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.

worth it

Image

It's back.

I have avoided those words for so long, resisted what they mean, especially knowing my most-read entry on the blog this year was on finally finding joy.

But so it is: My depression came back.

This time is different, though. Because this time I asked for help.

On Sunday evening, I asked Andy to please "treat me like a sick person," as though I had the flu or a broken leg.

And he got it. He plugged in my laptop next to the bed with Netflix ready to go. He ordered my favorite comfort foods and made sure I ate something. He filled my water bottle and did my laundry and put Caleb to bed. I felt loved and taken care of, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, he did it because he believed I was worth the time and energy and effort.

So the next day, I decided I might try believing it, too, and I called a counselor. I also made myself a decent meal, and I turned off my computer and crawled into bed at midnight instead of 1AM, which is a baby step but still progress.

This morning my neck hurts a little bit less (it always stiffens up in times like this), and Caleb put himself to sleep in his crib for a nap, and I'm listening to podcasts and tackling some more cleaning projects. I'm so familiar with the downward spiral, and crawling back out is so freaking difficult. But I'm doing it anyway.

Because there is hope. I'm choosing to surrender to life as it comes instead of giving in to the (sometimes overwhelming) temptation of death. I would unceasingly defend the life of a child, of all children, because I believe each and every one has a right to be here and a purpose to serve. I can accept this as true of most anyone....except myself.

I'd still say I'm less lonely at home than I was when I was working, and I never miss the small talk or pressure to smile. But there is a heaviness, a different "aloneness" that has always been so. A sense of never quite fitting in, of being too sensitive and smart-but-not-that-smart.

It can be so hard to navigate this world.

But here I am. Still typing, still breathing. Still "in the world," and still learning. It hurts, but I'm doing it anyway. Which is about as big a victory as there is, I'd say.

Onward.

Practicing what we most need to learn never quite looks like we think it will, does it?

first: advent

I have always, always loved Christmas... until last year. Last year was the first time I experienced Christmas as a mom (and a very new mom at that), and frankly? It just sucked. And not because our families weren't wonderful (they spoiled us, as usual) or there was some big loss to deal with (Lord knows we've had our fair share), but because of me and my own mental darkness. 

I was so stressed out. About EVERYTHING. 

I was amped up and adamant that we make the first Christmas with our son AMAZING and WONDERFUL and PERFECT and FULL OF TRADITIONS AND FAMILY FUN! All while still adjusting to life with a pretty tiny baby, in a very small apartment, during one of the coldest winters Chicago has ever seen.

I didn't even get our Christmas cards mailed out, which were also supposed to serve as Caleb's birth announcements, and I cried while wrapping gifts.

As you might imagine, I was determined to do it differently going forward (both Christmas and the whole "having a newborn" thing). This year we decided to really focus on observing Advent, and it is FANTASTIC. I only wish I'd understood the significance of this month of planning and preparation sooner. Catholic or not, it feels so good to stop the chaos in favor of time to reflect, breathe, and contemplate what will truly make our holiday merry and memorable. We've been "going dark" in the evenings in favor of candlelight, and while we plan to get our tree this weekend, it will remain undecorated until the week before Christmas. We're making room, both physically and spiritually, and my introverted soul is so grateful. 

I've been praying and thinking a lot about the next steps for my own life, something I shared a bit of here. In all my recent pondering, I keep getting one message over and over again: "You are in a season of discernment." A season of discernment--how lovely is that? What a relief to be able to view this chapter of my life as a time of hope, necessary for what's next, instead of one big ol' PAUSE on "real life." One day I may be called again to bold action, big ideas, and major change. But for now? The craziest, most important thing I can do is watch, listen, and wait... Kinda like what we're supposed to be doing during Advent. We wait in joyful hope for the celebration to end all celebrations.

So that's what I'm doing. Finding the joy, holding onto hope, even as I sometimes weep at the darkness. Somehow I've only just come to see that it isn't mine to shoulder alone. Talk about a revelation! You can let go of the heavy and welcome the light instead. Incredible. I think sometimes we need to set the heavy stuff down, but other times we simply share the load. Suddenly our individual portion doesn't seem quite so burdensome, and we understand we're part of a larger network of overcoming, and it's the sort of bring-you-to-tears miracle that makes your whole being radiate. It doesn't mean the hard parts or sadness disappear, but they lose some of their power: We belong to each other. Love wins.

