Finding Sleep and Stupas

If Time could talk it might sound like a high-speed transit train barreling by in the distance on a foggy day. Sideways missile. I look up abruptly but all I see is grey. I pass these trees during every sleep walk down the block. Today the leaves are a deeper shade of red; ruby bleeds into green into eggplant. The chill in the air reminds me that autumn has arrived, and moreover, that the heat of summer and the way River looked at me from behind the bright fern out back, is gone. Every now and then I peek into the stroller, her cave, careful to maintain perfect cadence so she does not sense my pause. Eyes, small almonds, gaze - half inside and half outside. Another train passes. From a mile away its horn rings through the fog, and I turn around to head home.

Walking through the side gate, Guadalupe blesses my girl's sleep. Do not think that because I speak of beautiful things that my experience is beautiful. Half way down that block, a few moments ago, an old pick up truck with a broken muffler idles past us. Seeing him coming, anger. I looked both ways for a place to escape, but there was no escaping. River screamed as rumbling exhaust wafted over her dreamy descent. That meant another two or three blocks. Then the postman headed toward us with his loud transistor radio. Quick swerve and across the street, I averted another round of screaming. A small commuter plane overhead, like a screetching harmonica through the sky -- I could have grunted or screamed in frustration myself, but I just swore under my breathe instead. Such is the dilemma of carefully, mindfully paving the way for your child, while dancing with the intruding world - who inevitably step on your feet.

This is not a crisis, but it can feel like a crisis when you are trying to find the doorway to sleep for your little one. Minutes, like precious sentences, fall off the cliff of Time. Small moments, when lost, become a landslide. Suddenly, your harmonious posture is totally shot. In the back yard, finally asleep, I tip toe three steps away from the stroller, and a neighbor begins to hammer from behind the fence. Now she kicks and screams.

Cursing down the street, I push the stroller too fast. Sleep, dammit! And then I catch myself. It's so absurd I just about choke. And this is how it goes. I stop. I even laugh out loud (quietly) to myself, at myself. Watching my own mind, the way the emotions spew so spontaneously - indeed, reaching more creative heights than I had previously dared to go as an adult. It's not comfortable to admit. In fact it's embarrassing and quite often humiliating - though I can admit to a twisted sort of fascination in witnessing my own behavior.

I return home again, today having circumambulated my house the way a seeker makes circles around a stupa. Once around, hopeful expectation. Twice around, happy prayer. Third time around, grinding the jaw, pleading. Fourth time around, kicking holy ground. Fifth time around, humble return to prayer.

"Mama," she says plainly. "Yes, River, your're right, it's time to stop all this." I lift her over my shoulder, and invitingly, lovingly say, "Put your heady down," and she nestles into my neck. Up stairs, we enter her room. "Mama," pointing to the bed beside her crib, "Nigh nigh, Mama." And so I place her on her back, green light from the walls reflect like pearls over her body. I kiss her on the forehead and lay down across from her.

Like this we swim together, now mid-stream, almost out far enough where the wind carries us to sleep.