seven quick(ish) takes: life lately

Ooooh, I've missed this space! But maybe I needed to miss it to feel energized about writing here again? Maybe? I don't know. Still lots of not knowing on my end. Some things may never change. Other things, however, continue to change way too fast, namely...

1. My boys! Two whole kiddos that I somehow have the great blessing of caring for each day. Toby will be one in November, and Caleb will be three. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?!?

2. I started homeschooling Caleb a few weeks ago, if you can call it that. Basically, on Monday and Wednesday mornings we do projects and explore together while Toby naps, and on Fridays we have field trips. Tuesdays the boys go to a multi-age music class at Old Town (which they LOVE), and on Thursdays my dad watches them so that I can get some work done & have a break. So far it's a beautiful system. Just enough structure to keep things sane yet flexible.

3. Speaking of structure, Caleb has also started doing a few chores, and it feels like a glorious glimpse of what's to come. So far his main job is to feed the cats, which he can do completely independently. He also puts his dishes in the sink and wipes his spot at the table after meals, helps dust the furniture and baseboards, and waters the garden. All of which take a lot longer than if I were to do it myself, but hey, teach a man to fish and all that. I'm already waiting in joyful hope for the day he is able to do his own laundry.

{washing his own hands}

4. I started running again, and I'm in love. Last week my "long run" was four miles, which may not seem like much, but it's the farthest I've ever run in my life. Pretty dang proud of myself. On Sunday I'm upping it to five, and the following weekend I'll run my first 5K in two years!

{view from one of my runs earlier this summer}

 {on a hike, not a run, but uh... it's still active?}

5. I'm also getting into modern cross-stitch. Who knew? I love that it's simple and repetitive enough to keep my mind calm & my hands busy without requiring complete focus (meaning: I can listen to a podcast or marathon Gilmore Girls in the background without losing my concentration). My stitches ain't perfect, and that's OK. Perfect isn't the point.

6. A few weeks ago I realized that, in order to make all of the above possible, I really needed to get some quality sleep. I've decided this in the past, but it never stuck. Until! I kicked my phone out the bedroom and bought a simple alarm clock. All it does is tell time and sound an alarm. You flip it over to turn it on or off, and it's been a total game-changer. Now I switch my phone to airplane mode after we put the boys to sleep (around 8), unwind with a show/project/book, get myself ready for bed, and am out by 10 most nights. Makes the mornings (and morning runs) a LOT easier to handle!

7. And now for the final, totally random take: Three Fictional Characters to Describe Me. This "game" has been floating around Facebook, and I couldn't help myself. Except I chose four, because Matilda and Anne are tied ;)

{the top two: YES. the bottom two: kind-of-almost-depends-on-the-day}

Linking up over here, because why not? CHEERS to the weekend, and to getting back in the good ol' fashioned blogging swing of things.

to & from & me & you (toby)

In the midst of some pretty terrible tragedies, when suffering and fear took hold of the global stage once again, you arrived.

I am thrown for a second time by the magnitude of it all, this love made tangible. Is there anything more powerful than this?

Tobias Harold Joseph Kiger, born Sunday, November 15, at 2:40 AM

You kept us on our toes for over a week, but when it was finally time, you came fast and furious. Zero to 60 (or six to 10, if we're talking centimeters) in under two hours. Fifteen minutes of pushing, followed by what the midwife called a "textbook rotation," and then, somewhere in the space of my relief and disbelief: You. Tiny and perfect and dark haired and wailing. We'd waited 41 solid weeks, and yet it still felt so sudden. You cried and cried and kept right on crying. I guess you got it out of your system right then, though, because you've hardly made a peep since.

I'll admit, I was scared this time around. And it hurt. It hurt so much more than with Caleb, probably due to the quick progression. (As our midwife also said, "Faster doesn't necessarily mean easier.") I kept looking for an out, trying to find the off switch. It took everything I had to dig deep and keep faith during the brief moments of in-between. Yet somehow, we made it. You're here, I survived; there was no out to take. And despite what I may have claimed at the time, I'd do it again. Of course I would, and hopefully, eventually, I will. The ability to share my body with another human being, to be "home" for new life, is an honor and a gift.

