Motherhood & God

Snuggles at one-month old

{We've come a long way already, baby.}

I’ve always believed in God, though I’ve not always used the word God. (I've used words like Energy, Universal Wisdom, Goddess, Great Spirit, Life Force, Love, and others.)

But I’ve always believed in that Special-Something-That-Exists-Beyond-This-Physical-Realm because I’ve always, always felt its presence and guidance in my life. 

I remember being a very young girl, tucked in bed, talking to my Unseen-But-Profoundly-Present-Friend. The one I just knew was there, in that way children just know things. The one who answered me not in words, but in sensations—goosebumps (truth shivers) on my arms, a warmth slowly spreading from my belly to my chest, a buzzing in my ears, a tingling in my body.

My unshakeable belief in God led me, as a child, to love Church. 

I didn’t go often, but when I did, I loved it. I loved the smell of the incense and the burning of the candles and the lessons hidden in the stories and the breaking of bread and the sharing of communion. I loved confession. I loved, above all else, the story of Jesus—his birth and his life and his death, but mostly his birth. It was all so magical and beautiful and made me believe in angels and search the skies, on a regular basis, for the brightest stars. (Where might that one lead if I followed it?)

But then I learned about religion (specifically, my religion, which was Catholicism) and how it excluded some people and how it was responsible for incredible hurt and abuse and war  in the world, and the magic faded a little before it faded a lot.

I went to University and took a Religious Studies class and decided, conclusively, that religion was not for me. Even though I still loved Church, I stopped going completely. It didn’t feel right anymore. I didn’t understand all of its rules. I didn’t agree with many of them.

But I knew then, as I know now, that God did not live in Church and that, even though Church no longer felt right, God still did. 

So I found God elsewhere—usually (almost always) in Nature.

While wandering through a forest in Ontario or hiking up a mountain in Japan or descending into the Grand Canyon in Arizona or snorkeling in the waters of Mexico or watching the sunrise with humpback whales in Hawaii, I have felt my cells come alive with what I can only describe as a profound awareness of God’s presence (and presents). 

We’ve shared a lot of moments, over the years, God and me. We speak on an almost-daily basis. I often feel close to Him (or Her, or Divine Love, or whatever name feels right in that moment) after meditation, when the turbulent waters of my mind have become still again. We always hang out at Christmas. 

We’re connected, but we’re casual. I’ve not made any effort to deepen our relationship in any sort of consistent or ritualistic way and, up until now, this nonchalant approach to God has been enough for me.

But, eight months ago, I had a baby.

When my miracle baby was born and put on my chest for the very first time, the first words out of my mouth, travelling straight out of my busted-open body and heart, were “Oh my God.” 

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. 

I must have said it at least a hundred times. 

Because to give birth to a brand new, sparkling human being—to see a perfect little person emerge out of your own body—is nothing short of a holy experience. 

It’s incredibly human, yes, but it’s also incredibly non-human. There is magic in that room. There is a hush in that room, immediately after the baby is born, that sounds like the exhalation of angels. There is God in that room.

God was in that room.

I knew it in that way mothers just know things. We were not alone. The very same Unseen-But-Profoundly-Present-Friend, who used to visit me as a child, was with us,  as our son arrived Earthside.

And He has not left us since. He has taken up permanent residence in our home. His presence is felt at all hours of the day and night. 

I feel nourished, now, in a deep, deep way I have not felt before. I feel more resilient than ever. I am alone, a lot of the time, but I rarely feel lonely. Some days, I feel like there is a glow all around me, even when it’s wet and gloomy outside. Other days, when I feel too tired to even take a step, I feel a force filling me up and pushing me forward, a sort of echo reverberating inside, telling me that “I can do this and I can do it well.”

This is not my own echo. These are not my own thoughts. My thoughts are more along the lines of, “More sleep, please.”

It’s all so very interesting. And a bit jarring. But, mostly, it’s incredibly, astoundingly comforting because, you see, there is just too much love for me to hold right now.

There is too much love for my human heart to hold. 

Even though I strive to share the love (because love isn’t meant to be kept inside, it’s meant to be sprinkled around like fairy dust), every time I look at my baby, there it is: TOO MUCH LOVE filling up the chambers of my tender heart, often tumbling like an ocean out of my eyes. It's amazing and life-affirming and excruciating and exhausting.

And so, I turn to God. I ask Him to please take some of that love and to carry it for me. 

To love my boy. To keep him well. To keep him safe. 

These are my morning prayers: Love him, keep him well, keep him safe. But there are others, too. I pray much more than I used to. I find myself having random conversations with God throughout the day, often in the shower and at the kitchen sink. I say thank you a lot (like, a lot a lot).

