have not yet actually experienced the enduring possibility of love that comes not from a biological imperative, but from choice - the choice of two adults loving and committing themselves to each other because they are following their heart and inner truth.
I am no stranger to relationships – a fact my Facebook friends and cats can attest to. But I am a stranger to love. I am a stranger to creating partnerships with people who return my level of care, kindness, loyalty and devotion. Now, don’t get me wrong – I do come with my brand of crazy. My wound is a big gunshot of being unloved and unsupported. The best I can do is recognize that it’s my wound being activated and no one has taken direct aim with a supersoaker of “I hate you.
Maybe I am beginning to understand what this has been for? I have been
through an ever-increasing vice grip of ridiculously bad (at times) circumstances. I have been challenged in ways and on levels no one in my circle of friends has.
But last night, I managed to see through the mess of my house into my childrens eyes.
Today, I felt the vice grip loosen because the one who needed to simply let love into my storybook life all along... was me.
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