I was out with my 2 year old son the other day at Hogsback Falls when I happened upon a sweet moment which I shared with a friend via text:
“A neat realization. Out at Hogsback. I caught him blowing on one of those white dandelions. I never taught him that. Maybe his dad did. The imagining of that touches me. That he gets to be exposed to new and different repertoires than I can offer. That I get to be surprised by his growing repertoire”
As background I’ve been a single mom pretty much attached at the hip to my son since he was 6 months old when I separated from his dad under rather fugly circumstances. Quite honestly it’s the first time I can remember that I’d ever observed him doing something outside the realm of what I’ve exposed him to.
On further contemplation of this moment at Hogsback, I recall the significance of blowing on this white spherical weed. How I engaged in this ritual as a young child and made a wish. Wishes I no longer remember. Yet in *this* moment I am filled both wishes and eager anticipation for the unfolding of my dear son’s life. I wish for him to transcend the bounds of my experience and limitations of what I can show him in this lifetime. That he evolve to be bigger and better than I could ever be because of the inspiration shown to him by his dad. Because of the inspiration offered to him by the many others that he will cross paths with. I wish that the echoes of those experiences will serve him and offer him a growing and expansive repertoire to choose from. A repertoire that he can see with, understand with, play with, grow with, do anything with, or do nothing with.
And. What a relief! I don’t have to this alone. I can relax some.
Divorce papers. Served. What I thought was mine turns out really isn’t. Who I thought I was, dissipated that one night last year after dinner. Caesar salad, roasted chicken, and a 6 month old baby fast asleep upstairs. A belly and life that felt most certainly full to me. Then he walked out after dinner. Biked away with a duffel bag into the night, and left me with no thing. I wake up this morning warm in my bed with no thing. And I am free and clear. Wildly rich with the potency of all things that is born of no thing. I know this deep in my wise old bones. And yet in the knowing of this, I also wake up terrified. Really really terrified. Referencing to no thing ‘feels’ terrifying after spending a life referencing my life to this thing, that thing and the other thing. I am terrified yet I am content. I empty yet I am full. I am no thing and I am everything all at once.
Dear universe. I am a lucky woman. I know this. With deep gratitude for everything. For the everything that finds me on any given day.
Dear friends. I commit to you now. To this life of no thing. To the practice of emptying. Giving it all away. So that I may wake up free and clear everyday to fall in in love with you over and over and over again with fresh eyes, and generosity. This part is important so please stand as witness for me dear friends: I stake my life and calling on the simplicity of offering my empty hands to you for holding onto. Hands held out plain to serve and to welcome and reach out for the same. I stake my life and calling on the simplicity of holding out my empty arms to you in an embrace. In the potential that lies in the sanctuary of truly being held and seen.
I can feel the coolness of the dirt under *these* feet and between *these* toes and the resiliency in *these* bones. The suppleness in *this* spine and the softness in *this* gaze and the gentleness in the rise and fall of *this* breathe. All of which form the foundation to extend *these* hands and *these* arms to you. In the no thing I offer you everything. Over and over and over again.
Waking up in the Dam in a cosy corner in De Pipe (dutch for “the pipe”). Hosted by a lovely Aussie bearing delicious food and affectionately referring to me as his “mate” and “sweetheart.” Running along side the contours and curves of the river Amstel this morning. My mind meandering and wondering …
Will I live aboard a boat? In a house low to the ground, or high above, will I be found? Will I live in Amsterdam, Ottawa, Barcelona or far off lands? Will I marry for love, will I be on my own? Will I just jump from lover to lover, the story is yet to be shown. Will my life be neat and in time, like poetry and rhyme? Or messy and ugly and never in time? What I know for sure is this view that I see, what I feel in my feet, what I sense that is me. Are those ashes on my feet, from the burning of past? Are those wings on my arms, am I phoenixing at last?
It matters little to me what the future can see. I want as much now as this moment allows. So bring it on universe, I’m soft yet alert, with strength in these bones, and rooted in dirt. Listening dearly with hands held out plain. To serve and to welcome and reach out for the same.
What matters the most is the space where I stand. The landscape may sway but it’s in this body I land. Come to me river, come to me sand, come to me princes and frogs and far off lands. I run and smile as my feet hit the ground. My life is my practice. Reality. Found.