Lucky

Little C never falls asleep by herself. She is afraid of the dark, in some primal way that no amount of night-lights can alleviate. Every night, one of us lays down with her to read stories. After lights-out, we talk a bit or she begs for a story “from when you were little, mom.” Tonight I told her about a few of the many times I got lost, separated from my family – at Sears, at Disney World, on a snorkeling trip to Sombrero Reef. Then she snuggled into my chest, her head on my arm and I rubbed her head until she fell asleep.

Some nights, when I am weary or she is rambunctious, I swear that I’ll break her of this habit soon – make her fall asleep on her own like I did when I was her age. But tonight I just felt so lucky. So lucky to be the person who gets to care for this amazing child. Lucky to feel love so intensely that I ache from it, lucky that she still wants me to snuggle her to sleep every night. Soon enough, I’m sure, she’ll be telling me she’s too big for this. So tonight, I laid there with her for a little while longer, watching her sleep, smelling her hair, feeling how blessed I am to be alive.

What I Hope to Reclaim

I just put little Cappie to sleep, and she is just so lovely and amazing. I love the smell of her hair, and the way she curls into my body, the tenderness of her skin and the little twitches of her muscles as she finally succumbs to sleep.

She has been my tether to this earth. In her I see all the things that I lost somewhere along the way, and I wonder that I’ve been entrusted to steward her through this life, and to help her to hang on to those things for as long as possible. I hardly know if I’m equal to the task, but if I’ve ever applied my every resource to anything, it’s being her mama.

The things of which I write: innocence, self assuredness, joy, openness, unselfconsciousness, freedom. It’s the way she moves in her body with such grace and spirit and when she falls down she gets right back up again. It’s the songs she makes up to express both her joy and her sadness. The way she negotiates the intensity of her feelings and then, as soon as the storm fades, it’s like it never happened. The way she forgives and lets go, the way she tries to take care of me by leaving me with her favorite stuffed animal in the morning.

I look at her, and I see myself as a little girl, skipping down the sidewalk in front of my house, singing Joy to the World at the top of my lungs. Wonderously out of key, the breath and the sound filling my whole body and ringing out, up into the sky. I remember roller skating on that same sidewalk, with those metal skates that fit on over my shoes, up and down and  up again, every time I fell, brushing myself off and getting right back to it. I remember being very young and thinking: I was born with my heart and my hands open to the world. I want to fill the world with love love love.

So much happens to us, and it’s a rare person who retains that kind of innocence. But it’s still there, just buried. I know it is, because it sees itself in Little Cappie and it stirs. All children bring it out in me to some extent, but my own child really touches that place in me where that happy yelling singing skipping little girl still lives. She’s been there all along, buried under my fears of not fitting in, my painful awareness of being “too smart” and the ridicule that brings, my shame at my own failures, and my failure to live up to everyone’s expectations of (or hopes for) me.

I want to let her out to the surface. Fuck being cool, sarcastic and ironic. Well, maybe not entirely – I actually like my sense of humor. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I want to bring back that girl who wasn’t afraid to try anything, and would do things she liked even if she wasn’t all that great at it. I mean, what little kid says “I’m not going to paint with you because it doesn’t come out good”? Exactly. Somewhere, things became about the finished product instead of the experience, and that blows.

There are so many things that I’ve been wanting to do, to try, but there’s always a but. I’m too tired, too sick, too poor, too busy, too much in pain, too depressed. I’ve stopped living, and that really bothers me. I miss me, the me that was spontaneous and free, who took things as they came and trusted that the universe wouldn’t let me down. Maybe I should write her a love letter, and see if she’ll give me another chance.

Here are some things that I’ve wanted to do, but (insert excuse here):

Take ballroom dancing with Mr. B, take yoga again, join a gym and start swimming, go on a writing retreat in Taos w/Natalie Goldberg, clean my house & get rid of all the shit I don’t need, Go to massage therapy school, finish college, find a therapist who doesn’t suck, take a drawing class (or just draw more), learn photoshop, do volunteer work, go kayaking, get up into the mountains and hike, go to poetry readings, write poetry again (hell, write anything again, build fairy-houses, make Christmas presents, take more pictures, take a dance class, take a cooking class.

And that’s just a sample. I’d forgotten how much of the world there is to enjoy, and that I do deserve to enjoy it. I do deserve to be happy. I just hope I can find my way.