they run around like pirates “arg!”, “ahoy!”, “treasure!” paper hats and eye patches askew, winking and squinting, play fighting while together mapping treasure. how come some children are only ever captured by imagination, while others are captured by the realest of terrors? oh that perils were only always minor setbacks, on a crayon crinkled map, playfully overcome - instead of deadly serious, written in crimson… (at the store, at school, at a parade… anywhere, everywhere) go through the motions of playing – smiling, laughing, creating, charting courses throughout the seven seas, joining little pitter patter feet, making joyful exclamations. inwardly navigate dark stormy waters - the heartache, the fear, the questions, the rage… the heaviness. how much longer? how long until all of our children are safe? how long until all can go out, to learn and play and work and imagine… to live? how long until all can come home to loving arms and be tucked in to cozy beds to rest? how long until all can then awaken and do it all again today, and tomorrow? //in response to the uniquely american problem of gun violence and mass shootings (buffalo, uvalde, highland park… 2022)//
Author: Chel
threshold
welcome to the world, bright and shining little one - in your coming, you've opened a profound window to my soul. holding you in my arms, i cross the threshold into the mysterious unknown, forever changed.
welcome
welcome to the world, bright and shining little one, threshold to my soul.
Walls
I just feel so much. I say, with a tear-squeaky voice. I know. You say, holding space. You’re not alone. My carefully constructed walls continue to crumble. Have courage, my vulnerable, beating heart. I’m flooded with the joy, and terror, of love.
of joy, of sorrow: human
oh, what it is to be human:
beautiful, eternal souls -
resilient, brave, loving.
housed in finite bodies -
breakable, fearful, vulnerable.
forever, and ephemeral -
paradox.
what joy we hold,
what sorrow.
how can our hearts carry
this lovely, terrible tangle -
of love, and loneliness;
closeness, and distance;
fullness, and loss;
laughter, and tears;
courage, and terror;
delight, and disgust;
tenderness, and anger;
healing, and trauma;
hope, and grief -
of life, and death?
we are living.
we are dying.
how can we choose
to be, in this space between?
we laugh, and weep;
worry, and rest;
dance, and slump;
fight, and reconcile;
despair, and rejoice;
help, and hurt;
withdraw, and speak;
destroy, and create;
learn, and forget;
hide, and seek;
work, and play;
sleep, and awaken;
move, and pray.
we are alone,
we are together;
we are devastated,
we are redeemed;
we deny,
we accept;
we hold tight,
we let go.
oh, what it is to be human!
we see shimmers of new life,
alongside dark shadows of death.
how shall we walk, and stumble,
on this side of earth?
love, recklessly -
hearts open
to intense sorrow,
to breathtaking joy.
Pails, Tails
Fuzzy costumes
Lion, cow
Halloween, finally
Starting now
Pitter patter
Little feet
Running, jumping
“Trick-or-Treat!”
Squishy fingers
Filling pails
Sticky faces
Trailing tails
Looking, looking
Eyes wide
Here, there
“Spookies” glide
Skeletons, pumpkins
Spiders, bats
“Oh-no-run-away!”
Scary, that!
Laughing, crying
Fun, frights
Overall filled
With delights
Unwrapping candy
Crinkle, crunch
Hooray! Hooray!
Time to munch
Full day,
"Monster Mash"
Now, slowly…
Candy crash
A Moment of Joy Together
This weekend—on the first lovely, warmish, and sunny weekend day that we’ve had in what feels like ages—we went on a little walk as a family of four around our neighborhood, to the river, and through the local downtown. We were all delighted and a bit amazed to be out after weeks of subfreezing temperatures, and to simply enjoy the sun and fresh air on our skin as we wandered about on clear sidewalks and noticed signs of new spring life.
This was my toddler’s first opportunity to actually walk on the sidewalk (!!!), as he learned to walk this past fall just as the weather started to turn. Soon snow and boots and puffy jackets made it too challenging for him to be able to get about outside apart from standing uncertainly in the snow—looking like a stuck marshmallow in his snowsuit!—and being carried and riding on the sled as we pull him around the backyard. Some of these outdoor activities seemed to be at least a bit fun for him, but also left him without the opportunity to enjoy moving about on his own two little feet.
So, getting to take his own steps by the river, following his big brother, seemed to amaze my toddler’s little heart. As he held tightly to my hand, he let out peals of delighted laughter and flashed bright smiles, trying to keep up with his older brother who was bravely and excitedly running ahead to lead the way.
Later, after a bit of time in the stroller and being carried, I set my toddler back down on the sidewalk again nearer to our home. I held one hand, and his big brother held his other hand, while Daddy pushed the stroller along behind us. Whenever his big brother let go of his hand to go check something out, my toddler reached out his hand towards his big brother, calling “moh, moh!” (for “more”).
