Let me begin by admitting: I am very honored to be in the body I have right now. I do believe I am fearfully and wonderfully made and that the changes that have occurred are well worth it when I think of my son and how much better a place this world is now that he’s here. I would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Having said that, I feel like a blob most of the time these days, compared to how I used to feel, physically, pre-baby. I used to feel powerful, beautiful, energetic, like I had a real and unique presence.
I still have and am still all of those things. It just feels like I’m a blob at the same time.
There is a level of grace to be taken in terms of time and what is the appropriate amount needed to return to some shape of my former glory. I was healthier then, hands down. And, even though I do still work out twice a week and even though I haven’t completely gone off the deep end food-wise, my pregnancy and post-partum breastfeeding life have made me blobbier. (Is that a word? It is now …)
Dedicated to each precious life lost to terrorism. The stars sing sweetly for you.
It is the City of Lights, of love, of warm pan au chocolat and some of the best vin rouge I’ve had the pleasure of sipping. A city in a circle, a city of beauty and rich history, a city in which many of my favorite stories take place.
Two years ago, the love of my life and I strolled down sweet Parisian streets and leisurely sipped wine and kissed each other until our lips hurt. It was blissful and beautiful, and everything about Paris and that experience has a fragrant memory for us. Exquisite! I often mentally go there when I’m having a rough time. From its quaint and enchanting cityscapes to its delicious cuisine, Paris does not disappoint.
And, although the same tragedies are happening elsewhere around the world in higher numbers and in more devastating violence, my heart is also broken that it has now, again, happened in Paris.
Senseless terrorist attacks.
Why does it happen anywhere? Why does it happen at all?
And why now, again, to my sweet Paris?
It becomes clearer with each passing day, every time I answer his cries, every time I look into his sweet smiling face: this is no longer about me.
And I am no longer the same me, anyhow. My heart (not to mention other body parts) have expanded exponentially to make room for all of the “him” there is. And even though he is tiny, his presence is HUGE.
Still I try to make most things about me simply because I am selfish by nature, human, and I have to live in myself and with myself. It’s truly a wonderful gift, as I’ve come to realize, being me. It’s also awkwardly humiliating and downright painful much of the time. Anyone who is human and selfish would know that about themselves, too.
I knew he would change me, this little boy. I’ve always felt his sweet spirit, I’ve always known I would love him fiercely. I just never imagined how natural the pain of loving him could feel, and I did not expect that passion or suffering or sacrifice could begin to feel exceptional and exquisite. That I would be gladly trading in my everything just to sit beside him while he toots in the bouncy chair.
It occurs to me that I might be Alice.
An older, sappier, more exhausted version of Alice in Wonderland, but crazily imaginative nonetheless.
And, while my imagination is vital to my existence, it oftentimes will get me into some trouble.
Author George MacDonald once wrote:
“The imagination will yet work; and if not for good then for evil; if not for truth then for falsehood; if not for life, then for death. . . . The power that might have gone forth in conceiving the noblest forms of action, in realizing the lives of the true-hearted, the self-forgetting, will go forth in building airy castles of vain ambition, of boundless riches, of unearned admiration.”
I wonder if I am playing in an airy castle of vain ambition.
I wonder if my vision has run away with my imagination.
I wonder if I have imagined this desire or dream for a different, more creative, more liberating, more glamorous life when maybe, I am living my desired life right now, and I’m just too distracted by fear of the future to notice.
“Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.” ~Oscar Wilde
There’s this message following me around right now about paradoxes.
*Side note: is there a more accurate plural form of the word ‘paradox’? It sounds so funny to me this way… paradoxes. Paradoxes….
Anyway. Two truths that conflict with each other.
Anyone else picking up on this sort of a message?
It’s coming to me in partnership with other messages (you know, from God and the Universe) of being who you are so everyone else can be who they are.
It’s a theme that runs me over constantly like a bulldozer flattening the proud and stubborn earth:
“Learn who you are, admit who you are, and BE YOU. BEW*. With JOY!”