IN YOUR HEAD

[life-observed]

I want another baby, but I know our marriage wouldn’t survive it.

And yeah, that’s hard to admit out loud.

Because when I think about it, I picture the baby smell.

The tiny socks.

The late-night cuddles.

I picture rocking a newborn on my chest, eyes closed, heart full.

And sometimes I think, we’d be better this time.

We’re more mature now.

More connected.

More us.

But then I remember the colic.

The hours of crying that no amount of rocking or bouncing or pacing could fix.

I remember the nights I stood in the hallway holding our screaming baby, my shirt soaked with spit-up, my eyes burning from tears and exhaustion, and my husband standing in the kitchen trying to help, but just as defeated as me.

We didn’t say a word to each other.

We were too tired to talk.

Too overwhelmed to comfort each other.

Too disconnected to even meet eyes.

We started sleeping in separate rooms just so one of us could get a little rest.

And at the time, it made sense.

But slowly, that space in the bed turned into space between us in every way.

I remember thinking, this might actually break us.

We weren’t thriving.

We were surviving.

Trading off who got to sleep.

Snapping over dishes and diapers.

Passing each other like strangers in the blur of parenthood.

I lost myself in that season.

And I almost lost us too.

But somehow, we made it.

We did the work.

We held on.

We chose each other again and again, even when it was hard.

Now we laugh again.

We flirt again.

We slow dance in the kitchen again.

So yes, I still feel the pull sometimes.

The ache for one more.

But I always come back to those nights in the hallway.

To the sound of colic cries echoing through the house.

To the silence between us that felt louder than anything.

To the nights we didn’t even share a bed.

Because love doesn’t always mean adding more.

Sometimes it means protecting what barely survived.

So maybe this is it for us.

Maybe we stay right here, full hands, full hearts, fully present for the life we’ve built.

And maybe that’s not settling.

Maybe that’s something worth celebrating.

Because sometimes the most loving thing you can do is not grow your family, but pour everything you’ve got into the one you already have.

And to me?

That feels like more than enough. ❤️

[life-observed]

Transformed people working together for a more just and connected world.

—CAC Vision Statement

At the recent Students of Life conference, Brian McLaren encouraged the CAC community to practice “engaged contemplation” as a way to participate in a movement for healing, justice, and peace in the world:

We know that what we do flows from who we are. Our work in the healing work in the world flows from the ongoing healing we experience within ourselves. Just like hurt people hurt people, healing people heal people. But it’s not like we get healed and then we go “fix” everybody else. We’ve met people who think that’s the case, but their sense of having it all together actually makes it harder for them to help others.

At the CAC, we often refer to Henry Nouwen’s image of being “wounded healers.” Our own process of healing, with all its pain and difficulty, helps us participate humbly, gently, and sensitively in the ongoing healing of others and the world. I think that’s why so many of us are attracted to the work of engaged contemplation. We know that what we do flows from our being and becoming. In contemplation, we’re attending to the curation of our own inner being and becoming. What we do in the world around us flows from this inner lifelong process of healing and growth.…

None of us know what the near or long-term future holds, but we can gain clarity within ourselves about how we want to show up. I want to show up as a person of peace, but not alone. I want to be in partnership with others to create a circle of peace—not a circle that puts up a wall to keep others out, but one that welcomes others in no matter what happens. We’re not the first ones who have tried to do this. We’ve got to look around, recognize, and be grateful for how many people are doing their part—what they are uniquely called and gifted to do….

We are so blessed in the Christian tradition to have so many amazing leaders and teachers who have been creating circles of healing and peace for generations. It is truly inspiring to learn from their examples. But our job is not only to learn from them, but more: to join them in this ongoing work in the world. Marine biologist Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and climate activist Katharine K. Wilkinson write, “Let’s move forward with love, not conquest; humility, not righteousness; generous curiosity, not hardened assumptions. It is a magnificent thing to be alive in a moment that matters so much. Let’s proceed with broken-open hearts, seeking truth, summoning courage, and focused on solutions.” [1]

Can we accept this magnificent opportunity? To be alive in a moment that matters so much? Dare we believe that this contemplative work and exploration and study that we’re engaged with is not to just make us happier people, but rather to help us be partners together in loving action?

References:

[1] Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson, “Onward.” in All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis (One World, 2020), 374.

