It made me cry, his need filling my own.  It pushed me to a place where I envision my little self – the tiny girl – neglected and left to raise herself, left to somehow navigate this world.  It’s a wonder I’ve ever found my own feet to land on, let alone a set of wings to try to soar with.  Most days, I feel like I’m still searching for my feet, for solid ground. 

Yet I am reminded, through my children, that I am strong.  I am also reminded that I am still so very small. 

I share with you an ear-marked place in my manuscript.  A place that I am forever trying to capture the perfect emotional content to share with readers.  The entire manuscript is difficult for me to re-read at this point in my life – as if I am revising my work while revising my very soul.  There are times in this writing process of revision when I can barely show up…

I know I must show up, but not for the reader.  I must show up for myself.  For in capturing my story, writing my journey, I continue to understand and embrace all of me.  I continue to heal:

(the following is an excerpt from Unempty)

She sets the phone and misses the cradle.  She slides off the edge of her bed, to her knees and onto the unforgiving floor.  It’s her second conversation with God this year.  Maybe the second in two decades.  The last time she remembers praying, she was also in a gown, but it was loose and made of cotton.  Her vision of God hasn’t changed much over the span of time.  His beard isn’t quite as long, but he still has a Jewish nose, undeniable lines intersecting his face and ice-blue eyes.  Someone to fear.  This is not a reunion for her, but a confrontation.  The words, stiff on her tongue, are soon pouring out of her, bleeding through her.

            “Listen here, You’ve given me hell my whole life.  One gigantic crisis of pain after another.  I can’t think of a time that hasn’t simply sucked!  Now this???  My baby has to suffer?”

            She pauses for a breath.

            “You didn’t give me parents, I’m the one without the childhood, don’t You remember?  I don’t know what a mother even looks like and now my baby may never sit up?”

            She heaves and gulps the air while every muscle trembles until it reaches her bones.  Her teeth begin to chatter.  She can feel the warm blood trickle onto her lower leg.  She presses her knees into the floor and speaks softer, a whisper in the silence.  She tries to keep her power.  She repeats the same questions until she can no longer ask.  There is no answer.  The last of her tears feel scratchy and raw.  Her voice slows, pauses, stops.  She feels gutted, turned about, and looks around the floor to ensure herself that none of her organs have fallen out of her.

            She rises, changes and threads her IV line through her sleeve.  Her clothes hang shapeless on her nearly narrow frame, as though they belong to another.  She places her slippers on the wrong feet, wipes the mascara from her cheeks and wanders to the elevator.  To her son.  She presses her hands against her chest, an attempt for control, to slow her breathing.  How can she provide a nurturing home for this baby when the only experience she’s ever encountered has been of violence, abuse, and abandonment?

She launches.

The awkward first blast from the sprinter’s starting blocks looks embarrassing, but is alive with excitement and anticipation.  Blinded with wind in her eyes, yet the young athlete pushes forward, overflowing with determination.  She shows no shame.

She blasts.

The clumsy first dance on the eve of a social gathering seems humiliating.  Experiencing young love, the girl sees only the eyes of her date; the one she hopes will be her first real kiss–the kiss that counts.  She is complete in her thoughts and her dreams.  She understands no judgment.

She floats.

The unstable brave step out of an abuser’s prison proves a shattering event, but grows into a move based on faith.  Horrified that she has found herself in this place, she slowly allows self-forgiveness.  She realizes she can move on and heal.  She knows no limits.

She rises.

When she left her marriage—suddenly, abruptly, unexpectedly—she took her sons and their medicine and left her life behind. 

Over a year had passed before she realized she missed mostly her garden.  As she brushed ashes off herself, blinking away sweat and fear, she began to rebuild a life, rebuild a home and rebuild a garden. 

It was only recently that she finally saw the dirt.  She dug until it hurt beneath her nails, nearly drawing blood.  The earth was hard, clay-like, not a good foundation to nurture anything tender, such as a seedling.

Weeds choked out beauty and flowers clumped together as though they had support within a multitude.  Tree branches hung low, blocking out the sun and creating a mowing hazard.  Areas in the lawn were barren, cracked wide as though the bowels of the earth yearned for something from above.

The square foam would protect her knees from the hard ground.  She tossed it down, knelt and began.  Her hair drawn away from her face with a scarf made her look older than her youthful mid-forties.  She smoothed back the wet strands stuck to her forehead, smearing dirt on her skin. 

Dig the hole.  Fill with water.  Gentle settle in the roots.  Add some food.  Add fresh soil.  Begin again.

One plant at a time, she built out of nothing.  Early next spring, when it came time to till, she would fill the plot with water and encourage her children to take mud baths before the homemade compost was added.  She promised this more to herself than her children.

