Mother's Day 2010. Day before my baby's birth, nine years ago. Day after his birthday party. Month of our redemption--moving into the phase of loving, abundance, the ever after of this two year period of struggle.
The dragonfly spoke to me last summer--she landed on my finger and reminded me of two. Two year phases that comprise such experience as I was undergoing in that moment. I shook my head, didn't want to believe her. She shimmered there, gently insisted on her message, let me walk her all the way across the crowded room, out the door and to the edge of the deck. Only when I extended my hand for her to go did she fly, but she left me enchanted and aware of having been touched by the Divine.
I was exultant but also resistant--adjusting the start time of the "two" in my mind--pushing it back and back to put my present at its end. But this--almost to the day--two years after we made the decision to leave Europe, choose family, choose each other over every other thing: my head breaks the water.
It is as if we have duck-dived a massive wave, felt the turbulence pass along our spines as we moved inside its blue-green might, focusing all our energies on punching out the back side of the enormous wave: symbolic willingness to change. We generated it. Indeed we must have created the underwater terrain it would drag itself across to pitch itself into air, curl over, collapse in a wild melee of energy and whitewater and force.
We have shot out into the near silence on the other side--the cool promise of glistening bubbles frothing and popping in a hushed susurrus of relief, blue ribbon of horizon gently beckoning, our own hands interlaced and expressing our perfect intention to do this, whatever it takes. Together. I open my mouth and pull in a mouthful of the air on this side. It is good. It is real. It is good.