Archive for the ‘Nonfiction’ category



{By Brittany Gibbons, The Barefoot Foodie}

Have you ever been driving somewhere, and, before you know it, you’re there and you have no idea how you got there?

I haven’t been present for a while.

My body was here, and every so often, familiar words would escape from my mouth, but for months, my mind was somewhere else, and my heart was off laying in a mud puddle somewhere while someone poked at it with sticks.

I’m a cutter.

Not that kind.

With my brand of cutting, there is no visible blood.  All the scars are internal.

I was never going to say anything.  I was just going to cut.  Bleed.  Heal.

But, I wasn’t really healing.  I wasn’t clotting.

I was gushing.  Heavily.  And, it was blocking me.

Everything just squatting on my frontal lobe.  Making my words not work.

(I have no idea what your frontal lobe does.  I’m not a professional doctor.)

I have so many things to tell you.  Funny things.  Weird things.  Awkward things.  Just.  Things.  But, for a while, I couldn’t.

Every time I tried to tell you a story, my heart was all, HEY.  DON’T YOU REMEMBER ME?  THIS GIANT ASSHOLEY WOUND?  MAKING YOU PUKEY AND SAD?  LOOK AT ME.  LOOK AT MEEEEE!

Then it got hard to breath, my lips got numb, and my hands stopped working right, and I cried.

At first, it was sad crying.

I was mourning.

Mourning the loss of someone I loved.

Someone that was walking around, still very much alive, his blood the same as mine.

I waited to clot.  I waited to heal.

It turned to rage.

I bottled it and bottled it.  Only pushing against the people closest to me, screaming, LOOK AT ME.  LOOK AT THIS HURT.  THIS GIANT BALL OF SEEPING ANGER.  TAKE IT FROM ME PLEASE, IT’S TOO HEAVY FOR JUST ME.  I CAN’T CARRY THIS ALONE ANYMORE.

I expected help.

But instead, the body count grew.

Until things started to look less like a paper cut and more like a massacre.

Nobody likes complicated.  Nobody likes messy.

I am often both those things.

I used to only use the word hate when it came to silly things.  Like cilantro.  Or The Next Karate Kid.  Or people who hum when they chew.

But, now I use it for different reasons.

Reasons that are less sad and hurty, and more empowering and self respectful.

I can’t stop people from saying things about me that are horrible and untrue.

But, I can stop giving their disgusting actions so much weight.

I can’t make the people I loved see the truth or the hurt.

But, I can stop feeling so alone.

Because I’m not.

The surviving pieces of my life are my treasures.  My family are my bones.  And, I happen to have the very best friends in the world.


Not friends.



Some near.  Some a bit farther.

But, what’s distance when it comes to wine, laughing and singing along to Glee, right?

You aren’t in my life right now.  And, I just have to be ok with that.

I’m clotting.

I can write again.

And, I have the funniest thing to tell you.

Photo credit

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Brittany is the author of The Barefoot Foodie.
Subscribe to her blog in a reader so you won’t miss her serious, funny, brilliant thoughts.
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Discovered by Story Editor, Robin Dance @ PENSIEVE :: @PensieveRobin


Stolen Treasure

{by Gailt Breen of These Little Waves}

photo credit: Sean Hubbard/@seanhubbard

I look at him through red rimmed eyes. He wipes my cheek dry with one thumb and asks, Are you happy?

Yes. No. Sometimes.

Yes, when I’m focused.

No, when I falter.


We sit in the center of our bed like our three children often do. Our room is large but this space in it is small. Our toes touch. Our voices conspire.

He is loving mixed with worry. I am anxious laced with anger.

Anger because he dared scratch beneath the surface of what I want seen. I am faltering.

When I’m focused, I see a straight path to my treasure. The obstacles along the way are simply tasks to complete.

But inevitably, I falter. I falter. It is my own undoing every single time. I steal my own confidence. My own vision. My own focus.

I hide these treasures somewhere deep inside until they are no longer visible. And I replace them with ugliness. Fear. Insecurity. Jealousy.

What makes you happy? He asks, leading me back.

The kids, you, writing. I list my gems one by one, keeping track on my fingers. I try to hide behind my words, but I can’t.

I slump and put my counting hand down. I need a break. He smiles, because this he can fix.

We talk quietly. Share days. Make plans.

I tuck my children into bed again.

I take advantage of a hot shower and soft fleece.

I ignore my multiplying to do list and spend time with a friend.