I know so many people are walking around battered and weary right now. It feels counterintuitive and, frankly, a little bit subversive to look at the hurting world and choose to participate in this act of creation. To joyfully welcome new life in the face of pain and suffering. To choose hope and unabashed, full-throttle love. The newborn bubble offers one powerful forcefield. I look at you sleeping peacefully in my arms as your big brother gives you gentle, giddy kisses, and I think: This is it. This is all there is. At the same time, I am as aware as ever of our immense privilege.

We've been waiting for you, sweet Toby. May you always know how very loved and chosen you are. Or maybe it's you who chose us. Either way, I'm so very glad you're here, and so completely grateful.

There is nothing better than this.

nothing i asked for, more than i wanted

These thoughts have been percolating in my head for months now, but I've been too nervous to put them out there. The message feels pretty counter-cultural, though that could just be me, renegotiating what I thought I knew. My words aren't perfect (they never are), and they didn't come easily. As always, I'm still figuring it out, and this is what I've found true, for now.

Recently I started reading Birth Matters by Ina May Gaskin, and she touches so fiercely and deeply on what I'm trying to comprehend and convey. So at the very least, I know I'm not alone. (It also doesn't hurt that Ani DiFranco, my teenage idol, wrote the book's intro.)

Deep breath. Onward.

When I was around four years old, I put together an elaborate Christmas wish list for Santa. I don't remember specifics (though the hard copy may very well be lurking in a box somewhere in my parents' basement), but I do know I didn't receive a single thing on it. "Santa" had already obtained all our presents that year, and none of them matched up with what my preschool heart desired.

Turns out, it didn't matter. On Christmas morning I woke up to a sea of beautiful dress up clothes surrounding the fireplace. They were "nothing I asked for, and everything I wanted!" 

Direct quote right there, via my mom's retelling: "I got nothing I asked for, and everything I wanted!" 

Motherhood, for me, has been a lot like that. Minus the fancy outfits.

I had no idea I could be so deeply satisfied as a wife and mom, that it was possible to find a soul-level calling in motherhood. 

I still feel like I'm not supposed to admit this. I'm not supposed to say that the thing that has taught me most about what it means to be a woman has been becoming a mom. Or that the most empowering experience I've ever had was giving birth, and I'm actually looking forward to doing it again.

I've never been very athletic or physically-inclined. My brand of feminism growing up mostly had to do with wanting to be seen and appreciated for my mind, whereas my body was best ignored entirely. Sure, I picked myself apart with the best of them (feet too big, boobs too big, thighs too big, etc.), but damn anyone else who dared objectify me. Down with the man!

In labor and delivery, though, I finally understood what I was made for, made to do and to be. For the first time, I saw my body as an incredible, powerful gift. My body was capable of successfully growing, birthing, and feeding a brand new human being, and one that I instantly loved like none other. 

Predictably, this threw my sense of self into flux. Not because I was suddenly a mom--that part actually felt unbelievably natural; but because it was utterly counterintuitive to consider my body sacred when I'd lived my whole life half-heartedly trying to accept that I had a body at all.   

It's a lesson I'm still learning: That my body and mind must work in tandem, and neither is better or more necessary than the other in this all-too-human experience. In this way, my feminism is much more rooted in an understanding of the feminine--what it means to be female, body, mind, and soul. The experience of motherhood, of mothering, is an innate part of that.

On a larger scale, I believe our society is craving a similar kind of balance. Pursuing "equality" within a patriarchal structure, where we essentially advocate for women to be treated more like men, does nothing to address or elevate the inherent gifts we bring to the table simply by being female. 

As Edith Stein said, "The world doesn't need what women have, it needs what women are."

I wholeheartedly agree.

songs i never thought i'd like & things i never thought i'd do

Caleb and I have started listening to this song every morning after breakfast. It's not my usual jam, but Cabey nuzzles right into my shoulder and we dance around and it. is. perfect. 

I never knew how much I wanted to be a mom until I became one. It is the very best unexpected gift I've ever been given.

In college, yoga was my saving grace. Escaping the chatter in my mind, shedding my ego-based identity, even if only for a few minutes -- it changed me. It was the closest to a cure for my depression I'd ever come across. Giving that up when I became pregnant was so hard, but between my physical state, our tight budget, and time constraints, it just wasn't as accessible. So, after years of being OK, depression came roaring back in full-force shortly after Caleb was born.

