Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Postpartum Something

It's one of those things that I can't make up my mind about.  Part of me wants to talk about it, and part of me doesn't.  And part of me shrugs and admits that I wouldn't know what to say even if I did start talking about it.

I don't even know exactly what it was, exactly, that hit me after Hazel was born, and the fog that I lived in that year.  I have wondered if it was postpartum depression, and I have wondered if that is why it is hard for me to talk about it.

I still have trouble finding words to describe my experience, because I don't know any words heavy enough to convey how it felt in my head.  This, written a few weeks ago, is as close as I have been able to come.

we dance
we are drowning
in the flames,
burning in the waves

yet the sweet,
sweet agony
it is seductive,
the sounds of
a pain so
caught up in

a mask of
cocoa mist
obscured by
moss and blood
and still we dance

our eyes closed
so we don't
see the illusion

dreams that would
shatter reality

and force us
to breathe in
clean air

my reflection
on a blade
the smiling
full of
teeth and tears

You watch
above it all
troubled and confused
conflicted and tormented

come on in
join the dance
it is a feeling
not a memory
it is a moment
not a history

we beckon
you obey
held in thrall
just like us
a calling card
caught in the
web, lost in the
maze, trapped only
in your head.

So I don't know what last year was, the way I felt and why, it was an experience like nothing I have ever been through before, and definitely hope to never go through again.

I guess, if you've been feeling lost and confused to, let's talk? Maybe together we can find words.


Thursday, May 21, 2015

Some Thoughts I Jotted Down a Few Weeks Ago

one hundred
all over the floor
little feet stepping
each time breaking
each flake into
a hundred new flakes.

I sigh
I bend down
and I begin
picking up each one
by hand.

It would be easier
of course
of course
of course
to use a vacuum or even the broom
of course
I don’t think of that
until the job is done
of course.

but the job is never done
and there are
puzzles and books
and papers and crayons
and dolls and trucks and
bits and pieces of a life
in the middle of living.

if archaeologists dug our
house out of the rubble
of time
frozen exactly as it is now
they would know
just how we lived
and what we wore
and what we ate
but they would not hear
your laughter,
your little voices calling,
your feet padding down the hall
en route to new adventures.

they would not see
that spark in your eye
of creativity as you make a paper towel roll into a telescope
of discovery as you learn you can hop on one foot
of understanding as you read your favorite book on your own for the first time.

They would not see it and
yet it is priceless to me
more precious than any
neanderthal man
dinosaur bone
pharoahs tomb.

and even as I clean it all up
this mess, your mess, my mess, our mess,
the chaos of our lives
as we live them
is priceless and precious to me.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Bent Not Broken

I left all of this behind for a weekend to go to Charleston, South Carolina to have some therapy and fun with some of my very all time, top of the list, holding nothing back because I know they love me, friends.

I got on a plane and I flew across the country and spent the next few days just basking in the glory of beautiful places, good food, the silence in conversation that is only possible when there are no children around, and the people.  Yes, these people.

The kinds of people who will do yoga on the beach with you, and just roll with it.  The kinds of people who will do crazy jumps, and wild dances, all on a public beach all while filming everything, just in case we wanted the footage someday.  This picture makes us look like any of the other tourists who were out there on that cloudy, windy day, but it doesn't show the wild antics that would follow immediately after.  It's no wonder that even in our 30s people kept thinking we were college kids on spring break.

All while visiting the kind of place that will have your name scratched into the cement of the sidewalk, like a magical message from the universe.

And as we talked, and ate, and jumped, and danced, and yoga-ed, and walked and explored and laughed and laughed and sometimes cried our way through that weekend, we also healed each other.  Or, more accurately I should say, they began to help heal me, and I hope that in our talks we all found a little bit of healing for the aches and hurts we had accumulated in life.

As I sat on the airplane flying home, I wrote down these thoughts.
"I had been so focused on all the ways I felt broken over the past year that it became easy to forget that other people struggle in ways I know nothing about, pain I have been completely spared.  As we talked over the weekend, laughing and sharing and crying, I felt healing as they helped me remember that we are all a little bit bent, but none of us are truly broken.  I am not alone - and my struggles aren't even the hardest, scariest ones out there."

And then, luckily, amazingly blessed girl that I am, I got to come home to this:

And some attempts at yoga in my own living room.  Not much like the beaches in South Carolina, with the soothing waves as background noise, but there is something pleasant about the every day background noise of my regular life, too.

And seriously, who is supposed to be in charge of cleaning up all that mess?  Oh, is it time to adult again?