My boys come home in 65 hours (or so). And it's sort of been this long, lonely summer through which I wandered aimlessly. Not really having any the comforts of my attendant shadows to guide me, remind me, inspire me, or bring me purpose. I filled the days, but they all seem a little blurry. No husband near, no big kids near, and no little kids pushing against my heart and stealing my breath.
You know, when you practice yoga, it is all about the breathing. It's all about the stretching. How far can you stretch yourself? Can you challenge yourself more? Push harder? Can you show yourself grace? Can you be gentle with yourself? Can you dig a little deeper into authenticity? Can you stand firmer? Can you balance?
Push down to lift up. Lift, push, stretch, reach, and breath. Bend, fold, hinge, and breath. Push down to lift up. She's only trying to keep the sky from falling.
People say, "Why do you do so much?" I reply, "Why not?" but what I'm really thinking is, "Why do you do so little?" People say "You're too hard on yourself." I reply, "Nonsense," but what I'm really thinking is, "You're a hack." You know what they call people who aren't hard on themselves? Amateurs. And listen up, I'm NOT living my life in a perpetual amateur hour. It's a choice.
And when my little kids aren't near, when my husband is perpetual distance, and when my big kids are too far away -- it's just me. Just me. Just me, and my stretching and my reaching. And I can always reach higher, I can always stretch farther. Because it's always on offer. It's always waiting. And soon enough, there'll be a homecoming, and the boys will be stealing my breath and pushing against my space, and forcing everything back into balance. And there'll be bigger things, sweeter things, higher things to reach for. Up! Up! Up! Why stop now boys? Why do less boys? Your mama's not raising amateurs. Get out there and reach.