I have never been more suicidal than I was last year. I daydreamed about death regularly, and I tested out what it would be like to asphyxiate myself.

In the back of my head, though, was that still small voice I'd become so accustomed to hearing during years of yoga: This is not who you are. It will be OK. The pain will pass.

Depressed, suicidal behavior is kind of like being drunk: In the back of your mind you know you're about to do something stupid, but you can't seem to stop yourself. You are at your own mercy. The postpartum chemicals raging in my brain took hold, and it required everything I had to cling to the whispered truths of that Still Small Voice.

When depression reared it's head again a few months ago, I took more immediate action, and I found exactly the counselor I needed to help me begin reclaiming my place in the light. 
I'm hesitant to say "it's over," but I've come so stinking far in the past few months. I know how to recognize when the dominoes are starting to topple (my number one sign is not showering). I've started meal planning and created a weekly chore chart for myself. When my energy levels are high, I take steps that will help "depressed Emy" down the road -- I'll make a freezer meal or two and tackle the more labor intensive cleaning projects. Washing out the bathtub is a big one: While a shower feels dang near impossible when I'm in the downward spiral, a hot bath is one of the few things that helps relax my hurting body and mind.

I've come to realize that true marriage and motherhood are Yoga in the School of Life. They are all about surrendering the "self" in the name of Love! In Catholicism we speak of sacrificial love -- well, what exactly are you "sacrificing" but your own selfishness and ego? My EVERYDAY EXISTENCE is a yoga practice. I can take all the tidbits I learned in that incredible hot room and apply them over and over and over again right where I am.

"Live to the point of tears."

This quote, by Albert Camus, is on a magnet I've had since high school. I used to think it was about absorbing the world around you, really being "in" it, and it spoke to my overly-sensitive self. Now I see it differently though. The breathtaking beauty of surrender to a life I never thought I wanted brings me to my knees and cracks me wide open. It is an aching, overwhelming, joyous point-of-tears I never knew existed before.

I am not the same person I was before I became a mother, and you know what? Thank God. 

This is so much better.

Images top to bottom: 1 | 2 | 3

january bits + pieces

It's been sort of slow going around here. I feel like I have SO MUCH to write about, but I can't quite wrap my brain around all-the-everything yet. Eventually. 

In the meantime, a glimpse of the everyday this & that of our 2015 so far....

We rang in the new year in our PJs...

...while eating pizza. It was the best! Definitely the start of a new tradition.

Cabey learned to drive! ;) 

Cars are definitely high on his list of favorite things.

He also carts his "duggahs" (doggies) everywhere these days and loves to love on them.

Andy: "When does he start his boy band career?"

I celebrated the return of Downton Abbey with some bubbly (but haven't had a drink since--and I feel so much better! Not exactly super well-rested, mind, as I still have to work on getting to bed at a decent time. But better.).

 

Caleb is suddenly OBSESSED with cleaning supplies.

I think they even surpass his love of cars and dogs these days.

I mean, really.

But I guess he comes by it honestly :)

(I think I'm like one of those cool moms or something?!?!) (Or something.)

Ball pit heaven at the local community center.

Hot tea & a hot bath is good for the soul.

Guard cats.

Saying our bedtime prayers. Rosaries are delicious.

"You are covered in stars."

Late night meditation on Our Lady of Guadelupe, Patroness of the Unborn. 

Excited to begin a small group series for young moms on the Ten Virtues of Mary at a local parish, inspired in part by these gals.

So there you have it. I'm getting my balance back, and it is oh-so-good.

ordinary abundance

"There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less."

G.K. Chesterton

. . .

I've been sitting on a version of this post for almost a week now, waiting for the words to come more easily and eloquently. Maybe I'm still feeling the holiday fog, but I'm tired of waiting. This is so close to my heart right now, and I just need to get something down and out into the world, however imperfectly expressed.

. . .

I love Christmas. I really do. I used to take more joy in the preparation than the actual celebration, but slowing things down this year and honoring Advent as a time of reflection and simplicity helped make both more manageable and merry. Which isn't to say there isn't plenty of room for improvement, but we're taking it one year at a time.

