It is the day of my 19th wedding anniversary, and I sit at a picnic table with a pale blue cloth; the heat from the camp stove rises idly, casting a slow and swirling shadow across the print of the fabric. Overhead: the susurrus of green leaves moving against one another in a barely perceptible breeze. Morning light is best, I think. Then sunset light. The sea is very near. I can smell it. But we arrived in the dark last night. When I have finished the French roast I am sipping, and my boys (all three of them) have come back from their 50 cent showers, we will put the dog in the van and go in search of waves.
I am aware of myself as being among the luckiest people on the planet. Not only because I am not suffering today--I am not weathering a natural disaster, not trying to shield my children from gunfire, not fending off hunger or fear--but also because I know myself as such, and this, I realize, is a vital part of the equation of happiness. Gratitude. I am grateful for the health of my family and my self. I am grateful for a job that provides housing and an unmatchable educational experience for my children. I am grateful for my husband, who is kind, capable, strong and steadfast. I am grateful for three women friends in particular, the four of us scattered over the earth like seeds, who will ever hold space for my spiritual journey. I am grateful that today I will be in the sea and play by riding waves. I am grateful for time to play--with my family--this summer.
I am grateful for the egg I carry in the hollow of my throat, perfect gift of remembering that I nurture something utterly divine which in its time will hatch, and I will be the steward of it, as I am now. In my mind's eye, I wrap my pareau across my body, twist and tie it behind my neck so that it secures the stone and drapes to my knee. I pull the excess fabric up, toward my body, and begin to climb. I have chosen the difficult way. I scale the Valley wall with ease, caprine agility. The waterfall drenches my skin and hair as I go, but the egg pulses at my throat, where it is safe and saturated with my own heart rhythms.
The strength of my limbs as I rise is unrivaled and I know it as the collective energy of a life lived well and with purpose. I am yet young, only now entering the period of fruitfulness and, oh yes, harvest. I am grateful for all of these things. For the new novel stirring in my ribcage, only 50 pages as yet but tumbling through me like a rush of autumn leaves. Of monarch butterflies. Gold-feathered birds. And I am still. I thank the spirit world for speaking so clearly to me, though at times I could not hear. I thank the divine. God indeed.
So...without having heard about my meditation, without having read this blog entry, this: independently of one another, my boys each bring me an egg-shaped stone from the sea. It is exactly the stuff I saw in my meditation--something between a crystal and granite--white and shaped like an egg...that fits in the hollow of my throat. I realize that this is our pre-hatch trip, during our pre-hatch summer, during which I learn that my life is perfect, exactly as it is. During which my love for my family and my husband is perfected. It is the summer in which I learn to be truly present. To let go, let come. In gratitude. In gratitude. Om.
I am aware of myself as being among the luckiest people on the planet. Not only because I am not suffering today--I am not weathering a natural disaster, not trying to shield my children from gunfire, not fending off hunger or fear--but also because I know myself as such, and this, I realize, is a vital part of the equation of happiness. Gratitude. I am grateful for the health of my family and my self. I am grateful for a job that provides housing and an unmatchable educational experience for my children. I am grateful for my husband, who is kind, capable, strong and steadfast. I am grateful for three women friends in particular, the four of us scattered over the earth like seeds, who will ever hold space for my spiritual journey. I am grateful that today I will be in the sea and play by riding waves. I am grateful for time to play--with my family--this summer.
I am grateful for the egg I carry in the hollow of my throat, perfect gift of remembering that I nurture something utterly divine which in its time will hatch, and I will be the steward of it, as I am now. In my mind's eye, I wrap my pareau across my body, twist and tie it behind my neck so that it secures the stone and drapes to my knee. I pull the excess fabric up, toward my body, and begin to climb. I have chosen the difficult way. I scale the Valley wall with ease, caprine agility. The waterfall drenches my skin and hair as I go, but the egg pulses at my throat, where it is safe and saturated with my own heart rhythms.
The strength of my limbs as I rise is unrivaled and I know it as the collective energy of a life lived well and with purpose. I am yet young, only now entering the period of fruitfulness and, oh yes, harvest. I am grateful for all of these things. For the new novel stirring in my ribcage, only 50 pages as yet but tumbling through me like a rush of autumn leaves. Of monarch butterflies. Gold-feathered birds. And I am still. I thank the spirit world for speaking so clearly to me, though at times I could not hear. I thank the divine. God indeed.
* * * * *
So...without having heard about my meditation, without having read this blog entry, this: independently of one another, my boys each bring me an egg-shaped stone from the sea. It is exactly the stuff I saw in my meditation--something between a crystal and granite--white and shaped like an egg...that fits in the hollow of my throat. I realize that this is our pre-hatch trip, during our pre-hatch summer, during which I learn that my life is perfect, exactly as it is. During which my love for my family and my husband is perfected. It is the summer in which I learn to be truly present. To let go, let come. In gratitude. In gratitude. Om.
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