Mindful Moment: Remember to Thank the Chicken

Driving home from preschool today, I do the usual and hand back something to eat to our three year old (yes, he eats lunch in the car!) while our 6 month old gagas over him.

I say to A., “Hey babe, I got chicken for you!”

A.: “Did you remember to say thank you?”

Me: “To whom?”

A. “To the chicken.”

Thank you, chicken, for giving us nourishment.

Thank you, my son, for the reminder.

Follow that little whisper!

I love this post on Quest 2Be Me. Here is a woman who was just following what delights her heart (this is my personal mantra I have to say to myself over and over again!) and things started to happen for her. She started a blog not knowing where it’d take her or even what to write!  But she wrote.  And soon she got the little whisper within her to call a local magazine and ask if they take submissions.  And now…she’s the editor!

What a great reminder… just listen to the daily whispers of your heart — the big promptings and the little ones. Amidst the “stuff” of daily living and working and parenting and wiping bums or meeting deadlines.

Sit in silence every day — even just for a few minutes to gather yourself, collect the parts of you that have been scattered.  And rest there for a moment.

Soft whispers from deep within us rise to the surface.

Follow. those. whispers.

These are the “actions” we should take.  These are the ones that DELIGHT the soul.

I honestly think that this is how we can live.  Each and every day.  Maybe not every minute.  I don’t want to strive for that too!!!  But I have noticed that on the days I feel myself pushing something along, I am more anxious.  I’m more tired.  My muscles and face and brow tighten up.

And when I just stop, check in with my heart, and quiet myself for a moment…there is always a whisper (and sometimes a SHOUT!) showing  me where there is an opportunity to choose DELIGHT.  AND. I. RELAX.

I feel more connected — to myself, my life, this world. I exhale!  Ahhhhh, my heart feels Hafiz’s words of wisdom….

“Awake, my dear. Be kind to your sleeping heart.
Take it out into the vast field of light and let it breathe.”
- Hafiz

So thanks fellow mama and blogger!  What a lovely reminder!

The Poverty of Being a Brat

“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.”
~Mother Theresa

The first time I read this quote it made me think about how I can do some “great” things with clients and for this world, but then I can come home and be a brat to my husband or mom!

It’s hard to be that honest….to be that real with myself (and all of you!). Who cares if I can run an incredible yoga experience, be a helpful presence to my clients, or volunteer my time in my community if I can’t be a kind soul to the souls I live with?! Well, I mean, obviously, I’ll keep on doing those things! But this quote is a good reminder that we can do these great things for the world, and yet turn around and be meanies to the people closest to us.

I’ve heard of famous people doing these incredible things but then they were horrible to their loved ones.

I. don’t. want. to. be. like. that.

I try to live authentically — to talk to my clients and groups with a real and authentic heart, to “practice what I preach”, to have my “outside” self I share with people reflect my “inside self.”

This quote reminds me of one of Gandhi’s famous quotes — “peace begins with you.” And it does. It has to start within our own hearts and homes first if we are ever to have world peace.

So this is a reminder for me to keep close to my heart the next time I’m feeling a bit bratty at home!

Mindful Moment: My Skin Remembers

In the dark stillness of the early morning, before the first glimmers of dawn appear through our bedroom window, Brian brings C. to me for an early morning feeding.

She is half awake half asleep now nuzzled next to me. Her little feet rest on the space between my bare belly and hip as she wraps one arm over my chest and tucks the other under my breast to nurse. I am laying on my side, my left arm stretched out on the bed and the heat from the top of her head warms the inside of my elbow. My right arm wraps around her tiny, plump, six month old body. Our bellies touching rise and fall together in a soft rhythm.

Though my body begs for more sleep, I don’t mind being up so early before the sunlight slowly dances its way into our room. I know now with my second child that this will not last forever. There will come a day when I will long to hold my babies again just like this and my skin will ache with nostalgia.

But this morning, I also know that when that day comes, a smile will rise up from within me as my skin remembers breathing in this very moment.

(this post was reposted in 2012.  See re-post here.)

Bath Time

I wrote this poem for our son three years ago when he was just a few months old.   Oh how I send out this prayer to whoever will take care of my son as an old man when I have passed away.

Bath Time
I am in the tub with my four month old son
holding his plump, new body in my lap
enjoying our leisurely exchange of
smile and laughs
as I wash his back and under his chin
behind his ears and between his toes,

when suddenly
it hits me
someday, hopefully a long time from now,
I will be gone

and there will come a time
when my son will be an old man
too frail to bathe himself
and someone else will need to hold
his fragile, old body
wash his back and under his chin
behind his ears and between his toes
and I will not
be
there
to make sure they are kind to my son.

I am overcome with the primal panic
of a mother who cannot protect her child.
A grief I’ve never known before
grips my ribs and turns my stomach.

I am softly crying now – my tears mixing
with our warm bath water
as my son still smiles and giggles
and I continue to bathe him.

I breathe in deeply and then finally
let go
of that breath.
After a few moments I say to the grief,

“Yes, that is right, I will not
be
there.”

I send a out a prayer
to the nurse’s aid or hospice worker
my son’s wife or grown child
asking them to watch me now

as I gently rub a sweet lather
with a soft cloth and patient hands
over my son’s trusting, vulnerable body.

And I pray that they can sense
how this now old man
was once so lovingly bathed

and they will wash his back and under his chin
behind his ears and between his toes

with the tenderness of a new mother.

Lisa A. McCrohan, © 2007

Being a mom: your heart walks outside your body

“Making the decision to have a child – it’s momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking outside your body.”

- Elizabeth Stone

morning kisses

God, isn’t this so true?  My heart strings can get yanked in an instant when my children are filled with this innocent delight and awe, when they are sad and hurt, and when someone else acts harshly or mean to them.