All that said, I find myself so hungry for Ordinary Time. Maybe it's that I'm getting older, or perhaps it's just this season of life, but I long for routine, simplicity, and everyday grace. For the unexpected beauty of "normal," the bounty beneath the surface, just waiting to be noticed. In this way, Advent and Christmas mirror the cycle of our entire lives. 

Our tree was beautiful this year (it still is, actually, as we're keeping it up until Epiphany). We never got around to hanging more than a handful of ornaments, mostly those that belong to Caleb or have been gifts to Andy and me during our marriage. Still, I love having those little lights on in the evenings, and I love watching Caleb wave hello to the tree when he wakes up in the morning. It was wonderful to see gifts wrapped and ready piled underneath, too, tokens of love given and received. I generally enjoy buying presents. We don't go overboard, but we do try to carefully consider each person on our list. I offer up prayers and goodwill as I wrap everything, hoping to somehow imbue the items with the spirit of care in which they were chosen.

But -- in the midst of wrapping gifts and baking counters full of cookies (I managed four kinds this year, phew!), the thing that really grabbed me was the fruit basket sitting on our counter, in the same spot it lives most days. Suddenly it was so inexplicably beautiful.

Call it satori, call it the "wow" prayer, but whatever name you give the moment, it was as though someone pressed the pause button on the world for a second. 

Recently I started watching the BBC drama Cranford (I promise this is connected), and in the second episode there's a scene where the main characters are given oranges to enjoy. For reasons of dignity and decorum, they go to their bedrooms to eat their fruit alone. The idea that oranges could be such a treat, so exotic, and pleasurable to the point of inappropriateness really stuck with me. And I think that's part of what got me when I saw our fruit basket, full of bananas and limes and clementines and even a pomegranate. The basket itself is something Andy and I brought back from Oman. What a miracle it would seem to the people of Cranford to see such treasures sitting in our kitchen! Yet we very nearly expect that we'll have access to these things at will. They blend into the background. But to really see them, even if briefly? Wow. 

The same thing happened last night when I caught a glimpse of my hands in a sink full of dishes, scrubbing the pans from dinner. And I saw them. The whimsy of the soap bubbles, the dim light just so, and two capable hands -- hands that help me care for a family. Wow. I felt my throat catch at the wonder of my regular life. I get to be a wife! I get to be a mom. It is so beautiful. I'm learning how to nourish my family both physically and spiritually, and while the journey has no endpoint, I can't believe how far I've come in the past year. In a way, I'm even more grateful that I was finally able to be present to this abundance, to recognize the profound blessing that is my ordinary life.

I've gotten pretty good at saying "HELP!" and "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" this past year. Or at least, I tend to call out those prayers often. But I've often stopped short of "Wow." So that's what I'm aiming for in 2015: Eyes to see the abundance that surrounds me, and a soul moved to tears by the wonder of it all. x

(i hope i'm) not done

Image here

Yesterday there was a post on Cup Of Jo about knowing when you're "done" having children. Here's the thing: I don't think it's up to me. Not even a little. What life has taught me over and over again is that the universe unfolds as it should, and you just never know.

I have never been on birth control. Ever. And in our three-and-a-half years of marriage (and decade-long relationship) we have one child to show for it. So far. Hopefully, there will be more, whether through birth, adoption, foster care, or a combination.

If there is one Catholic teaching that resonates deeply and absolutely with my heart and soul right now, it is that on family planning. Life is intricately linked to the act that creates life, and this makes sex sacred. Why is it we allow our culture to rob us of this gift, to tell us that sex is mere pleasure, and that this pleasure is our right? Life is a right in my mind, and sex is what brings forth that life. This doesn't mean sex can't also be enjoyable; but recreation is not the sole purpose or end-goal. Besides bringing forth new life, sex has a lot more to do with intimacy and connection than pure, gluttonous pleasure...

. . .

As I was busy drafting this post, our gorgeous child woke up from his nap, and since Andy took the day off today, the three of us hung out together before I left to run a few errands. This was followed by a work project, which was followed by dinner, then a bath and bedtime for Cabey, and now, finally, here I am. I spent the last two hours down the rabbit hole reading other blogs, eventually landing on this post that speaks so strongly to where I'm at right now. 

