Infinite Opulance*

Sometimes, it’s blurry.  Like when your contact lens isn’t situated just-so and the street signs are wonky and unreadable.  It feels unnerving until you can bring the world back into focus again.

Sometimes it’s like you’ve arrived unprompted on another planet  and everything is new and different and odd and doesn’t seem to make sense (I wonder if this is how newborns often feel). And yet you recognize that you’ve ARRIVED, which is pretty awesome in and of itself.

Then there’s those days that you swear the harmony is so thick you can actually see the notes lining up on the staff and they are full and round and smiling.

Some days I just want to let my weary eyes close.   Not die.  Just sleep.  Or fade away slowly, melting into the leather of the couch like when you pass out.  You know it’s coming but hell yeah – you aren’t even scared!

Some days I want to run.  Out the door.  Barefoot.  Away from IT all.    Mountaintops whizzing past, toes feeling sprigs of grass,  my breath huffing and yet steady as smoke climbing from a century-old chimney.

There are times I want to feel what it’s like to be the Runaway Bunny who comes home to the deep hug of His Mama Looking Like an Arms-Outstretched-Tree.

I want to crumple into Child’s pose and stretch back further and further into the cosmic milk of Camel pose.

Sometimes the day sends a little whisper of wisdom and there are blips and blinks of clarity.

Some nights I wish that I could have two days to be ALONE…to clean my house.   That’s when you know it’s real; this motherhood.   When all you want, all you really really really want is to be able to clean your house while whistling without children at your feet and breast.    When all you want to do is enjoy cleaning again instead of resenting it and trying to cram your stuff into holes and shelves and baskets and closets before that person knocks at your door.   When all you want is to be able to walk down your hall without it wafting of poop.

Those evenings come too.  The ones where I cuddle under blankets with all three kids and revel in cracking open the new library books and watching their eyebrows raise as adventures fly off the pages.  And we giggle.  And bake.  And the curious questions come and the answers are processed and accepted and questioned again.    When Indigo finally begins to write crude letters and Kaia illustrates and writes and staples her own original book and Lyric balances his core as he sits supported and grins at them jubilantly playing dollies.

A few nights ago, Jason had this brilliant idea.  There was wild – I mean WILD  – energy coursing through the veins of this home.   Whining and crying and macro-loud talking and he commanded graciously “MOMENT OF SILENCE!” in a deep voice.   And we held hands and had about 20 moments of silence and I swear to you…the likes of that has never happened in our house.   I heard the quiet clacking of the unbalanced fan.   The electricity of the wine cooler.   The sound that shoulder muscles make when they release again into your back.    We stared at each other, with open silent mouths, and then just collapsed into laughter.

You know this gig.  I ramble about it often.    Parenthood is whacked.

Motherhood can suck.

A package of Mint Oreos is demolished, falling into each other dominoes, in less than 24 hours.  Mostly by me.   I can’t help but almost get sick over what my insides look like with Oreo goop mushed up in there.

I step over a soap pond that Indigo squirted onto the floor.  I step on Legos.  I step around dirty underwear.  I step through cat puke.   I step under my Own Self when I yell, begging my Own Self to STOP.

Our laundry pile has been relegated to the inside of our christmas tree box because we can’t seem to locate laundry baskets.

Smack dab in the middle of the suckedness there is all-encompassing radiance.  There is brilliance that dances forth from your heart.  There is simplicity that soars beyond your cells.

Motherhood is like this scene from the movie “Contact”.  And that radiance and brilliance is like the scene at  minute 4:25.

——————————–

“I decree my highest good always operating in this now.”

I have adopted it is my own personal mantra.  I say it in the shower.  I whisper it while driving over speed bumps.  I repeat it while washing dishes and watching my daughters yank each other’s hair.   I dream it at night, over and over.  I say it first thing in the morning, as my breath begins to churn and I feel it’s heat.

Mostly, I close my eyes and put it on repeat in The Moment.   All those moments.

“I decree my HIGHEST good always operating in this now.”. Yes.  not just Good with a capital G.  That’s a lot of pressure.   But the highest of my good that I can muster.    Sometimes my highest is allowing them nasty gummy fruit snacks at ten o’clock at night.   Other times my highest good is saying “Let’s reschedule” to my appointment or playdate or girls night.

“I decree my highest good always operating in THIS now.” Thank you for reminding me to concentrate on THIS now and not THAT now (past or future).   This part of the mantra has really softened up my heart and slowed my anxiety to a horse-and-carriage speed.    I like only fretting or contemplating THIS now.  The one in which my aching back is pressed against an IKEA pillow in the leather chair I used to nurse Kaia in, and I can see my girls wrapped up in fleece blankets asleep, and hear Indigo and the dog snoring, and the colored lights of the Christmas tree glow like distant rainbow planets, and I feel the stress still huddling in my shoulders, and Lyric sleeps with a binky in his mouth atop our bed, and my fingers tap tap tap a code called Words into a screen of LCD that will eventually flow into the dark matter of the Internet.

I do not care that his name is Astarius Miraculii and that he says it exactly how you imagine he would.   With pomp.   I do not care that he is often wearing garb that look like costumes from Star Trek or Lion King or The Matrix.     I do not care that it seems all woo-woo and embellished and you swear he’s going to sell you snake-oil.

(I do care that my best friend MB met him years ago in Phoenix by coincidence and wrote about it here.   Then when I told her about the mantra she researched it and found that VOILA – HE wrote it.)

Because Dude rocks.   He is badass.  His words resound like a thousand trumpets at dawn, like the new breaths of a thousand babies being born into peace, like the moan of love and lust, and the explosion of the world as we know it.

I heard it for the first time – stumbled upon it by accident – and was struck silent.  My heart beat one beat slower than normal as I listened.  Four times I listened and Indigo fell asleep next to me as the chanting both expanded and contracted my cells in That Now.

If I had a religion it would be this.

This and Birth.

——————————–

“I am infinite opulance….my life is a continuous stream of miracles”.

*his beautiful words.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Infinite Opulance*

  1. beautiful you. i continue to be amazed and awed at your sheer honesty. loving every single tap tap tap.
    …and so i am sharing this with you. because of the miracles and marvels.

    Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do
    we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and
    that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what
    they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You
    …are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there
    has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever
    fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a
    Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you
    are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is,
    like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world
    worthy of its children.”

    ~Pablo Picasso (Spanish Artist and Painter. 1881-1973)

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