My Teacher Turns Two

11/27/06

The days have been long, the nights longer. Full days, little sleep, much held in cupped hands. My girl is two today and I just put her down to nap. Moments ago, her back to me, she glances defiantly, and refuses to surrender. Not until I kneel down and place my head lower than hers, does she acquiesce, allowing knees to bend, hands to unclench into small wings, outspread on the purple pillow. And then she pulls my hand to her chest, encloses it in both of hers, closes her eyes, and in ten minutes rolls a half turn sideways, bangs across her brow, lips like berries ripe on the vine. As I whisper my fingers loose, I think, my god, she’s lovely.

And it stings.

Her unexpected cooperation disarms my impatience; ready anger held off by the surprise of beauty. That kind of penetration – even the strongest, deft stubbornness bows before the skillful teacher. My teacher, a two year old willing to drop to her knees.

An hour earlier, I sit across the table from a friend. She looks up and says, “I hope this doesn’t embarrass you. Last night while making love to my husband, I was on top, and he very kindly asked me to move just a bit – he was having trouble breathing – my stomach….I was in the way. It was too big.” In the whir of lunch and toddlers and electronic toys, I stop and listen closely. “I burst into tears. Everything I’ve been holding just needed to release,” she confides. "So humiliated, I put my head down and cried...and at the end of it all, I realized that it goes much deeper than shame about my weight. I haven't been doing my practices. That's the real suffering." Her eyes brighten, "Whenever I remember to do my practices, everything feels right, deeply right again. I feel myself truly and all that other stuff doesn't have power over me."

And so begins a conversation about the body, having babies, our mothers, and all the women in our lines. Within sixty seconds we nod in agreement – the complexity of it all. I say, “When I look in the mirror now, naked, I see my mother. My body looks just the way I remember her. Painful.” She responds, “Yep, I remember looking at my mother with such disdain – disgust really, thinking to myself that I would never let myself get like that – and she wasn’t really overweight. How I used to force myself to work out, and the control around what I would allow myself to eat or not!”

I'm so relieved. “It’s good to talk about it together. If I was alone, my thoughts about myself would never be so compassionate.” Full with sisterly affection, “You are a beautiful woman and I’m sorry for your suffering. And I know…it’s difficult to be awake to all of our patterns, to turn around and see how they extend back through all those women.”

Have mercy for all the shame. Have mercy for the way we were taught to hide ourselves, and for the way our children watch us hide.

11/27/06

This morning River calls out, “Mama….mama….” and I reel out of bed, automatically find myself upright, out and across the hall. How to approach the morning from the night – my daily, predawn contemplation as I open her door. No words. I open my arms and walk slowly. If her head is up, eyes bright and awake, I am the sun, “Good morning, River!” all sing-songy. If her head is down, eyes still back inside, not yet up and in the day, I stop a foot out from the crib and wait. She sways a bit, my signal, and I make my torso into a blanket that wraps, warms, and eases the transition.

Today, “Hi-eeee, my two-year old, big girl. Good morning!” Holding her arms straight out, she wants to dance. Already. “Mama, eee wan pippa.” I lead the sway and swirl, and she tips her head back, bends knees to catch the wave of music between us. “You want pizza for breakfast?” She chuckles. “Silly girl!”

Into the next hour, pink fleece hat and coat in place, her purse filled (deliberate consideration) with a mama doll, two puzzle pieces, and a daddy doll. I drop her off at the new big-girl school (every time I say it she claps and says, yay!) and she doesn’t say good-bye. She’s off, she’s flying, into the day, the world, taking her place. The teacher laughs, “So sorry for all her separation issues!” And I laugh, too. Yep, my girl, strong spirit.

And I go forth, the day blank, and the drive to the cafe a good thing. Who am I without her in tow? It takes streets and trees and the sun, sky, and wild things along the way to call me out, to open doors in the back hallways of my heart. I find my way. I find my way into my time. And then, the writing, just across the shore. I'm so happy to be back.