I think it's OK to say things that have already been said when you yourself are realizing them for the first time. The act of writing is more about processing and understanding, not about saying things perfectly or "better." But in this case, I'll let Blythe tell you what's on my mind. (Not so much the conversion part. I'm not completely there yet. More the sex part. Good, important stuff.)

(Also, she was clearly nervous as she wrote and posted her piece, and I have to say, I kinda can't believe I'm making all this known about myself. Please be kind, even if only in your own head! x)

on the eve of your first birthday

Caleb Gordon Steven Kiger, less than a day old.

My Sweet Pumpkin Baby,

Where did the time go? Tomorrow you will be one. One whole year grown. Meanwhile I've grown another decade in that same slice of time.

Your first months here feel like a dream I can't quite remember. The days and weeks and moments blur together, and you as a tiny, stationary baby has become so... intangible. Even harder to recall is the person I was, or thought I was. 

Your birth was the meeting of a miracle. Everything went so blessedly according to plan. Perhaps it was easier for this to happen when the plan was simply: Have a baby. Without drugs, preferably in the water. Be open to changes as the situation warrants. 

That was it, and that's what happened. How lucky we were that no changes were necessary, and to have such capable people around us. This, I now know, is rare. 

I was on top of the world after you were born, Caleb. I felt like I could've climbed Everest. (Not right at that moment, of course, as in reality I could hardly walk; but more as a general concept: It just seemed so incredibly possible.)

Someday I'll write for you the story of the day you were born. I read so many of these kinds of stories before my labor and delivery, and it helped to reinforce what I already knew: That women's bodies were made for this, and that babies are born all sorts of places in all sorts of ways. I knew it would be OK. The Biggest Deal of All--your birth--was, in fact, no big deal.

I wasn't afraid, Caleb. I kept waiting to be scared, but it never happened. I actually looked forward to giving birth. Finally going to the hospital, after a month of false starts, was my "on the airplane" moment. Someday you'll travel on a plane, and you may come to know, as I have, the relief that sets in when you're finally nestled in your seat about to take off. No more planning or packing to be done, no more worrying about whether you'll make your flight on time, or how long the security lines are going to be. It's just you and an hour or two or ten to enjoy the journey. 

I knew labor would probably feel like that for me, too. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but breathe, be, and hopefully enjoy the experience.

And I enjoyed it so, so much, dear one. The pain was excruciating towards the end, but I kept hearing my yoga teacher's voice in my head: "Feel the pain, say OK, then push anyway." The pushing was the hardest part, a burning sprint to the finish at the end of an all day marathon. I thought it would go faster than it did, but in the end it didn't matter. Suddenly you were on my chest, every glorious ounce of you. With a blink and a wail, your daddy and I turned the page of our life story to begin a chapter of profound change. We were parents. Just like that.

Cabey Baby, you can't understand this now, but your dad and I are returning to our Catholic faith after years (and for him, a lifetime) away. We want to be able to give this foundation to you. And oh, sweet boy--how you love church. You love the people and the statues and the singing. You always try to talk to the crucifix, and you love conversing with the painting of the Holy Family that hangs on the north wall of the transept. One day, though, you'll learn what has caused so many to abandon ship: The Church isn't perfect, and sometimes it can hurt people. 

I hope you stay anyway. 

Because nothing run by humans will ever be perfect. This doesn't make it worthless. 

To be human is to make mistakes, and to be alive is to experience suffering. Sometimes the pain is so great that we think we'll die from the weight of it. But miraculously, we keep going, one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time; and eventually we notice moments of grace and joy and peace and beauty in our midst. People hurt one another, and yet even those that hurt you remain worthy of love. Those that cause the most pain are usually hurting even more deeply themselves.

This, Cabey--this is what the life of Jesus Christ represents. The grace in the suffering, the freedom in the sacrifice. I hate that you are going to live through pain and darkness and hardship. But know this: You will always, always, always be worthy of the light on the other side, and I will love you no matter what. There is nothing you can say or do or be that will ever diminish my love for you. You are my son, but more importantly you are a child of God. Any fear or pain this world conjures up has already been conquered, and in that there is such hope.