Thank you for this miracle on my lap, for the light in his eyes, for the life in his eyes.  Thank you for another sunrise. Thank you for another moon. Thank you for the food on this table that nourishes my family. Thank you for the incredible ride that is life on Earth.  Thank you for my husband and the dream we are building together. Thank you for my parents and their health and the love they have for their grandson. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for making me a mom. I take none of it for granted.

Having a child changes you, at the molecular level. I am a different human now. My cells have been altered. My priorities have been reordered. My worldview has shifted. Everything—absolutely everything—has shifted in ways I expected and in ways I most definitely did not expect. 

And through all of this shifting, it seems a sacred space has been carved, deep in my heart and in my life, for an intimate relationship with God.

And, maybe—just maybe—for Church too.

Because through all of this communing with God, I have started thinking about Church again.

About how much I used to love it. About how peaceful I used to feel after a particularly inspiring sermon. About the comfort of community and the power of prayer. About the magic of the Christmas story. About the little (extra)ordinary family that was Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. About sin and forgiveness. About grace.

I know, as well as anybody does, that God (still) doesn’t live in Church. And yet, and yet, and yet, I am being called to seek Church. I am having dreams about Church. I am being pulled to connect with churchgoers and to ask them, “Tell me about your Church. How did you find it? Why do you love it?” Something is stirring inside.

So, I’m opening myself up, now, to the possibility of Church in my life. To the possibility of (gah!) religion. I have no expectations. None. Just a whole lot of curiosity and an aching, open, filled-up-to-bursting heart.

Maybe I’ll find a Church that feels like home—one that is enlightened and built on pillars of love. Maybe I won't and I’ll end up in a forest of pine trees and realize (again) that Nature is the only Church that is right for me and my family.

I don’t know. 

All I know is that 1) I have learned not to ignore the heart-calling when it comes and 2) funny things happen when you become a mom. 

Letter To a Hurting World

World, I’m sorry you’re hurting.

I’m sorry your babies are dying. I’m sorry you’re being torn apart by a few haters of you and your people and the love that makes you go ‘round and ‘round.

I don’t quite know what to do.

I don’t quite know how to feel or how to act or what to say when really horrific things happen to your people—my sisters, my brothers. I freeze.

Many are saying: “I’m not scared. We’re not scared. We can’t be scared.”

But I don’t believe them, World, because I’m scared.

I’m scared for your future and I’m scared for all of our futures and, most of all, I’m scared for the future of my little boy and all of the other little boys and girls who will inherit you and all of the mess that’s been created in you, in the name of I-don’t-know-what.

I don’t want to hate, World.

I don’t want to become one of the haters, but I’m finding it really hard to put on a brave “love wins” face right now.

I’m finding it really hard to let my broken heart shine bright, even though that’s what she does best, you know—this heart of mine, she’s a firefly.

But maybe, right now, it’s OK not to shine. Maybe it’s OK to just be scared. To just be scared and angry and really, really sad. To just sit on the couch, crying, for those who got dressed up on Friday night, in Paris, and headed to a famous concert hall, only to be gunned down a few hours later.

And for those who, days earlier, were on the streets of Beirut, perhaps shopping at the market with their children, when a bomb went off, leaving nothing but corpses and terror in its wake.

Crying, too, for the fact that I didn't even hear about the tragedy in Beirut, until the tragedy in Paris happened. (What does this say about you, World? About us? About the value we place on some lives and not on others?)

All of this breaks me, World.

It makes it hard for me to breathe. It makes it hard for me to trust in the innate kindness of your people. And it makes it hard for me to believe—really believe—that love wins.

But then, World, I do what I always do when I feel lost: I close my eyes.

I place my hand on my chest.

I breathe into my belly.

And even though it’s hard at first, it gets easier. The breaths get deeper and longer and, in time, I feel myself settle. Everything slows down: breath, hearbeat, racing brain.

Just like that, I’m in my safe space again—that space, inside, where I go to find comfort when you, World, become a bit too crazy for me.

It is here, in the hush, that I reconnect to the real Knowing so often buried underneath all of the false knowing. It is here, in the hollow, that I can see the Light so often obstructed by darkness . It is here, in the clearing, that Courage lives—the kind of courage that can never, ever be crushed by fear.

This is where God lives, too.

This is where Love lives.

(And, World, just so we’re clear: In my version of life and life-after-life, God and Love are the Yin and Yang aspects of the exact same thing.)

And even though I’m a bit too scared and angry and sad right now to feel the full force of that capital-L-Love, I still know it’s there.

With my eyes closed and my breath steady, I can feel it. It’s like a soft current gathering strength underneath rough waters, quietly but consistently pulsing, gently reminding me of its presence and its power.

And when I open my eyes, twenty minutes later, I realize that I feel just a little bit stronger than I did before, a little bit braver, and like I carry just a little bit more capital-K-Knowing in my body.

