6:15 am.
I was sitting on the couch writing in my morning pages. My body has, with unerring genius, begun waking me up at 5 or 6 every morning. For a full two months I have lain in bed, grumpy and morose at this presumably fatal lack of sleep. Then I realized: Gift! To have a full hour to myself before the rest of the house awakes, a blameless hour of self-pleasure. I stretch, or I meditate, or I write (with pen. on paper.) Only the quiet as a mousiest things allowed so early... and the only way I perform any of these luxurious activities without guilt, is between 5:30-7am, while the rest of the world sleeps.
Let me paint a picture of these early mornings. We live in a tiny apartment in North Boulder. 880 square feet of white soaring walls and lots of windows in every direction, the first time Jamba and I have lived in a clean, modern apartment and I have been surprised by how much my heart leaps in pleasure at my surroundings. Our bedroom is in a loft suspended above the kitchen and living room. The windows above our head look far north..... the foothills to the west cut a line straight to Wyoming, and flank an expanse of prairie and open space. We are at the very northern edge of development in the city and so there is a dramatic difference in the view depending on which window you look out of.
In the winter, this northern window has framed one of the loveliest views in the house. There is this interesting thing that happens with the light of early morning on snow patched, winter parched plains. A hovering, lavender mist which trickles across a mottled stretch of scrubbed dun. Moments of white cold blue punctuated by inky black scrub grass. Pinking and oranging towards the horizon, and utterly breathtaking.
I get out of bed. The house is dark. The sun comes from Kansas. As I head towards the spiral stairs that lead me down to the kitchen and coffee, I get my first look at the sun of that day. Usually the Southeast windows are exploding with color. If there are clouds in the sky (and there often are) the dome of the sky is an apocalyptic colliding of magenta and orange and dusky violet. Sometimes the sky is still inky black and the magenta orange is a thin line at the horizon. But that pink tells me it is okay to wake up. I am not alone in a world that holds such color.
But I digress. I was on the couch downstairs, in my new favorite morning spot with the red lamp lit. I had written just one paragraph when she woke up. 6:15 am. I am ashamed to admit: my first thought was annoyance that she was interrupting my hour. This thought mingled fully with my concern for her as I opened my arms and she climbed onto my chest. The instinct to respond to your child's need is so powerful it overwhelms everything else. Your body moves of its own accord, performing the actions that are necessary for the survival of the group.
I settled down into the couch with her. I gave up on writing in my journal. I settled into the moment, and tried to remember, as I looked down at her sleepy, eyesclosed face, that she is small for such a very short time, and that in twenty years I will be driven mad with longing for this very moment. And yet, it is so easy for me to feel bitter, to feel resentful, of all the time I unfailingly, unceasingly, give up to attend to her needs. Children are so naturally self-absorbed. They have no idea what they demand of you. She cannot understand me when I say: "Okay, Sava. You can stay home from school today. But mommy needs to work. Okay? You are going to have to be good at playing by yourself today." Her entire face scrunches up in confusion. "But I want you to play with me, Mommy."
Aurgh. It is the agony of my life, right now. Being, feeling split--between an overwhelming need to work, to be productive, to make money to help float this ship of ours, this rickety creaking leaking vessel of finances (as well as feel justified as a person, accomplished, successful, in this age which so disparages the identity of "stay-at-home" mother), and the undeniable fact that my child needs me. To be present. With her. Actually present, and not just going through the motions while secretly stressing about all the things I would like to be doing so that I didn't have to feel so stressed.
But let me return to the couch. There I am, with this heavy child pinning me flat to the couch, her upturned face looking both exactly like she did as an infant suckling (all moon-faced, huge lashes, rosebud lips) as well as strangely like a teenager- and I whisper up to Jamba to throw down the book I am reading - Radical Acceptance, by Tara Brach. Literally the only thing that I can "do" in this pinned-down moment (because I am a creature addicted to "doing") is to sit and read. What a gift. All of a sudden I don't have to get her ready for school, and I can sit, all morning if I have to, on the couch with her and read while she sleeps on me. So that's a blessing, right?
There are all these things colliding to set me back upon a spiritual path. It has been so long since I have even tried: I was so swamped by the avalanche of having a kid and before that by .... god, that is a whole other chapter as well. But all of these things are happening simultaneously and colliding with a deep awareness that there is a path and I need to set myself firmly upon it, for my very own fucking survival. What are these events?
One: leaving Virginia and moving back to Boulder. Being back in a place where I actually feel that living each day can be worship. Simply waking up to this beautiful sky, watching the way the light breaks on the mountains. The plains colliding with the mountains and all the WEATHER that happens as a result. Allowing myself the possibility of thinking I could love my life, exactly the way it is.
Two: the devastation wrought upon our finances by the move, and the lag time while I gathered momentum to figure out my career in this new space- has created such a personal crisis that I feel completely broken open. Utterly defeated. Which led to: hating that situation so much I am pretty much prepared to do almost anything to get out of it. And what happens but the universe hears me. Two opportunities suddenly fall into my lap, and suddenly I am faced with a choice. Do I pursue writing? There are paid gigs waiting for me. Will it be sustainable? Enough to sustain me? Or do I accept a job as a recruiter- a head-hunter, and explore the world of sales?
Tick, tock. What to choose?
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