You are still so much "closer to the source" than the adults that love you, and I pray you're able to stay that way. To stay vulnerable in the face of heartbreak, and brave in the face of defeat. You are so much more than the sum of your earthly parts. You are perfectly imperfect, made in and of Love--and baby? I'm just so glad you're here. You and Jesus, Caleb--both pieces I never knew were missing, until you helped bring me to one another. Your birth was a kind of birthday for me, too, in more ways than one.

So happy, happy, happy first birthday, my darling boy. And because I can't say it enough: I love you.

Always,

Your mama

i am only me

[and my greatest fear is that I'm not enough.]

Keep swimming: The water will hold you. Image here.

I'm not really sure why I keep a blog, other than sometimes, I enjoy having a place to write things down and feel like I've shared them. It's like a message in bottle, in that I publish each post fully assuming it's gone "out to sea." I basically treat this space as a form of journal, and I write whatever I feel like, when I want to.

I've been wondering lately if I should attempt to be a "real" blogger--actively comment elsewhere, seek readership here, plan posts, build stats. To feel like I have a place on this overcrowded dance floor, instead of hanging out in the corner wishing I'd never showed up to the party in the first place.

But I really don't want to. I want to be a person with a blog; not a blogger.

I'm the kind of adult that would always rather sit at the kids' table, even now that I have a kid. I love love love being Caleb's mom. But I can't help feeling like there's something else I should be doing, and that it'd be nice if maybe one day, that thing could also generate an income. (For right now, in addition to loving on Cabey Baby, I take care of another little person three days a week.)

So it makes sense that, mere moments ago, I sat here on the couch and mentally screamed:

WHAT IS IT YOU'RE ASKING OF ME, UNIVERSE?!?!?

I screamed it so silently and so hard that my heart hurt and tears welled up.

This is what I got back:

What is being asked of you? 

To stop. To notice.  

To sit quietly and look at the trees outside those living room windows, until you realize just how grateful you are for an entire wall of windows that allows dappled light to shine in through brilliant yellow leaves.  

Breathe. 

Enjoy the quiet of cars passing and keys tapping as the baby naps. The sounds of silence. This is all there is. Recognize how beautiful this is, and that it is enough. Cultivate a thankful heart, one that acknowledges abundance and has no fear of the next step. There will always be a next step, and you'll know what it is when it's time to take it.  

For now, you are here. Be still and know. Sometimes it's OK to hold still. It doesn't mean you've stopped climbing. 

"The artist finds the beauty sleeping in all things." And you are an artist. Even if no one else sees. Just as you are a writer, even if no one is reading. So be still, and notice.  

All shall be well.

This blog will never be a "blogger's blog." It will be messy and imperfect and sometimes rambling and boring. But it will always be honest, because it will always be mine. And I refuse to be anything--or anyone--else.

less lonely

“Awake, my dear. Be kind to your sleeping heart. Take it out into the vast fields of Light, and let it breathe.” Hafiz

. . .

People warn that the life of a stay-at-home-mama can get pretty lonely. They say it can be hard to spend your days without adult contact. This is probably true for many people. But as it turns out, I am actually finding myself less lonely these days. I love being home, thinking my thoughts, finding a balance between following the baby's lead and doing my thing. This doesn't mean I don't need regular breaks, or that I don't get overwhelmed, or that the work is easy. Not even close. It's just that there's no pressure to pretend-smile any more, no dreaded small talk to make: I don't have to fake extraversion to make other people happy. I've stopped putting on the masks I'd started to confuse for my face. 

The truth? I feel like I was made to be a mother, and to be home. Accepting that as the call on my feminist, millennial heart hasn't been easy. More than once in the past few months I've been asked if I'm "just" a mom. But setting aside my fears about what the greater public thinks in favor of actually listening has proven beyond worth it. Turns out, I no longer care so much what anyone else has to say, because this is working for us. I'm learning to surrender, and in the process, finding such deep-seated joy that now there's no turning back.