And so we all walked along for a few minutes, enjoying being in one another’s presence, alive together in the same moment experiencing the same simple joys in the same lovely sunshine. It was one of those precious, rare, fleeting moments, where I was flooded with such a sense of pure joy and contentment.
It was a simple moment, and yet a profound one too, and my heart swelled with love for those I hold dear. This small moment is probably one of my favorite times I’ve gotten to share with my little family. And it was lovely.
(Of course this moment did not last forever. Just a few minutes later one of the boys was throwing a tantrum. And then we were faced with the awful, wonderful chaos of getting everyone herded back up the steps to our home and inside, taking shoes and gloves and coats and scarves and hats off. Hands needed to be washed, snacks and diapers and potty breaks and attempted naps needed to be faced. And on and on—all the little normal and hectic and ceaseless moments of everyday life.)
And yet that sweet moment as our little family of four on our walk was very precious, and was such a gift, reminding me of the deep joy that sometimes comes unexpectedly and unforced, in little moments of togetherness in life. And I felt so grateful.
I know I can’t hold tightly to my sons’ hands forever, just as I can’t hold on to time and freeze moments eternally. And I suppose I wouldn’t truly want to, as a part of the beauty and heartbreak of life is growth, change, movement. But I can soak up these moments of love and joy and presence as they come, and I can hold them in my heart.
Yet Another Goodbye
I think I nursed my baby for the final time last night, as tonight I ended up skipping our nightly nursing and instead just sang to him and gave him a cup of milk. While I didn’t plan it in advance, I’ve known this day was likely coming sooner rather than later, as my baby is 16 months now and in recent days has been barely nursing before I tuck him into bed.
For the last month or two, I’ve stopped bringing my phone with me when I rock and nurse him, so that instead of being distracted by scrolling (ever more disheartening) news stories, I can just be mindful of him. I’m thankful for this, for these extra moments of singing to him and noticing the warm weight of him in my arms, the shape of his cheeks, the sound of his breathing and swallowing, the smell of his freshly shampoo-ed hair, what it feels like squeeze his warm, pajammied squishiness close.
But these last couple of days he has hardly nursed at all when I rock him, although he still has wanted to snuggle and sing bedtime lullabies with me. And tonight it just felt right to forego nursing altogether, even though a part of me didn’t want to believe the time to say goodbye had truly come. I suppose this is yet another lesson in the complexity of holding multiple experiences, of how even something that is good and right can also feel sad and hard.
I’ve been putting off ending nursing with him in a way that I didn’t with my first. I’m not sure exactly why. I think a part of it may be because this time I don’t know if I will ever nurse again. Will I have another baby, or will my second also be my last? Right now I don’t have an answer; I really don’t know. And yet from this space of not knowing I still need to live, to love.
I think another part of my reticence also has to do with not wanting to say goodbye to yet another precious thing, after a year of what has felt like loss after loss and sorrow upon sorrow—globally, nationally, and personally (even though I realize I’ve lost far less than many). All of these layers of grief make one more loss—even a loss that is a healthy and even joyful part of my baby growing into toddlerhood—feel sad.
Losing nursing reminds me of other losses, of things that are gone and can never be again. And it goes against my desire to freeze time and hold everything close and familiar, as it is, forever. I realize, intellectually, that a part of life is that it is always changing, growing, shifting—with loss and joy intermingled. But my heart still feels sad for now.
I suppose sadness and loss are fitting reflections and feelings to be experiencing during this first week of lent, a time when we are called to remember and honor and enter into suffering (Jesus’, others’, our own). I want to be brave enough to make space for grief, even while holding on to the hope of life—life offered in the full by Jesus, but also in the little everyday experiences such as how my boys grow and play and laugh and cry, fiercely feeling and present even amidst the sorrows of the world.
Winter Sunlight
Winter sunlight
shimmers, weak,
yet offers
faint hope,
gentle warmth.
Inspiring the landscape,
deathly cold,
to reveal
beauty, persisting
amidst the ice.
Promising
that cold will not
last eternal,
that we will not
always be frozen.
Life
even now,
endures,
and is,
dear.
Memories, Weaving
Memories
of yesterdays
weave through
my todays,
casting bittersweet shadows
of grief
and of joy.
Reminders
of what has been lost,
of what remains,
of what has been
gained.
Absence
amplifying
the dearness
of what is;
haunting
with reminders
of fragility.
A gaping hole –
what will fill?
Life
but a breathe -
in, and out;
ordinary, and precious;
heartbreaking, and beautiful;
with beginning,
and end.