What do I want to do? (with my whole heart)

What’s dying to be born through me? (so much already has, and I’m feeling this question powerfully in my heart center)

How can I feel more playful in my day?

Will I ever feel organized?

Will I ever feel like I make the best use of my time and/or do things efficiently? If yes, what one step can I take toward that feeling? If not, how can I trust myself (love myself?) more in my perceived inefficiency?

How do I make more time for writing, yoga, and quality time with my husband? What needs to change for that to happen? What is my intuition urging me to say “no” to?

What is this fear trying to tell me in this moment? Is it my fear or did I learn/absorb it from someone else?

Who needs my love right now? (I’m finding the answer to this is often, “me”)

And you? What questions are dancing in your head and heart these days?

Today I’m taking my cue from Susannah Conway’s August Break and posting a picture.

This is Ada, who decided she would try “Mutton Busting” at the county fair today. My heart pounded as she was helped into her padded vest and helmet, her chin held so tightly she could barely smile. She stood calmly in line, turning to hold her hand out to the sheep behind her as my heart broke and it was all I could do to keep the tears from falling. Holding on hard to my composure, I wondered how many times I will have to hide my fear as she steps into her own life. How many times I will ask my angels to keep her safe, keep her alive. How many times I will lean deeply into the knowledge that I have no control and all I can do is love her every moment, of every day, for the rest of my life hoping, with the desperate ache of a parent who has already lost one child, that she will be there to receive it.

P.S. None of us had any idea what Mutton Busting actually entailed. After watching the first contestant fall off the sheep, she decided it was too scary. A moment of reprieve. For now.

Time feels odd to me right now – a bit like Salvador Dali’s painting The Persistence of Memory. The uber-famous, almost clichéd one with the melted clocks. There were days after Ben died when I would look at the calendar, at July 29, 2011 and wonder how we’d get there…if we’d get there. A year felt huge, a mountain I wasn’t sure I could climb when I squinted up at it. And now it’s gone. Friday was simply another day without Ben. A day where I got out of bed, showered, learned, laughed, cried, loved, slept. A day full of gratitude for my own life, for my daughter, my husband, and my friends. A day I wanted to make extra special and was too exhausted to do more than pull myself through.

Then there was Saturday. Our celebration day. We gathered as many friends as we could and had a party. The people we invited were those that went out of their way to help us this last year. They delivered food, walked the dog, helped us pack and unpack, sat and listened, opened their hearts and homes. Saturday they came bearing cards and gifts, flowers and bundles of lavender and sage. They came and witnessed, once again, our grief and our joy. They let us say thank you.

Sunday my body told me to slow down. It ached and my bones turned to jelly. Eventually we made it out to the beach and I lay down as Steve and Ada danced in the waves. Closing my eyes, peace swept over and through me, joy surged. I began to sob, my belly bouncing on the sand. I wondered if the people next to me noticed, if they were curious about my tears. My son died a year ago. I miss him and love him and my life is good. This is what happens when we open to pain. We are gifted with joy. This is what happens when we open to love. We are gifted with pain.

This is human. This is life.

This is.

Benjamin Burton Sheeren

born still July 29, 2010

1 lb, 1 oz

10 inches long

perfect

Son. Grandson. Brother.

You are remembered.

You are missed.

You are loved.