Wine and laughter soothe my soul. I share my writing goals. They are big and seem far away.

I’m scared to try.

You’ll be great.

When I falter, kind words wash over me without making the tiniest of imprints.

When I’m focused, I open the door, gently unroll each one, and welcome it in. Believe in it and allow it to restore me.

I have a choice to make, a task to complete. Let go of my stolen treasures and continue down this spiral or consciously stop. Refocus. Reclaim what is rightfully mine.

I come home and softly make my way through each sleeping room.

I breathe in the stillness at each stop and place one hand on each rhythmic heartbeat just for a moment. Careful not to wake, ready to summon the goodness back to me.

I tiptoe downstairs and melt into the large green chair. I wrap myself up in the sheer yellow blanket, open my laptop and begin to type.

Each tap of the keys is a claim: These treasures are mine. I see them, and I am taking them back.

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Story Editor: Heather King ::: @HeatheroftheEO


The Presence of Greatness

{By Jeanne Damoff at The View From Here}

The first time I saw him he was walking on a treadmill. A blond starlet dressed like an old-west prostitute posed seductively in a country music video on the television screen suspended in front of him. But he wasn’t watching the video. He was looking around at whomever or whatever, not furtively, but with blatant curiosity.

When our eyes met, I understood.

Some might call the expression vacant. As the mother of a brain-injured son, I saw it more as open. Unmasked. He had dark eyes, and black hair curled around his ears, and I guessed he was probably somewhere between eighteen and twenty. A slender, silver-haired woman walked beside him. His mother.

The world has labels for people like him. Damaged. Deficient. Broken. Unproductive. More than anything I was struck with the stark contrast between his unaffected expression and the video starlet’s heavily painted facade, and I wondered with more than a hint of irony how many people in that gym would laugh at the notion that his contribution to society might be more valuable than hers.

The encounter touched a deep, knowing place inside me, but it was a seeing and moving along. I soon forgot.

That was several months ago, and I hadn’t encountered the pair again until last Friday, when I spotted them in an area off to the side used for free weights and upper body machines. There were plenty of other things going on. In addition to the general hustle and bustle of the gym, heart-breaking scenes from Japan filled a television screen nearby, and another a few feet away aired clips of a defiant Gadhafi, and on yet another some poor guy rushed through his busy day carrying around a beaker full of green liquid that I’m pretty sure represented the acid in his stomach, but my attention kept returning to mother and son. I didn’t mean to stare, but the more I watched them, the more everything else faded into the background. World events, whirring machines, even my own physical exertion. Soon I was completely enthralled with the interaction of the two.

The mother’s long thick hair was swept back and twisted up, the ends forming a silver firework atop her head, like a diadem. Her exercise clothes revealed a lean, toned frame, not beefy but gracefully athletic. As I watched her work with her son, I wondered if her motives for staying fit are as mixed as mine. For me, having a forever child — one with a permanently broken wing who will never fly the nest — compels me to remain strong and healthy as long as possible. There’s also the biblical mandate for stewardship of the physical body. Then there’s the addictive, endorphin-induced stress relief, the increased energy and sense of well being, a myriad of reasons (including simple vanity) I want to look attractive, and mixed in with all that, I suspect there’s a grasping for control, or at least the illusion of having some.

I know nothing about the other mother’s situation, but whatever her motives are, it didn’t take long to see in her a beauty that goes much deeper than a sculpted figure. A love story played out before me, and I had front row seats.

I watched as she helped her son lie down on a bench, placed two eight-pound weights in his hands, then lay on the bench next to his with her own hand weights. They turned their heads to look at each other, which gave me a clear view of his face. I’m sure she was speaking, but I doubted I would have been able to eavesdrop even if I’d been much closer. I imagined her voice as soft, calm, soothing. She seemed the embodiment of quiet strength, peaceful authority, and regal grace. I was captivated by her, and her son appeared to be as well. He never took his eyes off of her face as they raised and lowered their weights, side-by-side, him mirroring her movements, his expression a picture of cooperative concentration.

When they finished that exercise, she helped him sit up and carried their weights back to the rack — all her movements fluid elegance, purposeful and unhurried, as though completing this work out were the only event on her agenda and she savored the sweetness of each moment with her son. When she stepped away from him for any reason, he remained in his place, quiet and still, patience personified. Even a casual observer could see there was a lifetime of knowing between them. He had no reason to doubt her return, so he waited, fully present in his waiting.

And again, I understood.

