Time & Flies

… so, yes, I know. I haven’t been posting.

It’s amazing how the little things can get in the way, like:

a) my keyboard being destroyed by the toddler, making it nearly impossible to type

b) my computer forgetting my obscure password for this site, & me too lazy to skim through hundreds of emails to find it

c) having nothing to say, but a lot of identity crisis

Why am I writing now, then, you may ask?

Because it just hit me: Tomorrow, it will have been six months since I had child #2, my son; six months since I stopped working full time; six months being, suddenly, a long time…

Because, really, a lot changed.

I have changed.

I feel like I’ve been through fire.

Or water?

Having children is this amazing, beautiful, reality-altering experience that requires so much energy – mental, physical, emotional – that when I was recently reading Into the Wild, the beautiful interrogation of the rationale behind the adventuring boy who disappeared from society for two years and died in the Alaskan wilderness, of starvation, all for the sake of confronting reality – beauty – life with a full, unfettered, unfiltered embrace – I felt a sincere and deep understanding for the kind of gut-level survival force required for one to keep going when it seems everything is at risk.

Okay, an odd parallel – significant differences: Chris McCandless could have re-entered Normalcy any time he wanted (up until the end), whereas, a parent can’t really do that with the same lack of loss. And, also significantly, Chris’ journey was about being completely alone, unto himself, whereas the parent sojourn is all about never ever being alone, trying not to lose oneself, understanding what ‘the self’ is, completely submerged in the concerns and needs of other people.

Still, in the sense of a passage, a raw change that one must undertake to truly understand – even with great writing, I have a feeling that what Chris went through and what happens to parents are both things that must be experienced individually to be truly understood – these adventures have similar underpinings.

Anyway. The point is, it’s hard, and you don’t really know what that means till you’re in it.

And then it’s been six months, and you are realizing that not only is this blaze, this rush, threatening to overtake you – but it’s also, paradoxically, temporary. Soon the babies will be toddlers, the toddlers will be kids, the kids will be grown and gone – and you, the parent, whatever state you are in, will be left, alone, burnt, waterlogged, whatever metaphor works – and whether you are a husk, a ghost, or a fuller and deeper person – well, that depends on how you go through it, how you whether the phenomenon.

Which is why, I guess, I have been deepening my yoga practice, reading Buddhism, thinking about my writing, reassessing what to do with myself – because throwing myself into loving these children – my flesh, my blood, my spirit –

Let me start over. I am in love with my children. I mean, I adore them. I am head over heels, heels over head, tap dancing on the chimneys ecstatic over my kids. I am ridiculously crazy about them. And I do everything I can to make sure they know it.

Allowing myself to really love my children requires me to have the kind of patient approach to time, to irritations, to goals and plans, to desires of my ego that are often described in Taoist/Buddhist texts as enemies or stumbling blocks to enlightenment.

Loving my children, giving myself, also has made me absolutely fierce about my need, my bone-deep need, for time to myself, for self-nurturing, which has led, too, to a new love for myself, a new loyalty to the endangered species of my soul.

All of this rambling is meant to explain my lack of posts on this blog.

And to avoid the fact that I also have been indulging in watching episodes of “Homicide” instead of doing anything ‘of use.’ (I’m only starting the fourth season. Don’t tell me what happens.)

And to say that I am intending to move over to a new blog at some point, because ‘cville working moms’ is kind of a misnomer at this point. (I’ll let you know if I do.)

So there you go.

I wrote about my lack of writing!

And there you have it. One hand clapping… sort of.

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