I am not going to write a lot today.
I am waiting for my daughter to turn towards me, like I wait when the moon comes full.
She is in her own time, but I know she is turning.
She arrived last night, later than we expected.
We waited. Standing in the entry way of our house, our yearning for her was a muddy squealing piglet in our arms.
Dripping and moist. Noisy. Impossible to avoid.
Yet, when she walked in the door, I for one, was a tiny bit embarrassed for the mess of
my longing. In my jammies. No bra. Arms aching to hold her.
She is here right now. She’s been out and back. She’s gone for a run.
I have wiped the kitchen counter several times and watered the tomatoes.
I reserved today for this.
Tomorrow, I plan to be ship shape and back in the saddle and all tidy and running smoothly.
Or else, I will be, as you might expect, ship wrecked and dragged by my stirrups. Again, the mother heart, ticking madly, looking for your light.
This is the summer of the Permission Slip in year two of the Permission Slip.
I am, as you may read here and here, obsessed with the act of permission.
This morning as I climbed the stairs, my newly returned girl heading off to for
breakfast with not me, I knew I had a choice. I could turn to all the ways I have to distract myself from discomfort. Or I could, as Mark Nepo suggests in The Book of Awakening:
“When feeling the sharpness of being sad or hurt, it helps to take new things in. This pours the water of life on the fire of the heart.”
So I gave myself permission to be spontaneous. I painted. I found these words.
Stay tuned to the moon’s trajectory, to the summer of permission, to the voices of creative women, some of whom mother.
Nothing is perfect here, but it is real.
All my messy piglet love,