Staying afloat

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I’m back! Sort of. You probably already know, but in case you don’t and are wondering why I dropped off the face of blogland for the past two months, we just weathered a hurricane, moved into a new house, and welcomed a new baby. Whew.

I do have loads of drafts for posts in varying states of doneness, and even though I’m the slowest of bloggers in normal circumstances, I am itching to get back into this space that helps me get the frazzled, stream-of-consciousness bunch of thoughts that bombard me all day teased out and a bit more composed.

But having two under two is no joke and situations like dragging my soot-covered toddler out of the fireplace with one arm while carrying and nursing my newborn in the other are a daily occurrence.

I remind myself over and over what good problems I have. That books and tupperware and pots and pans and clothes strewn everywhere are a sign of curious, energetic toddler life. That battling mini-existential crises on a daily basis is a sign of being conscious of what fragile beauty is in my care. That the guilt over all my yelling from being constantly overwhelmed is a way God calls me to turn to Him and admit that I can’t do this without His grace.

So it may be a while yet before I’m posting here again…and if you want to say a Hail Mary or ten on my behalf, bless you.

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Staying afloat

more on the mystery of motherhood (or things you can’t prepare for)

motherhood-postpartum-poetry-reflections

I wasn’t prepared for the intense fleshiness and the intense poetics of it all.
For words witnessed by God and man, words of fidelity and love, to be made into the flesh of another human.
For body and soul to be crafted and to converge under my heart.

I wasn’t prepared to be assailed by a meteor shower of metaphors
for every flash of movement I felt within me,
for every red rippled mark that I found etched onto me,
for every glimpse I caught in reflection of that round and silent world I carried.

I wasn’t prepared to be struck dumb and made to submit a breathless fiat
as I was riven slowly and frighteningly.
But this sweet, damp, dark, purple thing emerged and I cradled him in my shudders and sobs and the room quieted in reverence.

And then I wasn’t prepared to have to learn to speak again,
because what words could I have found in the midst of such mysteries?
Conceiving and growing and birthing a child,
with sparks flying off the white hot welding of creation,
is, after all, close to something confoundedly divine.

But during the weeks of bathing in milk, in tears, in sweat, in blood,
and wanting so much to profanely kiss the scratched shower floor in gratefulness for the water that felt baptismal against my stretched skin and sore bones,
and during the weeks of awe over that small body hewn out of our bodies,
I remember how good it felt to say familiar, ancient words.
In that blurriness and bareness of newborn, new-mothering life,
They felt so whole, so nourishing
like daily bread.

more on the mystery of motherhood (or things you can’t prepare for)

For Father’s Day

Newborn fathers day

One morning, when little Léon was three or four days old, I woke up alone in our sunswept room and stumbled in my new fragile empty body out into the living room. There you two were calmly basking in the new light of the day listening to an adagio from Beethoven. And I cried and cried because how in the world is a postpartum mother supposed to deal with something so magnificent?

For Father’s Day