People who’ve read our story often ask me what Jacob is like today — if he grieves what he’s lost or has goals for the future. For a long time I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’d tell them that nothing seems to upset him for long, and his default setting is happy, but — other than the mercy of God — I wasn’t sure why. Then one day when I was trying to explain Jacob to yet another person who’d asked, it all suddenly made sense. Jacob is content because he’s fully present in whatever moment he’s living. He doesn’t mourn or regret the past, and he doesn’t anticipate the future. He lives in the now with pure, childlike faith. I have no idea if the young man in the gym was born with his “deficiency” or if it was a gift of God’s severe mercy like Jacob’s, but I saw in him the same restful, trusting contentment. And, perhaps even more stunning, I saw this contentment in his mother as well.

What happened next made me catch my breath. The young man sat on a weight bench, staring out at the central part of the gym. As his mother walked past to adjust a machine behind him, neither turned to look at the other, but she placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was like a benediction — intimate and so full of grace and tenderness, I almost felt I should avert my eyes. But I couldn’t. I was mesmerized. Awed by beauty. And deeply convicted.

I’m ashamed to admit how often I get frustrated with Jacob’s pace or resentful of the impact his limitations place on our choices. Everything about this woman’s body language and behavior communicated not only peaceful acceptance but love, joy, and genuine gratitude. And her son responded. When she spoke, he listened and obeyed. When she placed her hands over his and guided him through the use of a weight machine, he submitted without resistance, his trusting eyes fixed on her face.

The whole scene was so beautiful, so stunning and other-worldly, I lost track of time and everything else, and when I pulled myself back to my own reality, my heart was full to brimming. A multitude of emotions swirled inside me — admiration, gratitude, inspiration, awe — but there was one feeling conspicuous in its utter absence.


Talking heads and defiant dictators still paraded across TV screens, and starlets still sold their souls for digital glory. I glanced around at harried people, squeezing in a slapdash work out before rushing off to the next pressing thing, and I wondered if anyone else in that room knew they were in the presence of true greatness.

What the world calls damaged, deficient, broken, Jesus names beloved, beautiful, redeemed. What the world would throw away as useless, He honors and exalts, making the least into teachers of compassion, possessors of radiant faith, living parables of His truth. What the world considers great, isn’t. Not in the eternal scheme of things.

Become as a child. That’s what Jesus said. Do as I have done to you. Wash one another’s feet.

I shudder to think how often I miss God’s gifts — so busy am I scrambling for significance, laboring to make myself feel good about myself. But God still gives and gives, and when I’m present in the moments of my life, I see.

I watched a mother with a silver crown serve her prince of a son, and I heard a Voice whisper.

“Well done.”

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Jeanne weaves and spins words at The View From Here.
Subscribing to her blog will bring beauty, laughter and wisdom to your reader or inbox.

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Featured by Story Editor Robin Dance | @PensieveRobin

November 14, 2011 | Featured 2, Memoir, Monday 1, Mr Lady, Nonfiction

Saying Goodbye

{By Megan of Undomestic Diva}

Today is one of those days – one of many recent and one of many more to come – where life’s new twists and turns have me walking out the door of several years of fond memories and unthought of heartache towards a future of Who Knows.


It isn’t a fancy place, this house. And while smaller than many, it was enough; certainly more than many others hope for and at the end of the day it wasn’t just stucco and wood and cement and shingles – it was our home.

This is the house that broke us, in many ways, though of course it’s not only to blame – not one single thing is. But it was also the house of much happiness – where two of the three boys were born, where many Halloweens and birthdays and summers were spent, where Easter eggs were hidden and found, where dinners were concocted and birthday cakes created, where oranges were picked and eaten in the yard, where swingsets were built and ignored, where gardens were planted and bloomed, where Christmas trees sat (and fell), where life moved at a speed quicker than we could register  – all inside these walls that were being fixed and patched and painted as we fell apart.

I slowly circle one more time in the living room. It still feels oddly full, even in its bareness. Though the smell of cardboard boxes and laundered clothes and nostalgia has left in trucks and U-Hauls, a vaguely familiar scent remains – the way the house smelled the day we got the keys – of vacancy and emptiness. It sinks in. The truth is, this house didn’t break us. We did. And this house isn’t haunted. We are.

It’s hard to fathom that I’m taking one last look around our house and leaving it to go to my house. The newness of everything is jarring and yet exciting and the adventure of it all has its moments of hope and its share of fear.