Every day when we go out into the world, I want to put armor around their hearts, as the author of  A Design so Vast says, and protect them from the hurts of others’ meanness — and especially the “I don’t want you around” or “I don’t care about you” kinds of meanness.

This is a primal desire of any mother.

I see our A. — he is growing up and soon will be more aware of others’ comments and vibes.  Since he was BORN and could move and mingle he has always had this vibe to him of innocently assuming he is invited wherever he goes.  How many times has he looked out our back door and seen the “big kids” at the playground, collected his tools (of course), and make a mad dash to the porch door saying, “Hang on guys!  I’m comin’!”

He doesn’t even have an ounce of fear that “hey maybe I’m not welcome.”  He just dashes out to be part of the group.  He doesn’t notice yet that the “big boys” (the 8 or 9 year olds!) don’t even give him a second look. He doesn’t notice that he “can’t” play baseball or jump around like the big kids.  He is just “part of the gang” hanging out.

What will happen the day someone stops him in his tracks and says, “Hey kid, we don’t want you here?” Or “What are you talking about, kid?!  You aren’t invited!”

I can see the innocent delight fading from his face.  I can see it beginning to register “You mean I can’t be a part of your group?  People are like that?!”

Oh how I want to shield them from such a cold reality, from such harshness.

Yet, I know too, that we will encounter suffering in life.  And it is through suffering that we come to know the tenderness and the “power” that rises from compassion — for self and others.

But I think I’ll try to remember next time I’m out in the world that every person has a mother who has this same primal desire for her child to feel the sweet kindness of those who come to know her child.

Every mom’s heart is out there in the world walking outside her body.

Children teaching US about death: Singing in solidarity

A. painting a picture for a friend whose dad was sick

A dear friend’s dad died in July.

(Stop the world for a moment. Don’t we all want that when someone we love dies?).

Throughout the year of his illness, Aidan would finger paint “art projects” for M. (our friend) because “M. is sad.  I want her to be happy.”  When he was finished, he’d tell me what he wanted to write to her.  One time, I think it was something like this,

“Dear godmother, I hope you’re dad is ok.  I hope you get to play today. Love, A.”

A. wasn’t able to go to the funeral.  Loooong story short, me and our little four month old flew out to be with my dear friend while A. and my husband drove up to Boston for a family reunion.  A. didn’t get to see his godmother and say the things three year olds do when we are sad: “I give you hug.  Then you be happy.”

Singing in solidarity

When we got settled back at home, Brian and I were talking about ways to continue to be in solidarity with our friend.  We explained to A. that M’s dad had died.  We knew he wouldn’t “get it” completely, but we knew that he understood that M. was sad and that we wanted to be about helping her “be happy” (that’s “toddler” for “feel supported, accompanied, joined”).

As we were unpacking, I pulled out the liturgical program from the funeral.  One of the songs from the mass was still on my heart.  And in that moment, I knew what we could do:

Sing.

For the month of August, whenever we sat down to eat a meal together, we’d start by singing (* see below. It’s beautiful).

The song became our mealtime prayer.  It became our way of  “holding vigil” with M. and her family for 40 days — after everyone goes home and gets back into their own routine.  It was a way of being in solidarity with a friend who is grieving that A. could “get” and participate in.

When someone joined us for dinner, A. would tell them what we are doing: “We sing for M’s dad.  He died.” And the mystical circle of being in solidarity widened.  (One of our guests later told me that she was still singing that song and thinking of our friend, though she had never met her.  This is one thing that is beautiful about human beings — our willingness to join in the hurt and sorrow of another person, even if we don’t know them).

I can’t say we sang every night — nor did we eat together every night!  But on the nights we were together, we sang.

One night, early into our vigil, A. asked:

“Mom, is M’s dad ‘un-dead’?”

I stopped for a second.  I thought about how his mind and heart must work.  I was taken-aback by the sweet innocence of a three year old — nothing “sad” or painful or sorrowful is permanent to them – not even death.  I thought of how we were thinking we were teaching him about death — but here…here he was teaching us…inviting us to change our paradigm about death.

I said to him, “Well, he is still dead, honey.  We sing for M’s heart.  For her dad’s spirit.  We sing for joy to come.”

But maybe our children got it right:  sadness doesn’t last forever.  Maybe death and separation from our loved one isn’t permanent, it’s just an illusion, that we can sense in this lifetime.  Maybe we just come to know those who have died in a different way.  I don’t know.  It sure hurts like *^(*&^^#%$#.  But I do know this…ultimately death does not have the final word.

I’ll have to sit with that one for awhile.  For now, we will just keep singing.

(*post written with M’s permission)

****************

God of Day and God of Darkness

God of day and God of darkness,
now we stand before the night.
As the shadows stretch and deepen,
come and make our darkness bright.
All creation still is groaning
for the dawning of your might.
When the Sun of peace and justice
fills the earth with radiant light.

Still the nations curse the darkness,
still the rich oppress the poor.
Still the earth is bruised and broken
by the ones who still want more.
Come and wake us from our sleeping,
so our hearts cannot ignore
all your people lost and broken,
all your children at our door.

Show us Christ in one another.
Make us servants strong and true.
Give us all your love of justice,
so we do what you would do.
Let us call all people holy.
Let us pledge our lives anew.
Make us one with all the lowly.
Let us all be one in you.

You shall be the path that guides us;
you the light that in us burns.
Shining deep within all people,
yours the love that we must learn.
For our hearts shall wander restless
’til they safe to you return.
Finding you in one another,
we shall all your face discern.
(Text: Marty Haugen. C 1994 GIA Publications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used with permission. Music: The Sacred Harp, 1844.)