Adapted from Brian McLaren, “Partnering Together in Loving Action,” Students of Life: The Webcast, Center for Action and Contemplation, November 3, 2024. Access unavailable.

[life-observed]

"You realize you're rich when you have something you wouldn't trade for all the money in the world."

[life-observed]

I'm scared that I'm starting to forget. All the earlier incarnations of you that I thought I never could.

The crawling you. The cruising you. The obsessed with pots and pans, you. The you where every other word is perfectly mispronounced.

Is motherhood just a state of constant nostalgia? Of looking back, whilst moving forward. Or do we get to stay still, for a bit, at some point?

I see a photo from just a few months earlier and am floored by how much you've changed. How much we both have.

How is it possible to have lived through so many different and distinct epochs in just three years.

So I write them all down. In an attempt to stop that old thief called time. And hope that the words on a page are enough to capture and retain the feeling. To do it justice without romanticizing.

Because there's plenty I'd like to forget too.

I guess the important things...stay.

---------------------------------

Art by: https://www.instagram.com/jackiedoucetteart?igsh=MWJueWMxYjg3NW1uNg==

Words: Mother Truths

Words taken from: 'Lessons: Reflections on Early Motherhood'

Available to buy worldwide: http://linktr.ee/mother_truths

[sunbleached-journal]

Dear Lover,

I wish there was enough words, enough emotions; enough of anything. To make you realize how much you mean to me. How much you make my world turn, and rain fall. You’re my warm summer days and cool spring nights. You’re the Sunday mornings spent laying in bed. You’re a million reasons and more for me to wake up everyday.

but lover can you say the same for me?

[roccio2]

[mylittlelovelight]

"Not every day is beautiful,

But you are.

I can’t wait for some days to end.

But you’re my beginning

My middle

My meeting place.

Some moments I just want to be alone.

Even though every moment with you is perfect,

It doesn’t always feel like that though.

Not in that moment.

When plans fall over

When no one sleeps

When I’m overwhelmed.

You may deplete me some days.

But you complete me every day.

You’re the bags under my eyes at all hours of the night.

My tears of fatigue.

You’re also,

My heart

My breath.

You’re the ground that brings me to my knees

The ground you walk on that I adore

My grounding.

You’re my weakness

And the strength that I need

The build up

The break down

My vulnerability.

You are the tune I hum

My scream

My follow

My fall

My finding.

The broth of my bones

My skin.

My thoughts before and after.

You are mine but not mine to keep

But you keep all of me.

Even though I ache.

Even though some days are so damn hard.

Even though I doubt I’m doing this right.

Not every moment is beautiful.

But you are.

You are the promise of love in a tired storm.

Even though I may wish some moments away.

You’re the hands of the clock I will to stand still.

And I am at the hands of you."

#LoveWhatMatters

Credit: Jess Urlichs, Writer

[posiviri]

[wereall-allright]

I’ve been the happiest since I’ve had children.

I’ve be also been at my lowest.

I’m a much better version of myself.

I also haven’t always liked what I’ve seen when mirrors have been held up to me.

I’ve never been in more company.

And at times never felt so lonely.

Some days I don’t want to end.

Some days I wish away, oh and the guilt from feeling that when they grow so fast.

I’ve never been so sure of who I’m meant to be.

I’ve never wondered so much who I am.

I’ve never felt closer with my husband.

But at times, I’ve never felt more distant.

I believe in myself, I trust myself.

I’ve questioned myself and doubted myself.

I always want to be better for them.

But I’ve yelled and cried and wished I’d handled certain situations better.

I’ve never loved so hard and so fiercely.

And I’ve never felt so vulnerable.

I’ve never been more broken.

And I’ve never been more complete.

I’ve never smiled so much.

I’ve never cried so much.

I’ve never craved alone time more.

But when I am I always feel like somethings missing, like an arm.

I’ve never been so excited to watch them grow.

And simultaneously wished they’d stay little forever.

Some days I feel like I’ve achieved nothing.

But as I think of them at night, I know I’ve achieved everything.

I’ve never looked forward to so much.

And I’ve also, never looked back.

It’s one beautiful contradiction.

A journey of wrong turns that are probably still right.

And dreams of the future even if you don’t get enough sleep to dream.

Exhaustion but effortless love.

The hardest and most rewarding thing ever.