I shut the door. I pause on the porch step, taking in this very moment, soaking in this change like sunlight on my skin, breath in my lungs. There’s nothing left here for me anymore. Today is another reminder of moving onward, this time, literally. I remind myself: A house is a house but a home is what you make it so I have not just packed our clothes and photographs and books and toys but our memories too. They, though the heaviest of all the things to carry, are the easiest to move.

Megan is many things…an incredibly talented writer, a doting mother, a California girl and a photographer I’ve personally admired for many years.  Read the original post here, then follow her journey by subscribing to her personal blog through RSS or Networked Blogs. Follow her on Twitter, like her on Facebook, and circle her on Google + for charm, wit and loads of amazing pictures.

Featured by story editor  Shannon | @mrlady


Can you see me now?

{by Ms. Picket To You of Post Picket Fence}

(photo source)

Kids at a pool: it’s the epitome of fantastic wretchedness.

They swim and dunk and dive and flop unattended and fully entertained and working up to an excellent exhaustion. The sunscreen melts off the minute it’s applied, but their bodies are submerged, so: only shoulders get burnt, maybe noses. They paddle and flop and hunt quarters at depths taller than they are. They coordinate games named “Baby Dolphins.” They get drenched and pickled and giddy all at once.

But the goggles are too tight or too loose or worse than her brother’s. The towel is too soggy but worthy of a battle, a whippingatyou, smackingatyou battle. The sister’s belly flop is half-assed and “mine will be better and hurt more than hers” and WATCH ME WATCH ME WATCH ME will echo across the chlorine, over the deck chairs, past my magazine, and straight into my face. Straight into my face over and over and over: WATCH MEEEEEEE!

I explain that I have but two eyes and even if one goes one way and the other another, I still cannot see Three Short Drunk People do Amazing Short Drunk People Tricks in the pool. So I say — “you first” and “your turn now” and “hold on! hold up! do it again: I am watching.”

Watching what? Nothing really. A kid holding her breath for as long as little lungs can, a wobbly hand-stand where points are counted for pointed toes, a boy and his butt-crack attempting a cannon ball. Watch me! they shout.

What they mean to say is: See me! SEE. ME.

I struggle to get through a page of the New York Post, which is pathetically impossible. I am commanded to WATCH ME every four to seven seconds but I realize something as I do as told, as I bear witness to nothing and everything: little changes with age. That impulse to be seen? It clings to the body like salt water or chemicals. It holds on past childhood.

New jeans, fresh paint, shiny car, a sleek tattoo: we dive in, we jack-knife, we swim the fastest, we make waves, we sink to the bottom, we do a dead mans float, we make up games and break the rules, we hunt for money at some depth deeper than we should, we float and drift to the stairs.

See Me! we say. We say it sometimes without speaking. We say it to people we love and to strangers and to passers-by. We are all sometimes just kids at a pool, fantastically wretched and soaked and half-naked.

Watch me.


Read the original post at Post Picket Fence
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Story Editor: Heather King ::: @HeatheroftheEO


It Depends on When He Sees Me for the First Time

{By Alexia from Say Another Lexi}

(photo credit)

If he sees me when I am with people, he will think my cheeks must hurt from smiling so much. He will wonder if my fingertips are worn down from touching people all the time. He will see how my eyes are really magnets, gravitating towards anything that glitters. He will know that ever time I throw my head back to laugh, I am really swallowing a falling star. He will see all the different shapes my mouth makes, because it moves even when I am listening. He will see the way I hold my hands on my lips when I think before I speak, as if words will escape without permission. He will see my thoughts splash across my face, emotions striking my face like lightning, one after another. He will see that I can never hide behind my expressions, and he will understand that my readability is a sign of sincerity. He will know that those thoughts are just drops, and that inside me there’s an ocean. He will want to swim in that ocean.

If he sees me when I am alone, drawing hearts falling from trees like leaves, he will think of me as a girl from a sad song. He will wonder why the frown in the middle of my forehead is so deep. He will wonder who hurt me and gave me such hollow autumn eyes. He will think someone broke my heart and he will be jealous of that boy for getting so close. He will wonder what I look like when I smile. He will think of my notebooks as keys, and know that they are filled with words falling from a fountain that goes on forever. He will wish his heart was a musical box that played my favourite song. He will follow my gaze and wonder if I’m really looking at the horizon or something else that he himself cannot see. He will be discreet but he will want me to see him seeing me. He will smile when I scowl  and go back to scribbling. He will know that, one day, we will laugh about this. He will want to see my hair spread across his pillow like an auburn pien-mien, lying with his head between my breasts, sharing secrets we swear we’ve never told anybody else. He will want to be the one to light up my eyes, and the one to catch the glint of tears before they fall. He will see the effort it takes sometimes just to stand up straight and he will know what that feels like, but he will stand up straight, even straighter, sometimes, just to teach me how.