Photo credit: Joshua Swanner Photography, April 2014

coffee, stat

It is a GIANT cup of coffee kind of morning. Actually, make that two. One for me, and then another one for me. I really need to stop going to bed at midnight. 

PS - No Cabeys were harmed in the creation of this post; the mug is (oh-thank-Jesus) empty.

what i'm doing about iraq

Peace. Budanilkantha, Nepal, 2012

The news has been so rife with viscousness and evil lately. At night I find myself reverting to the 10-year-old girl that would cry herself silly because people were dying of AIDS and gorillas were being slaughtered, and I couldn't do anything to comprehend or stop it. How do you deal with a genocide from the other side of the world? Equipped with nothing but my very own self and surroundings, here is how I've been attempting to live that question lately.

1. Cuddling my own baby closer.

The love I have for Caleb is wider and deeper than anything I have ever known. And I believe in the power of that love. 

At the start of the year, I chose a word for 2014: Present. It's easy to stay present with Caleb as he quietly snuggles into me and drifts off to sleep, while I stroke his hair and breathe in his sweet baby scent. It's a little harder when all I want to do is finish a cup of coffee before it gets cold, and he WON'T STOP SCREAMING. Even after every basic need has, as far as I can tell, been fulfilled. This week I've recommitted to practicing calm and mindfulness through it all. At any given moment we are safe and surrounded by abundance. Love and gratitude--and practice, practice, practice. I have to believe it means something.

2. Delving deeper into my faith.

It would be easy to look at the news and decide that there is no God, religion is the root of all evil, and humankind is destined to completely lose its shit, Lord of the Flies-style. Maybe that's true. But as I believe in love, I also put a lot of stock in mercy, compassion, and hope. These are guideposts as I walk the path of Catholicism. It's a call to look beyond my own pain and ego, to both look for and be one of "the helpers". It has been incredible in recent weeks to discover potential cohorts on the journey here online.

3. Working towards wholeness and healing.

As with my faith, yoga helps me cultivate detachment from my mind and ego. In the past 9 days, I've gone to Bikram 7 times. Self-care is the first thing to go when I'm spiraling into a depression. But when yoga is on the calendar, I make sure to drink plenty of water and eat well so I'll have the energy for class. I ensure I have clean clothes to wear to, from, and during class. I shower. This may seem utterly basic, but if you've ever been depressed you know how impossible just climbing out of bed can feel. 

How on earth does this help dying people across the world? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure it does. As a starting point I turn to Ghandi's famous line: "Be the change you wish to see in the world." If I want a more compassionate, loving world, then I need to be compassionate and loving. This means towards myself, too. Not in a self-involved way, but in a way that says: "I'm strong enough to take care of myself so that I have the energy and focus to do more." Which brings me to my next step:

4. Helping those struggling in my own backyard.

Whenever I read about children suffering in the world, I want to book the next flight out and DO SOMETHING. As a teacher and mother, children are my life. In fact, my desire to help children is the reason this blog was started in the first place. I absolutely love the speech Amy Poehler gave on behalf of the Worldwide Orphans Foundation at the 2013 Power of Women Event, especially these lines: "We should teach children all over the world that they are beautiful and loved and deserve the simple, basic things in life...[The goal is] that what we're doing now lives on, that life continues, and that love wins." YES.

But the crazy, ridiculous thing people often overlook (or, at least, I do)? There are children that need us RIGHT WHERE WE ARE. I would love to have a superpower that allows me magically rescue scared children in every war zone everywhere, from Iraq to Gaza to Chicago. To hold frightened and abandoned little ones and tell them how loved and wanted and necessary they are. Since I don't anticipate boarding a flight any time soon, I called up an organization here in my neighborhood that provides shelter and care for children who have been subject to neglect, abuse, and trauma. Volunteer orientation is in a few weeks. In the meantime, it's breathe, step, breathe. Repeat. It's the only way I know to keep from falling apart.

Photos top to bottom: Oman, Spring 2012; South Africa, Fall 2007; Nepal, Summer 2012

. . .

Related: My best prayers for peace, staying vulnerable, and an eleven-year-old's perspective on Rwanda.

Also: Poetry is often a coping mechanism for me when the world is too heavy. Here is the poem I shared after Newtown, and these are all the poems I've shared on the blog.