Some days I wake and I'm all there, as if my pieces were collected and dusted and stitched together as we slept. Life is funny in that way. There is a profound and constant undercurrent of joy that is flowing beneath a thousand and one layers of worry, and what-ifs, and judgement, and pain. The middle of the ocean. Sometimes I feel it. Most times I don't. Today, I woke to the sound of Aspen moving beside me, and I was all there, and the joy had poured over me, and around me, and through me. And I wondered how I hadn't noticed it on all the other days.
When I was living at the ashram, each day was spent lifting the layers like woolen blankets, shedding old skin, refining my faith in that constant, still space, that joy. We moved back home and I became a mother, and then became a mother again, and the layers have stacked atop one another and become heavy.
But this morning. Slowly lifting. Slowly remembering. Gently creating cracks where the joy might pour through.
I want to be here for you, too, always. And I am sorry that it's so difficult for me to explain. An anxious mind is something you're unfamiliar with. For this I am grateful. I hope you never struggle to see beneath a fog as thick as mine. But because you're so clearly alive, I often feel that you don't believe me when I say that I'm hurting. I wish I could pull you under, only for a moment. You could hear the voices I hear and see the spiderwebs that surround me. Maybe then, we could dust them off together.
I have created this ocean for myself. You remind me of that often. Some days, it's easy to dive into the stillness. Some days, I am stuck on the surface, turbulent tides tearing through me, unable to breathe, unable to swim. It is a fiercely unforgiving habit. It is too easy to lose the present moment in tumbling waves of worry, and what-if's, and judgement, and pain. It is a practice to dive down. I am re-learning, slowly, in this new mother skin.
And it's hard. But I will do it. Daily, I wake and remind myself that I am alive. For you. For her. For him.