Images via: 1 | 2 | 3

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

plenty of practice

Holy. Molars.

Who, me?

Pretty sure that's the reason Caleb screamed his head off for two hours this afternoon, while I fumbled around trying to find something, anything (TYLENOL! TEETHING BEADS! ICE CHIPS! MY FINGER WRAPPED IN THIS BLANKET!), that might comfort or calm him.

Also, every single diaper today was a poop explosion, leaving him with a very sore, very chapped bum. Cue howls of pain with every wipe. (Of which there were many. See: "poop explosion".)

Also, he figured out how to take his own pants off. He did it in his crib this morning, then again while he was playing a little bit later (and by "playing" I mean methodically throwing our shoes off the shoe rack, followed by an attempt to empty the garbage piece by piece). Hence, he is currently sleeping pants-less. (Yes, sleeping. FINALLY. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. And I mean that in earnest, as I prayed dramatically for intercession during Molarmageddon. I'm not sure she heard me over the screaming, though.)

Also, he held my hands and walked across the entire dining room after lunch. Major developmental milestone for the month: Check! So of course there's got to be some crazy mental processing going on in his little baby brain, along with the torturous physical pain happening elsewhere in his little baby body.

I've been so lovey dovey lately with this "motherhood as a vocation" thing (which I still absolutely mean) and talk of The Little Way (which I still absolutely admire and subscribe to) that it was about time the universe threw me a good curveball. Isn't there a saying about teaching what you most need to learn? Today has given me plenty of opportunities to put my words into action. Our neighbors probably think I'm forcing Caleb's hands on the stove or something. Nope, just poop! And teeth. And learning to walk. (It's hard work being a baby. And the mom of a baby. We both might've been crying at one point. It happens.)

I'm not sure if practice makes perfect, but you know what? I'm actually finding myself pretty dang grateful for it, and that's something.

(Although, full disclosure, if a band of gypsies happens to come by looking for an almost-toddler, I'm pretty sure I know where they can find one. At least on loan. And only if they wake him up ;))

OK, fine, never mind. We'll keep you. Ohhh, Cabey Baby! I do love you so.

grateful/lately

We had an overcast morning yesterday following some intense storms during the night. Every now and then I love a grey day--there's no pressure to go outside or do much of anything. Caleb took an early nap, and I watched a show in bed while I drank my morning coffee. I can't remember the last time I stopped and just sat like that. It felt good.

Eventually the sun did come out. We ran a few errands, and Caleb played in his travel crib outside while I mowed the lawn. He went down for the night around 6:30 (!). Andy got home shortly after, so I was able to go to yoga. It was my first time back since probably May. The class was a tough one, absolutely sweltering, but it felt amazing. I didn't take any breaks, and afterwards I ponied up the cash for a month of unlimited classes. Guess I'm tired of waiting for the "right" or "perfect" conditions. I'll be going back tonight. First, though, Caleb and I are off to meet Andy at his boss's house for a pool day. No complaints here. Really, truly. I'm glad I listened to my heart and left my job. Being home is so good, for all of us. 

My in-progress office. A clean slate.

New sneaks! So incredibly comfortable.

Fruits of the Summer salad. Perfection.

And my son, cuddler of cardboard babies and self-feeding machine. 

Caleb, you are the best blessing I have ever known.

there's a pitcher nearby (fill up your cup)

Photo via A Well Traveled Woman

Today I can say, for the first time in a long time:

I am happy.

I'm filled to the brim with gratitude and joy, and it is so incredibly satisfying.

More to come...

On you go. (It really is time for me to get my little tattoo, a constant visual reminder of this truth.)

too much too much too many too much

Image via

[Written three days ago]

My brain has been spinning; I don't know where to start or how to stop the chaos.

It's probably time for yoga. I wish it were easier to take the time these days.

I keep having this vision: Me, walking into a lake, calmly, without stopping. How relaxing it would be to walk to the water's edge and keep going, to go under, to let go.

It's also a little terrifying; I realize these aren't the thoughts of healthy, balanced, "normal" people. It scares me just how much comfort I find in them.

And so I repeat, over and over again: This is not me. This is illness.

Sometimes I even believe it.

