Every Once in a While
Every once in a while I get into a really "real" moment in life. I look around and feel extra lucid. It feels like every other moment in the course of the day I am walking around with my eyes closed and not paying attention to those around me, the happenings of the day, the events that shape me into who I am. Then I take a breath and things are extra clear.
This happened to me yesterday. I picked up Garett from daycare, and it took all of my strength not to turn my review mirror to aim it directly at him and just stare at him all the way home. I feel he has changed so much lately. He is a boy now, not a baby, not an infant, not a toddler. A full grown boy. He speaks with clarity sometimes, and sometimes it's mumbled little boy jabber that only I can understand. When did this happen? When did his language explode? When did he start running and jumping and skipping and laughing until there were tears in his eyes at something someone said? It all happened so quickly, and I know I was there for it every step of the way, but it sometimes takes my brain time to catch up and process. I am just processing that he is a piece of me, that he is growing, that he will always refer to me as "mom" and that he relies on me for everything. So I spent the evening staring at his beautiful face and kissing his cheeks off. Because he won't always let me do this, I want to embrace the times I am fully in-the-moment and "awake".
Then I looked over at Tyler. The lines that are starting to form around his eyes. The nails bit too short. The grey overtaking the brown in his hair. This is my husband. He works too hard. He loves it. He takes care of us more than he takes care of himself. He dedicates every waking moment to work, or to spending time with me and Garett, or to helping others. I want to tell him he deserves more time to himself, but I am selfish with his time, so I bite my tongue. I stare at his profile view--I see the light reflecting in his eyes and I think about how those are the eyes that fell in love with me; that stared at me on our wedding day. I look at his mouth. It has laugh lines around it, from all the moments we laughed until we couldn't breathe, from all the happy moments we have shared together. Those are the lips that coached me through child birth, that tell me secrets and speak his deepest fears. I love him.
I look around at the four walls. The furniture in the room. The toys. These are all trophies of how far we have come, of the life we have built. I own these things. I have gone and made a mindful purchase of each thing specifically, and had purpose for it. A job well done. There is nothing more I can think that I want. Just more time.
I think of myself. As a person. The experiences I have had--the lessons hard learned, the things that came easily, where I have excelled and where I have failed. I am proud of myself. That matters right? I have come a long way from sitting under the slide on the playground, imagining what life would be like when I was "old".
Then, before I know it, I am out of it. Life starts to feel more like a dream again--a foggier form of lucid. The zone where we start to tear ourselves down and beat ourselves up for not having more, being better. The zone where we start to under appreciate people, to take them all for granted sometimes. The zone where you're tired and stressed and the everyday routine grates on your last nerve. The zone of guilt and exhaustion and fear. So I am going to try--everyday, for a moment or two--to look around me and appreciate all of it. And as I look around, everyone else seems to be in the same foggy lucid as me. So I urge everyone to look at your life like you are an outsider at least once a day. Like you don't know yourself--this is the best time for self-reflection. Are you happy with how you treat people? With the person you are? With the people you surround yourself with? With your career and your level of happiness in life? Being "lucid" is like receiving a gift. You're welcome :)
This happened to me yesterday. I picked up Garett from daycare, and it took all of my strength not to turn my review mirror to aim it directly at him and just stare at him all the way home. I feel he has changed so much lately. He is a boy now, not a baby, not an infant, not a toddler. A full grown boy. He speaks with clarity sometimes, and sometimes it's mumbled little boy jabber that only I can understand. When did this happen? When did his language explode? When did he start running and jumping and skipping and laughing until there were tears in his eyes at something someone said? It all happened so quickly, and I know I was there for it every step of the way, but it sometimes takes my brain time to catch up and process. I am just processing that he is a piece of me, that he is growing, that he will always refer to me as "mom" and that he relies on me for everything. So I spent the evening staring at his beautiful face and kissing his cheeks off. Because he won't always let me do this, I want to embrace the times I am fully in-the-moment and "awake".
Then I looked over at Tyler. The lines that are starting to form around his eyes. The nails bit too short. The grey overtaking the brown in his hair. This is my husband. He works too hard. He loves it. He takes care of us more than he takes care of himself. He dedicates every waking moment to work, or to spending time with me and Garett, or to helping others. I want to tell him he deserves more time to himself, but I am selfish with his time, so I bite my tongue. I stare at his profile view--I see the light reflecting in his eyes and I think about how those are the eyes that fell in love with me; that stared at me on our wedding day. I look at his mouth. It has laugh lines around it, from all the moments we laughed until we couldn't breathe, from all the happy moments we have shared together. Those are the lips that coached me through child birth, that tell me secrets and speak his deepest fears. I love him.
I look around at the four walls. The furniture in the room. The toys. These are all trophies of how far we have come, of the life we have built. I own these things. I have gone and made a mindful purchase of each thing specifically, and had purpose for it. A job well done. There is nothing more I can think that I want. Just more time.
I think of myself. As a person. The experiences I have had--the lessons hard learned, the things that came easily, where I have excelled and where I have failed. I am proud of myself. That matters right? I have come a long way from sitting under the slide on the playground, imagining what life would be like when I was "old".
Then, before I know it, I am out of it. Life starts to feel more like a dream again--a foggier form of lucid. The zone where we start to tear ourselves down and beat ourselves up for not having more, being better. The zone where we start to under appreciate people, to take them all for granted sometimes. The zone where you're tired and stressed and the everyday routine grates on your last nerve. The zone of guilt and exhaustion and fear. So I am going to try--everyday, for a moment or two--to look around me and appreciate all of it. And as I look around, everyone else seems to be in the same foggy lucid as me. So I urge everyone to look at your life like you are an outsider at least once a day. Like you don't know yourself--this is the best time for self-reflection. Are you happy with how you treat people? With the person you are? With the people you surround yourself with? With your career and your level of happiness in life? Being "lucid" is like receiving a gift. You're welcome :)
very well written!
ReplyDeleteThank you:)
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