two | november writes :: be present

part one

And all these things, all the ways that tie up my life and entwine me to those boys of mine, all of these things bring with them a weight of being. this weight I keep close like a stone in my pocket, holding my being close to the hearth, smoothed down between my calloused fingers, keeping me here in the waking and the walking.

part two

on being present. 

As a mama, its hard to not drift, your head in the clouds dreaming of restful nights. It is four in the morning. I am awake too early; too early to rise and too early to fall back asleep. I take deep breaths. Our cat lies close by, purring deeply, kneading the covers near my bare skin. There is a comfortable discomfort in this. Her purring and kneading, and all the while, at 4am, I want to escape the thoughts that crowd my mind: Will my middle learn how to read? Will my oldest fair well in school? Do they know I love them with all my might? I think of Maurice Sendak, and of Max, and his mother, and how the Wild Things on the island tell him, "we'll eat you up we love you so!" and I think of Max, how he said, "No!" And I think of my boys, and all things that I love about them and the small stone that sits at the base of my being that weighs me down. I think, "Am I the dark wild thing that loves them so, or am I the place where someone loves them best of all?" I want to be the light, the place where they feel safe, but I know I am also fierce and that maybe somedays they want to be fierce and wild with me, and somedays they want their dinner waiting for them, on the their bedside table, still hot. I think of all of these thoughts that keep me awake at 4am. Forcing me to be present with who I am and who I will no longer be. I think on being present, right here, right now, just for the moment.

part three

I am present. There is nothing so mundane, and joyful, and painful as being present. I was present during the birth of the boys, the way each one was born so different from the next. I was present when they wailed in the night, afraid and cold, away from the arms they know best. I was present when they stubbed their toes, and when they made their first friends; when they tell stories and first sing songs. I have been and am so VERY present.
                      And yet not.
I feel the weight of that stone in my pocket, rubbed smooth between my calloused fingers and I know that I have not always chosen to be present in the way I always need to be. So I close my eyes. It is 4:15 in the morning. My cat purrs and purrs. She climbs onto my side, kneading into my skin and my clothes. Her purr and the sharp nettled sting of her claws lulls me back to sleep. 

                                       for now anyway. for the present moment that is.

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linking up with amanda and write alm. excuse the rambling.