The Present Moment

You wish you could complete a sleep cycle but embedded in your dreams is the certain knowledge that she will be awake at any moment.
You hear her cry and pull her in to the bed hoping she’ll mimic your still body and closed eyes. You know your attempts are futile though.
You bundle her up and try to race out of the dark house to prevent waking up her siblings – more futility.
You push her along the sidewalk and over bridges and start chatting to her like the baby books say to do, telling her about what you are seeing.
But even though you only met her a few months ago, you know her and are aware that, like you, companionable silence is preferable to her at this time of day.

This is it. The present moment. And you are there.

Simple wonders of the world that have always been there unnoticed become a part of your day.
The half moon sets over the hillside while the dawn breaks in the east and bathes the craggy peaks in rose as it always does.
But today you think about how different your life was even just one week ago when you watched the full moon set another beautiful and sleepless morning.
You remember how you felt excited and nervous about something this week and now today, you look back courageous and confident and nervous and excited about a new thing next week.
You think about how, like the moon, you experience everything from new and empty to full and bright within a month and yet nothing about it has ever changed, just your vantage point.

You arrive at the beach and think about how last time you were here you were pregnant – a solstice and a lifetime ago.
You park the baby with the sun rising behind her over the Pacific Ocean and pull out your phone to take a picture.
Your phone unexpectedly powers off, maybe due to the cold morning. You are momentarily upset you couldn’t capture the moment and then you realize that you are thankful.

Because the moment you are experiencing cannot be captured with a shitty phone photo.

The photo couldn’t capture the smell of woodburning fires in the salty sea air or the smell of your creamy new baby that forever fills your nostrils.

The photo couldn’t capture the feel of nutrient dense food consumed with family and made with love during this holiday that fills your belly and soothes your nerves.

The photo couldn’t capture the sound of the ocean waves and the happy gulls.

The feeling cannot be summarized with a hashtag.

You have all these thoughts and worry you won’t be able to remember them because of your “mommy brain,” a term you’ve always disliked because it implies a loss of intelligence, something that you have always prized.

But you have come to realize that all that forgetfullness provides is amplification of the present moment and the rest of the world falls away in to the background. And you’re more than OK with that.

You realize that a lack of sleep has brought you the gift of experiencing something you normally would have snoozed right through.

She has drifted back to sleep in her stroller and so you gun for the coffee shop, eager to record your thoughts.

Once again, you know in your heart that when the wheels stop and you step in to the warmth, she will wake up.

So you sit down with your cappucino and a pen and as soon as you scribble the first word, she awakens and begins to stir and fuss.

And so you write and you jiggle her on your knee and you burn your tongue as you drink quickly, thankful for another day to experience life and exercise your creativity. Because create you did.

1 Comments

  1. maureen ness August 9, 2014 at 9:30 am · Reply

    This is probably the most beautiful thing I have read about motherhood. How proud I am to call you my daughter. What a wonderful mother YOU are!

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