Words of Jess Urlichs, Writer

[life-observed]

"My friend messaged me after I had a baby, “how are you?” her message read.

I responded,

“It’s harder than I thought, some moments I’m swept up in the beauty of motherhood, others I’m dragging myself around in a coffee-stained dressing gown with unwashed hair. I know people say to take some time out for me, but in this season of being so needed I don’t know how.

I’m more tired than I ever imagined, though I could trace their tiny features for hours, I could watch the way a sneeze crinkles their eyes and takes them by surprise.

But I also feel a little lost at times, yet they are a seed in my bones, and I have never been more found.

Some days I sit in shadows and other’s the light fills me up inside and together we grow and grow.

My body aches, from birth, for the girl I once was, for sleep, for their scent. The shower feels like a break, though I always feel hurried.

Makes no sense, does it?

Some days I feel as if I’m not achieving much and yet I am rushed off my feet. Years can pass through these four walls in mere minutes.

My mind is all over the place, I want to press pause and yet I am already in awe of who they’re becoming. We’re still figuring this whole thing out together, and yet it’s like I’ve known them forever. I feel a new type of wholeness, of being complete, but some days I just feel empty, does this make any sense?

I’d love some time alone, but I am entangled in them, and yet that’s how I want it. My heart would be fumbling around in the dark without them. That’s another thing I wanted to tell you.. I’ve never thought with my heart so much, I’ve never seen so much with it either.

I’m not ready to have visitors just yet, but I miss you, I really do.

Thanks for checking in.”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I told her we were great, my baby was simply a dream, and that we couldn’t wait to see her.

Then I hit send."

Words: Jess Urlichs for The Atlas of Motherhood

Art: Amanda Oleander Art .

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

[from my files :: photo by my son :: captioned : “This is how my mother looks when I leave her house]

* * * * *

“For Sayonara, literally translated, ‘Since it must be so,’ of all the good-bys I have heard is the most beautiful. Unlike the Auf Wiedershens and Au revoirs, it does not try to cheat itself by any bravado 'Till we meet again,’ any sedative to postpone the pain of separation. It does not evade the issue like the sturdy blinking Farewell. Farewell is a father’s good-by. It is - 'Go out in the world and do well, my son.’ It is encouragement and admonition. It is hope and faith. But it passes over the significance of the moment; of parting it says nothing. It hides its emotion. It says too little. While Good-by ('God be with you’) and Adios say too much. They try to bridge the distance, almost to deny it. Good-by is a prayer, a ringing cry. 'You must not go - I cannot bear to have you go! But you shall not go alone, unwatched. God will be with you. God’s hand will over you’ and even - underneath, hidden, but it is there, incorrigible - 'I will be with you; I will watch you - always.’ It is a mother’s good-by. But Sayonara says neither too much nor too little. It is a simple acceptance of fact. All understanding of life lies in its limits. All emotion, smoldering, is banked up behind it. But it says nothing. It is really the unspoken good-by, the pressure of a hand, 'Sayonara.”

― Anne Morrow Lindbergh, North To The Orient

[heresay]

“…I want first of all - in fact, as an end to these other desires - to be at peace with myself. I want a singleness of eye, a purity of intention, a central core to my life that will enable me to carry out these obligations and activities as well as I can. I want, in fact - to borrow from the language of the saints -to live 'in grace' as much of the time as possible. I am not using this term in a strictly theological sense. By grace I mean an inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony…”

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

[quotesengage]

When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

[life-observed]

I do not believe that sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness, and the willingness to remain vulnerable.

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

[dk-thrive]

Sometimes I felt the baby belonged to me absolutely. Sometimes when she lay sleeping beside me in her bassinet, I ran my fingers along my scar in the darkness: the thick stitches, the shelf of skin above like an overhang of rock. It was just a slit that led to my own insides, but it felt like the gateway to another world. The place she’d come from. From the very beginning, there was a goodness in her. I knew it was nothing I had made.”

— Leslie Jamison, Splinters: Another Kind of Love Story (Little, Brown & Company, February 20, 2024)

[life-observed]

Peace Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

[dk-thrive]

Alive in this life, in this evening, under this sky

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road, my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening

a prayer for being here, today, now, alive in this life, in this evening, under this sky.

~ David Budbill, “Winter: Tonight: Sunset” from Narrative Magazine