Three years ago I set out to write a memoir. As with most plans, the content I had intended transformed into something else, guided by the presence of my newborn daughter, River. Most days, sitting down to write, she slept next to me at the cafe. Closing eyes, waiting for the muse, I was always surprised, always led through humility, and always greeted with the opening of eyes - hers to the world, mine to the story making its way onto the page.
I have over 300 pages, letters to River, about life, lessons, the daily grind, and the sacred seed in every moment. After a few attempts to edit and find the right beginning, I put it away. Life always seems to take over. I am not an easy woman, and River is not an easy girl; our relationship is not easy.
Most nights I still don't sleep more than a few hours. Most days I don't know how to be right with her. It's hard to justify a book, filled with love and a deeply held conviction for the spiritual path of motherhood, when these days we're well into the woods of forgetting our true connection. She's only three and a half and I know, already, the forgetting is here.
But still, some things have a life of their own. In the past few weeks I've had one offer for publication, and another strong showing of interest. Without pursuing its outcome, River's Grace is finding its way out of the box and into the light of day again.
For the next few months I am rededicating myself to giving it a chance, to listening as deeply as I did for that original year of writing. I ask for your blessing and prayer that the exhaustion stand back, that the daily frustrations of my life stand down, that a space be cleared for the inside voice to be honored and given a body.