World, this is what I know for sure:

I know that Muslims are not to blame for the terror running rampant in this world and I know that there is confusion about this, but I know that I will keep standing up for my Muslim friends as they would stand up for me.

I know that there are more of us who are praying for peace and working for peace and singing for peace and fighting for peace than there are who are rejoicing in these senseless acts of violence.

I know that fighting for peace is an oxymoron—that dropping bombs over entire villages only adds to the brutality and does nothing to ease it (if it did, we would have seen some sort of progress by now, 14 long years after this "war on terror" was started). I know that war is terrorism with a bigger budget.

I know that there are many who disagree with me on this, and that that is their right. I honour their voices, too. 

I know that there are more of us who are opening doors for those who are running and who need a safe place to sleep tonight than there are who are locking doors and barring windows.

I know that there are more of us who are hurting right now than there are who are celebrating—and I know that this is a very good thing.    

Because we are hurting together, World.

We are your people and we love you and we love each other and we are hurting together.

We are your people and we are kind.

We are resilient.

We are very, very brave.

And maybe, today, we are just too scared and angry and sad to feel very, very brave.

Maybe, today, we are feeling pulled towards hate (because fear does this, you know) but maybe—if we close our eyes, if we find our breath, if we listen to our wise, wise hearts—we will all feel a little bit braver tomorrow. 

Brave enough to believe—really believe—that love wins.

We are your people, World, and we are trying.

We are imperfect and we make mistakes all the time, but we are trying. And we’ll keep trying, together. We’ll keep healing, together. We’ll keep lifting each other up and teaching each other how to love again.

Our shattered hearts will keep shining, World. Don’t you worry. They will.

Our hearts will continue to light up the night.

We are your people, World.

Your army of fireflies.

I Honour the Women

(Originally published, with different edits, on elephant journal on October 26, 2015)

Photo by (the incredibly talented) Camilla Albano

I honour the women.

I honour the women who howl at the moon and the women who bow their heads in silent reverence, instead.

I honour the women who are loud with their words and the women who don’t feel they need to be loud in order to be heard—the ones who know that the wisest ones speak softly or do not speak at all.

I honour the women who call themselves fearless and the women who are full of fear but also full of courage; the ones who rise above fear; the ones who speak the truth even when their voice shakes.

I honour the women who understand that feminism is about choice—about choosing to be a mother or not to be a mother, to be a CEO or not to be a CEO, to have many lovers or one lover-for-life or no lover at all.

I honour the women who respect that there is nothing wrong with a white picket fence if that is what a woman chooses; the women who don’t consider other women to be inferior (less fun, less free, less fierce) simply because they have made different choices.

I honour the women who hold others accountable for their mistakes, but also hold themselves accountable when they are at fault; the women who understand that accountability is important, but that forgiveness (of self and of others) is infinitely more important.

I honour the women who realize that it’s not all about them; that the world is built on interconnection; that every action creates ripples in the fabric of life itself.

I honour the women who respect their perfect, precious vaginas (and treat them like the lifegivers they are) and I honour the women who don’t because they have been told, their entire lives, that being a woman means being second best and that to "play like a girl" is to play weak.

I honour the women who have explored their sexuality and accept themselves as glorious sexual beings and I honour the women who haven’t explored their sexuality because it has never been safe for them to do so.

I honour the women who value their own worth and those who aren’t sure they have any worth at all.

I honour the black women, the Muslim women, the indigenous women, the trans women, the poor women, the homeless women, the abused women, the women who have a voice but whose voice has been muffled for decades upon decades upon decades; the ones who are rarely represented in media and government; the ones who must ceaselessly fight against the marginalization imposed upon them.

I honour the women who don’t give up.

I honour the women who do give up; the ones whose spirits have been crushed; the ones who have been beaten down one time too many.

I honour the women who work tirelessly to protect Earth and her earthlings and those who don’t because they are too busy working two jobs to put enough food on the table to feed their families.

I honour the privileged women who not only acknowledge their privilege, but push back against the system that fosters it.

I honour the women who vote with their dollars; the women who know that change happens from the ground up and so who get down on their knees and dig in the mud; the ones who put their actions where their words are; the ones who understand that we are all doing the best we can with what we know and what we have and that that is enough.

I honour the women who don’t vote with their dollars because they simply can’t afford it.

I honour the women who, through their thoughts and words and deeds, revere the children (who will inherit the world) and the elders (upon whose shoulders they stand).

I honour the women who create—the ones who write and sing and dance and paint and knit and garden and mother—in brave and inspired ways.

I honour the women who recognize that it is their duty to give a fuck, that it is necessary to give a fuck, that there are too many people in this world who don’t give a fuck because they are too caught up in romanticizing the moment, the individual experience, and the ego.

I honour the women who understand that in order to create a better world—one where there is justice, equality, and freedom for all—we must exist in the present, but expand our awareness beyond the present (we must think of tomorrow); beyond the individual experience (we must consider others); beyond the ego (we must restore the heart to its rightful place as chief commander).