For now, she had already mixed the compost and began mixing it into the soil, breaking clumps of root into sand and setting rocks gently into an empty terra-cotta pot.  The belly of the earth was white ashes and she had to dig through this and replace the cinder with rich, black dirt.  Somewhere inside she knew that gardening was more about growing good soil than bearing fruit.  This was true of her life as well.

Weeks passed before she could finally run her hand over top the lavender, sprinkling the scent into the air.  The cracks in her hands now stung, deep and dark from dryness.  She took the soft earth into her hands and rubbed, polishing away dead cells.  Then she pinched Rosemary, Sweet Basil and Lemon Thyme off the plants and rubbed the herbs into her palms, creating a mulch balm of her own.

The leaves on the pumpkin plant resembled elephant ears and they divided her perennials from her vegetables.  Only one pumpkin sprouted to life this time.  After another year, the garden would almost maintain itself, growing into something more than she imagined at the start.  It would have its own life and plants would regrow on their own terms, in their own way.

The start of weeds and tiny grass blades poked along the edge and beckoned her attention. 

Each morning before her children woke, she sat with coffee and tended her garden.  This morning was no different.  A small basket at her feet filled with onions, garlic, tomatoes, cucumbers and radishes.  She only took from the herbs as needed for cooking, but usually brought a pinch of Stevia inside for her afternoon tea.

She squeezed her eyes and tasted the saltiness of her tears, unaware that she was crying.  Her skin stretched tight from a sun burn, her scalp was tender to the morning rays.  She heard her youngest wake, felt a foreign smile touch her lips and walked towards her home, towards her life.

                She left the door between the house and the garage open so she could listen for her sleeping children should anyone stir early.  Her glance stayed fixed over her shoulder and without looking at the bag, she placed the clothes within.  She needed only enough for her and her three boys, enough for a week.

                She was preparing the exodus, becoming “mission ready.”  Eyes wide and skin drawn taut, she hadn’t slept in weeks.  Her cell phone was stuffed under her left arm inside her bra so her husband wouldn’t take and dismantle it again.  Beneath her right breast, also tucked in her bra, was a small roll of cash.  Crushed in her front pockets of her jeans, which she had been sleeping in for days now, were her car keys, a pocket knife, her driver’s license and a credit card.  Her can of mace was deep in her purse.  At night, she feigned sleep, lying still, trying not to move before it was time.

                “Part the sea for me, God,” she had prayed.  She remembered to brush her teeth, but had forgotten to comb her hair.  This was indeed her dark time.

                He opened the blinds.  The light almost hurt, not her eyes, something deeper, beneath her skin.  She never saw the dust.

                Why keep darkness, she wondered, almost aloud.  Maybe it was out loud.  She turned to look over her shoulder as though spoken to.

                She was squinting and the effort sent a dull pain down her neck, though not the normal shockwave that transferred below her right ear and shot to the tips of her fingers.

                “There,” he said and stood a step back from the window.  “Your blinds do work in the up position after all.”

                She smiled, a little.

                “I wonder what it is that I don’t want to see.  What is it that I’m afraid to look at?” she said, wrapping the edge of her tee tightly around her pinky.

                “It might simply be your migraines.  You mentioned that light makes them worse.”

                That could be.  Light made the pain worse for her.  She dusted her jewelry box with the edge of her sleeve, shifting foot to foot.  It was the good box, but held costume jewelry.  Fakes.  Like her, the nice stuff was hidden away.

                Long after he left, her home and her life, she kept the blinds up, even at night.  Sometimes the moonlight felt stronger than the day.

This is a statement my two year old declared on our drive from the mountains.  He saw his first herd, but more importantly, he named them.  He has found his words.  He has found his voice.

“Me JuJu.”

“JuJu no sleep.”

“Mine.”

“Mommy.”

“I love you.”

“I cry for you.”

His words are his source of power.  He can now get what he needs and sometimes what he wants.

As a writer, the ability to name things is one of the most important methods learned.  An attempt to discover fresh descriptions of something familiar with the hope of evoking the same emotion in the reader that one feels when identifying with that object–that is writing!

I’ve avoided writing consistently for a year because of this.  While naming, painting the scene, describing the actions or inactions of a character, my internal struggles rise to the surface and trickle onto the page.  Frankly, I don’t want to look at my stuff.  Still.

We are taught this type of avoidance.  “Say it straight.”  “Don’t be so flowery in your descriptions.” 

Technology and academics take our written words and minimize them to short, spurt acronyms that look the same on everyone’s screen.  We lose our voice shortly after we uncover it.

The truth is, we were designed to write, to use our unique expressions of the world around us.  Words give us our sense of self, our sense of power.  They give us identity.

And words cut deeply – within our own self-talk and directly towards one another.

Words are healing.

Words are weapons.