Maybe paying a babysitter so I can go to Bikram isn't such a bad idea after all. It's exhausting to be so full of self-loathing. Add to that a love for my child so overwhelming it's physically painful at times and about 100,000 daydreams and to-dos zooming through my head (none of which I really have enough energy to complete), and I can hardly breathe.

Poster available here

. . .

Phew! Glad I didn't hit "Publish" before there was light glimmering at the end of that tunnel. This holiday weekend has been much-needed and so restorative. I'm very ready to be done with work (one more month!) so that I can continue focusing on my family and mental well-being. You can have the life you want. Each step I make towards that life, in harmony with a guidance greater than myself, is a victory. My weekend reads like a hodgepodge gratitude list of sorts (and for that alone I am grateful!). Breathe, step, breathe. On you go. 

Reasons I'm saying thank you right now...

*We may have found a new apartment that checks every box on our wish list (dishwasher, free laundry, a backyard with garden space, private porch, separate entryway, walk-in pantry, private storage space, covered parking, on a residential street, literally STEPS from town...be still my heart! Also, my fingers hurt from crossing them so hard.). It's in a two-flat, built over 100 years ago, and most of the original doors and hardware are still in tact, as are the fantastic pointed archways. The kitchen and bathroom, however, were JUST redone (we're talking gleaming white subway tile surrounding a gorgeous tub. Ack, I can't take anymore! Please, cross your fingers too?). 

*Friday night Lou Malnati's + an excellent podcast is a winning combination.

*I'm going to this writer's talk and participating in a community art project.

*I sold my first set of custom personalized stationary! Excited for more on the way.

*My parents visited us yesterday for coffee and doughnuts (these are my new favorite weekend tradition) before heading to church. Afterwards we decided to go out for lunch, too. Andy has been working all weekend, so it was amazing to still have a "family day" (and to be so well-fed! Also, if we get the new apartment we'll be approximately a one minute walk from the coffee shop. 45 seconds walking fast.). 

*I'm a total addict. Helps put me in the yoga mindset week after week--now I just need the full benefits of that glorious hot room!

Image here via Pinterest

(I should note that I know I'm "buzzing" right now. The rapid and drastic upswing also gives me pause. I write knowing that this version of the other side doesn't mean I'm over the bridge. I'd like to document the experience of illness and understanding still unfolding.)

long week

This week has not been easy. Andy was away Monday through Thursday, so my only real "break" was going to work. (Which, when surrounded by people and busyness and too long to-do lists, doesn't actually count.) Thankfully my mom stuck around for a bit Wednesday night, and I think it was a relief for both Caleb and me (see photo above). We ordered take out and split baby duty until he went to bed.

I'm taking it easy today, physically speaking--I was in bed 'til noon with a migraine and now am sipping tea, trying to focus on my breath (Caleb is at my mother-in-law's). It's harder to get my mind under control. I'm extremely skilled at beating myself up internally. I've had a lot of practice, and it's a tough habit to break. 

For anyone else experiencing something similar, this article helped a lot. 

pause.

Breaking in my new summer sandals (seen here). Indoors, as they happened to arrive the same day as a snowstorm. ENOUGH ALREADY, WINTER! I am so very over you.

Took another "mama pause" yesterday with a massage and manicure, followed by a trip to the bookstore. It's been a while since I've been able to just wander up and down the aisles, seeing what piques my interest. I ended up coming home with two books, thanks to a gift card from a student. It's my spring break, and I have loved waking up and hanging out with my baby each morning. Still, stepping away is such a treat, and I KNOW it makes me a better parent. 

Tomorrow Caleb will head to my mother-in-law's house, as he does every Friday, only this time I will be home. I have big plans to clean the apartment and finish some sewing projects. It breaks my heart just a tiny bit that I'll be home without him. But when he returns it will be to a refreshed mama, ready to snuggle him all weekend long. Ohhh, Cabey Baby, I love you, I do!

so. much. better.

This weekend was a winner. I feel so relaxed and satisfied, but I certainly wasn't feeling that way going into it! I'd been anxious and down and quick to anger. My grumpiness was even affecting my interactions with strangers, which is so completely unlike me! Caleb started teething and hasn't been sleeping well, which means we haven't been sleeping well, and that can make life feel pretty dang hard.