I honour the women who try to be perfect because they have never been taught that they are fabulous just as they are and the women who don’t try to be perfect, but aim to be purposeful.

I honour the women who build bridges between the gaps that separate women from women and women from men; the ones who know that, despite our vast differences, we belong to one another.

I honour the women who are real, who are raw, who are able to walk in the world with a heart full of scars that declares:

Here I am. I am a bit tender, a bit scared, a bit unsure. But here I am, taking another breath, greeting another morning, walking another step in the direction of wholeness, of healing, and of love.

I honour the women who love; the ones who keep on loving this broken world and its broken people because love is the force that fuels action.

I honour the women who, in time, learn to shamelessly own their stories and the women who never do because shame is so deeply embedded in their bones.

I honour the women who sacrifice, the women who give, the women who grieve.

I honour the women who stand tall and proud and those who keep crawling forward on their bruised and bloodied knees.

I honour the women.

***

(Note: In August 2014, a piece was published on elephant journal entitled, This Is For the Women Who Don't Give a Fuck. That piece—which both excited and angered me, at the exact same time—was the spark that inspired this piece and, for that, I am grateful.)

The Good Fire

Photo: Pinterest

The fire swells. Its initial spark, fuelled by dry bark and a strong gust of wind, becomes a flash, a flame, an inferno. It paints the world yellow and makes my baby boy’s big blue eyes grow even bigger.

It moves, tripping and twirling, seizing the breeze. It shape-shifts into memories, pirouettes into possibilities. I will take your most secret dream and set it alight, it says. 

It sings, whistling and crackling and hissing and hush. Its song is far removed from the racket of the city. There is no traffic here - no honking cars or screeching brakes, no streetcar bells or wailing sirens. Instead, there is deep silence interspersed with crooning crickets, lapping waves, and the sizzling orange light.

We are people connected by this growing, moving, singing fire. It has been burning, summer after summer, for a thousand years. The houses have changed and the scenery too. Parents have aged and children have grown. But around these flames, it's always home.

We sit in a circle of no beginning nor end, sharing stories and laughter and remember whens. We look up at the moon, admire the stars, and feel the knots in our muscles unravel.

We haven’t seen each other in months and our phone conversations have been brief.  We are busy, all of us. Busy with work, school, life.

Busy forgetting the simplicity of things. Like the joy that comes from waking up at 5am to the call of the loon on the lake. 

This fire brings us back. Back to the easy, uncomplicated way of life. Back to early morning swims and afternoon bike rides down long and winding roads. Back to afternoon naps under storytelling clouds. Back to roasting marshmallows for dessert and enjoying the sticky sweet mess of it all.   

It brings us back to the love that warms our insides and our outsides and lifts us up and out of the darkness we sometimes stumble into. The love that threads our individual stories into a tattered but spectacular rag quilt called "family." 

Every summer, the fire burns, the crickets croon, the shooting stars rouse our wildest wishes, and our hearts are set ablaze.

Answering the Call to Newness: Words Inspired by the New Moon/Supermoon, Solar Eclipse & Spring Equinox of March 20th, 2015

(Originally published, with a slightly different title, on elephant journal on March 20, 2015)

Image: tumblr

Today is a day for slowing down, way, way down. For taking deep breaths and deeper breaths still. For going outside and looking up at the sky. (Hello, sky.)

Today is a day for feeling your skin and how it wakes up when caressed by wind. For feeling your heart and how it wakes up when acknowledged, and accepted. (Hello, heart. I love you, all of you, always.)

Today is a day for repeating the words I am alive, I am alive, I am alive 108 times.

Today is a day for reflection and ever-so-gentle redirection. For asking the question, “How am I doing, really?” and being brave enough to answer honestly, even if the answer hurts, even if the answer is, “I have no idea, really.”

Today is a day for feeling connected to all that ever was, is, will be. 

The Universe lovingly cradles you in the nook of her left arm, while painting a new supermoon with her right hand, exhaling a solar eclipse, and dancing away the dark. 

You are a celestial event in human form. (Can you feel it? Today is a day for feeling it.) 

Today is a day for giving yourself a hug (because, friend, you deserve a hug), for giving yourself a high five (because, friend, you deserve a high five), for looking in a mirror and greeting your glowing eyes. (Hello, eyes. Oh, how you glow.)

Today is a day for trusting in the process of transition and transformation, for answering the call to newness with a resounding "yes."

Today is a day for rising from your six-month slumber, stretching your aching knees, and standing in your power, your truth, your renewed sense of purpose.

Today is a day for shedding your dry, dull, winter armour and revealing your shimmer. (Shimmer, friend, shimmer.)

Spring is here, and so are you.

Hello, light.