Losing our voice, our ability to not only see the world through our perfect lens, but to be able to explain how we see it in a way that allows us to share, robs us of our creative nature.  This loss steals and damages pieces of us on a soul level.

It doesn’t matter what others think because they do not hold the desires of my heart in their minds. They only hold their old blueprints, judgments, opinions and value systems.

It doesn’t matter what others think because their ideas are based solely on their exposure. They have not endured my journey through my eyes, so they cannot truly understand the place I am emerging from.

It doesn’t matter what others think because they can only respond to life out of their own history, from their limited experiences. Though compassionate, not one of us can truly step into anothers’ footprint.

It doesn’t matter what others think because I must hold true to what I believe first. If I operate out of the need to please others or avoid conflict, I will lose sight of my path and surely let go of my purpose.

It doesn’t matter what others thhink because man’s thoughts are often not in alignment with God’s thoughts. We are frail humans, broken, undiscerning and off course. I must keep my focus on doing that which honors God. I must call into my movie only the situations and people who guide and help me do this.

Yet, in a sense, how others think can matter, but how they behave when they walk along side you matters even more.

Having a new baby gives me one great new opportunity.  The opportunity to say “No, I’m REALLY too busy right now,” and have others actually believe this.  As I’m saying NO to the extra committees, board positions, creative ideas, get-togethers, parties and side-bar commitments – and by saying NO, I’m also saying YES – utilizing this time to be my very best and offer my very best.

The most important step for me (and I’d love to hear from ALL women out there, not just those who have new babies) is to affirm my need for self-care.  I cannot be my best if I’m feeling my worst.  I cannot achieve inner contentment if I hate how I look and feel.  My plan has been simple and today I’ll share my first step with you:

GETTING BACK TO SELF CARE AFTER BABY – Step One:

Rest.  Decent sleep is probably the most overlooked fitness plan in America.  But good sleep helps our bodies (and minds) handle stress, burn fat, repair damaged cells (and after delivering a baby – there’s some repair that needs to take place) and think clear.  If you’re not getting adequate rest, look at ways you can begin to get better sleep.

My coaching question to you is HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN YOU’RE NOT GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP?  And how will you know when you are?  Please share your ideas here and with friends – and as sisters, we can help one another begin to operate at our best!

How Uncomfortable are You with Miracles?

     My belly button popped out last week.  No need to panic, at least not yet, it hasn’t detached itself.  But just over six months ago I was an “innie”.  Now I’m an “outie”.  See, I’m six and half months pregnant with our fourth boy.  Oh boy!

  My belly button did not protrude like this during my previous pregnancies.  This is a completely new condition and, to be honest, I’m curious, wondering exactly what could be going on inside of me that would cause this phenomenon.  

     Maybe this little guy is far more active in uterus than my previous children at this stage of development.

      Maybe…because I’m craving spicy, exotic foods, my belly button reacted as if feeling attached to a foreign entity.

      The thing is, though I’m comfortable with most of the changes going on during this phase in my life, this belly-button-thing threw me for a loop.

      For example, I was fine at the start of the pregnancy, when my booty grew faster than my waistline.

      Four months into this journey, I was OK while teaching a Yoga class though I could no longer balance in poses requiring just one leg.

       At five months pregnant, it was fine with me when attempting the Chattaranga (better known as a push up in Yoga), I no longer needed to bend my elbows because my belly already touched the ground.

      Last month I was stuck “in” the couch and my husband needed to push on the center of my back, helping me stand from the now-too-soft-cushions.  I simply laughed at myself.

      But when I awoke with my sweatshirt rubbing a part of my skin that has never been touched, I almost jumped out of bed.  It wasn’t just that this inside skin of my belly button was extra sensitive or that the friction from a shirt felt rough.  The sensation was new, different.  And because it was different, it felt frightening.

      This is often how we feel with the miraculous changes occurring in our lives.  These changes may be wonderful, like someone who typically allows you to do all the work suddenly offering a helping hand. 

     Frightening!

      Even the good, helpful changes alarm us as if they are touching some untouched area inside.

      In coaching, I see this quite often.  A client may have challenges receiving.  Receiving compliments, gifts or help.  I’ll work with someone who has finally carved out creative space for their dreams and then they panic.  These gifts feel like a new and awkward sensation, and that sensation, though a good thing, can scare us.

      We can even sabotage these wonderful changes, out of fear, pushing ourselves and our journey ten steps back. 

     How can we handle this from an EMPOWERING PERSEPCTIVE?

     Look for the miracles when changes occur in your life.  That miracle moment could show up in the shape of a new opportunity to learn patience, tolerance, or acceptance.  That miracle moment could be the door opening just a crack for your deepest desires, you know the ones, you have buried them and have almost forgotten they once existed.  So instead of sitting in discomfort of a new “sensation” in your life, slow down, breathe in, breathe out and seek the miracle unfolding before you.