On Friday, when my students were [supposed to be] napping, I was sitting on the floor rubbing my eyes, when I felt this little hand gently patting me on the back. "Just breathe in through your nose, Miss Emy, and out through your mouth. It's OK. In... and out...." It was one of my students, coaching me through a breathing exercise the same way I often coach her! "There," she said after a few deep breaths, "isn't that better?"

It was (and the sweetness of the whole thing was definitely a mood booster), but I decided it was time for an even bigger mama time out. I booked a massage for that evening. 

And 

it 

was 

GLORIOUS! 

I felt like a new person afterwards. So good, in fact, that I also booked a hair appointment for the very next day! Andy wholeheartedly took over Caleb duty Saturday morning while I went for a coffee and croissant before getting a professional blow out. Cheaper than therapy and frankly left me feeling a whole lot better than sessions spent airing dirty laundry.

After my massage, I also sewed up this little bow tie for the bubba. Handsome, ain't he? :)

Then, yesterday, I headed to the gym for the first time in two years (!) and ran. I've signed up for a 5k in June and have been nervous about getting back in shape. But once again, I came home content and steady. Andy especially seems to appreciate when I step up and take care of myself, probably because I'm less likely to lean on him to meet my emotional needs. Part of me still feels a twinge of guilt spending time and money on myself. There's a difference between self-care and selfishness. I'm still figuring out this balance. For now, we've agreed to budget for a special monthly "mama-pause," whatever that may be. If this weekend is anything to go by, when I give myself a time out, everyone wins.

Happy Mama, happy family

my favorite and my best

My sweet boy will be four months old next week. Four! I've always thought of four months as the age when babies really start to get fun, and while it's true he's becoming much more interactive, every stage so far has been unbelievably special in its own way. (Although, a couple weeks ago he started GIGGLING--be still my heart!) He fills a space I didn't know was empty. It's like my entire being went, "Oh, there you are. I've been waiting for you." There is nothing more satisfying then this little guy. 

At the hospital the morning after his birth, Nov. 6, 2013.

Conversations by the Christmas tree. He loved looking at the lights.

Snow angel baby - his first time actually out in it!

Absolutely melts me - we turned this one into Valentine cards.

And yesterday, studying up. It's good to be prepared! :)

I'm also happy to report that I seem to be through the roughest patch. Yoga helps, as does working. I've been making sure to feed myself well and take a little time here and there to just be alone (and, say, shower). As always: On you go. And soon it will be spring. 

well, shit.

Rule your mind 

or it will rule you.

Buddha

. . .

The world feels so heavy right now. I don't know how to shake it, how to set it down. I'm waiting for the fog to lift, but I have a feeling the only way out is through: Can't go over it, can't go under it, we'll have to go through it.

I kind of hate that.

So I lose myself in journals and dreams and puddles of tears, clinging to a hint of possibility and relief. In public I attempt to "fake it until I feel it." I'm good at the first part, but the feelings rarely follow.

I read about a study the other day that said most people who were diagnosed with depression as children are probably actually bipolar. I was ten.

A year or so after my diagnosis, when the fog started lifting, I remember the psychologist telling me to be careful, that I'd find myself missing the depression at times. It had defined my identity and way of being for so long, and now I had to figure out who I was without that old, destructive friend.

Until now, I pretty much thought my depression was over and done and under control. It would come back and try to set up camp every now and then, but I could recognize it. After a bit of polite resistance, I'd finally tell it to pack up and leave, locking the door behind it.

(Source)

But pregnancy hormones are something new, and they seem to have left a window wide open. And it's hard, and I'm scared. I am struggling, and I'm trying to believe that this does not make me "less than" -- that having depression does not dictate who I am at my core. It doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother or teacher or person. It is separate from who and what I am. It is an ILLNESS, not an identity.

So onward, trusting that, eventually, I'll find the light again.

meanwhile

Mary Oliver

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

--

I've been going through a little something. Due in part, I think, to the transition back to work, but also just patterns and tendencies in my own life. I still want to write our birth story. (I still want to send out Caleb's birth announcements, which were supposed to be Christmas cards, too.) 

But not yet. Not today.

It was reassuring to read an old post on Cup of Jo today, where I was reminded of the poem above. One foot in front of the other. . . On you go.