"Everything alive has a rhythm" he says. I think of the pulse that I live with . . . the methodical drum beat of getting things done. There is something secure in checking it off my list. I think of dancing barefoot in the African Dance class on the second floor of the building, our shouts echoing off the floor like an indoor basketball game, creative and free.
There is something beautiful in movement.
We dressed in bright colors that year, baring head bands and holding drums. I used to smile as I heard the echo of djembe's as the sunset hit the Wellsvilles, calling to me. I felt a yearning to belong to that rhythm, to be a part of it all. I loved the clap of air as touch and sound collided, and the way the vibration entered my skin and sat there.
Last week my rhythm was changed. It's slower now - steady and quiet, filled with more space than sound. Months before it happened I tried to imagine what it would feel like, to move on that frequency. It's different. "Life is a series of being the expert, and being the beginner" Michelle says. "embrace being the beginner" she urged. I feel like Sarah inside - a nine year old girl who jumps off stage, running into her mothers open arms with the most genuine call "I did my very best, mom".
I'm doing my very best.
It is hard - staying in time with largo when you work best at a scherzo. Ten days now of a thousand new emotions - spurts of color that explode in my heart without warning. I love those tiny feet, those tiny hands, those big eyes and that hair that can't seem to look like anything but miniature bed head. Tiredness is heavy inside of me. Days and nights run together and everything melts into a simple 3 hour feeding schedule. How can such a simple schedule feel so overwhelming? And yet, she is the only thing that comforts me when I feel I can't do it anymore. The cause and the solution, all in one 19 inch bundle.
I didn't expect the simple rhythm to come with so many ups and downs. Physically I am fighting to feel normal again - a simple walk around the block suddenly feels like a marathon. Something about minimal sleep, producing milk, and having just given birth has thrown me into a realm that requires more healing than I've ever needed. Emotionally I am learning I love so much deeper. Which means I can cry a lot. And then there is the psychological . . . this ever persistent battle I've never before fought. I've discovered several demons that have found my head and like to sit in it. "You don't know what you're doing" they shout. "You're failing, failing, failing. You are a terrible mother, look - see. You're doing it all wrong". I look at her beautiful face and it breaks my heart - she deserves someone who isn't going to fail.
But then I pray, and remember the talk Joy gave when I lived in Queens. "I believe in Failing" she said, as the high strung New York energy buzzed around outside. "I believe in failing because there is so much growth in learning, and letting Him heal us". I look about my bones and tendons for pieces of my shattered courage, gathering them together into a battered and meager pile. Brent kisses my face and says I am beautiful. He says I am a wonderful mother.
And the rhythm beats on. It's a comforting feeling - knowing it will continue to pulse, that I am a part of it and regardless, it will continue. I am learning to embrace this slow tempo. I am grateful for it - it is encouraging because I know I can catch up. Much faster and I'd never be able to play all the notes. It's gentle and it's slow, and I am new and I am trying.
Motherhood. So much wrapped up in one word.