At 5pm, I logged out of my email accounts and closed my laptop. Time for the weekend! Office closed. Then I plugged Pandora into our surround sound, and I got to work cleaning and dancing, while I carried Charlotte with me from room to room in her rocker. She was thoroughly entertained by my twirls.
It has been a charged week for me. Charged couple of weeks. Charged.... while. I'd like to say I'm still held within the postpartum experience. Meaning, I keep high-centering with my emotions. The term "helpmeet" has really tugged tight with literal meaning in our household, as I've fallen into Ryan time and time again for his listening ear and kindness, and he helps me. And I am just as grateful for the friends who have welcomed my thoughts with safety. I am always and forever a person of deep emotions, love it and hate it. And with all the hormones of delivering and nurturing a baby, my sensitivity alerts have heightened, so I am capable of taking in the smallest peeps, understanding the most subtle of gestures and whimpers from my baby.
So that attuning with greater sensitive awareness means I am one incredible mother.
But holy cow,
I am so overtaken by the rest of the world.
I am so easily flooded with stimuli. News. Pictures. People. Responsibilities. No matter how much I try to purge and release and shed and talk through it, I feel only ounces of ease. I don't understand what's happening within me a lot of the time, just that I feel flooded and heavy. And we live in a world of a lot. Satan wants it to be that way. Loud and boisterous and reactive and over-packed. It can be so so tough. I want to say that again ... - but quietly because of my sweet gentle babe asleep next to me, with one tiny chubby leg propped up on my thigh, with full and beautifully-formed lips pooched out, still doing the motions of sucking in her sleep. ... - Emotional overload is SO tough. So isolating too. Because expressing and feeling through such overwhelm is a splatter and a clamor of art that isn't grounding or inviting. And it's so hard to escape. To hide from. Satan finds you and weighs you down, however he can, and it seems that motherhood hormones leaves you so freshly exposed. Luckily I have Ryan and those couple of friends that keep me from drowning. Even just typing this, I want to cry. Life isn't sad for me. Life is just a lot for me, and I feel sad for myself that it is unavoidably that way. And it seems to keep getting moreso, and I keep wanting everything around me to be less-so.
dig into the moments, and life is really sweet for me at the core. I have to keep my focus on the small and simple. At night, when the world tries to swallow me whole, I turn my mind to the smallest places. I think of Charlotte's little dimpled hands. Of Charlotte's long, pretty eyelashes. Of her stuffy nose and little snores. Of the way she curls into a ball when she's tired. Of how she pooches her lips and takes in the world with such wide-eyed wonder. Of her gurgly coos and generous grins. Of how she shares her little thoughts with this precious little voice. Of how her little thumb finds its way to her mouth, and she doesn't even realize that it's a part of her. I think of Ryan's strong big hands holding Charlotte. Of his sympathetic eyebrows when Charlotte is sad, and he tries to comfort her. Of his several pairs of shoes by the door, showing every role he's played that day. Of his love and interest for our bunnies and chickens. I think of the lights on our front porch that light and protect out property line. Of all the books that I read while nursing dotting every room in the house. I'm safe here.
It is sweet in this little three person tribe, in this little yellow house, in these white winter hills.
Maybe Donald Trump could build a 20 billion dollar wall around me for awhile.
Upward and onward,