(A poem for me, to me, on my 39th birthday, shared as prayer with you)…
The other night, I watched a video of me that Brian recently filmed.
It was me leading a meditation.
Half way through, I stopped and paused it.
I sat there, staring
at the still frame shot of me. The incessant self-doubt
that strangled my joy for years was simply
not true. I could no longer deny what I now saw before me.
Here was the evidence.
“I see it,” I whispered in the silence of my heart,
“I see what my mother has seen all these years.
I am exquisite.
I embody the life I have led,
the years and hours of meditation and kindness and metta,
meltdowns and cries, softening and letting go
practiced on my cushion,
on the earth dancing and sweating my chants to the Divine,
in our kitchen cutting grapes for toddlers,
tired, alone, longing, yearning, returning
to my life as practice, in the car
handing back snacks to hungry little ones wondering if I’ll rest today,
in our bed nursing a newborn in the early hours before dawn,
making love to Brian when we should be sleeping but
returning Home to our bodies reciting poetry to the Divine,
rising early with my prayer shawl wrapped around my growing belly,
sitting in silence until a baby cries and my feet take me to them,
somehow in the dark, and my arms become their shawl…
again and again,
through the doubt and the worry
the shame and the regret
the wondering and the wounds
the mistakes and the miraculous
the cooing and the sighing
the obsessing and
the letting go,
again and again
to the Divine
I already embody what I longed for,
what I thought was missing,
what I believed I was ‘not yet:’
I am sensual and beautiful.”
The words escaped my heart before they could be squelched
by analysis or habitual practices of learning to not be powerful…
and know it. Spoken into existence, they flew
out into the world and danced,
and then back into me
as prayer, as breath,
to be breathed
and then exhaled
Lisa A. McCrohan, © 2013