There are some things he will think no matter when he sees me for the first time. He will catch my eyes bounce around the room as I play crosswords with constellations and create love stories about strangers’ kisses and observe how the ceiling looks like grated cheese. He will see that my hands are small, and older than twenty-five, and he will know that they give firm handshakes, and that they are maps to an old soul. He will want to hold them, so I can stop fidgeting, so I know he’s with me, so I won’t run away. He will hold my hand just because he wants to.

Alexia writes to us from Athens.  The original post can be found here.
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Featured by Editorial Director, Jennifer Doyle | @playgroupie


the wide white empty

{By Jessica at One Wild and Precious Life}

Today the earth is pressed against this wide white emptiness and there is still this gap in me, this hesitation.

I’ve been thinking about painting.

I remember in college making the best art when given many rules.
The still life was constructed. The lighting already determined.
Stand here. Paint that.
And so I did.

My fear was the blank canvas and nothing to paint.
No model, no instructions.
A painting.
I’d cringe.
I still do.

I think that I tend to live my life way, feeling for the boundary.
Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it, I’ll find a way to make it mine.
Whatever it is- make the best of it.
Bloom where you are planted.

I like limits.

I love the nights when I haven’t bought groceries in weeks and our pantry is nearly bare and I see that we have potatoes and I think, ah, potato soup .. . and then I remember I still have a little bacon in the freezer, and a hunk of cheese, and I’ll bake bread, and there is that cake mix I need to use, and frozen peaches, and suddenly this is sounding like the best meal all year.

But I can walk through the grocery store unable to think of one thing to make for dinner.
This is Art-
This is Life:

you find your materials:

the still life of junk-

the ugly sweater-
the lump of clay-

the useless, the forgotten, the awkward, the ordinary-
the lonely-

and you work, and rework, and see, and see again, and change directions and look, and turn it upside down and step back and see again . . . you get a cup of coffee and find a new cd and sit down and stand up and look and wait and see . . . and then you dip your brush and your hand is shaking just a little but you’re getting a little bit excited too because you’re thinking that maybe you’ve found something- and you keep digging, you keep painting- aware now that you are the magician, redeemer, the fairy godmother . . . releasing, liberating the thing, it’s up to you . . . but you’re sure now that it’s in there . .. the beauty . . . now it’s all you can see . . . and you keep painting, or sculpting, or writing, or maybe just waking up every day with all of the life that is in you and trying,

again . . .
until the beauty comes.

Tonight I am still sitting and looking.

It is the hardest part: the waiting, the empty canvas . . .
the search for beauty in what is not beautiful, meaning in what feels meaningless.
There is no lonelier place than before a blank canvas.

It is an act of faith,
this making art-
this making a life.
A long and usually lonely process of waiting,
and looking.

Of believing
and seeing again-

the beauty finds you.

Story Editor~ Heather King ::: @HeatheroftheEO

Jessica writes at one wild and precious life
You can read the original post here

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Morning rituals

{by Carmi Levy}

~ London, ON, October 2010

To some, it’s just a mug of coffee. To me, it’s coffee that my wife made. Which makes it uniquely special, because to me, at least, it’s far more than percolated beans with a bit of milk and sugar.

It’s a little thing that connects us, a moment between sleep-time and our pedal-to-the-metal day that reminds us why our family matters as much as it does. Because before we had kids, before we needed to shuttle them around town, before we tended to their every need before we tended to our own, we sat together over mugs of coffee or tea at our quiet kitchen table.

Even if not a word was said, the conversation was always glorious. Still is.

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Canadian journalist Carmi Levy  has been weaving beauty in words and pictures at Written Inc. since 2004.  Subscribe via RSS.

Written Inc is also the home of Thematic Photographic, a weekly themed photo share (you’re invited to join).

He’s @CarmiLevy on Twitter.

Story editor, Robin Dance :: PENSIEVE



{by Jennifer Schmitt from A Road With a View and originally featured here on September 17, 2009}

I was in the middle of nowhere, but I felt as though I had arrived at someplace important and pivotal. A place that should show on some map of my life with the words Go here.

Heavy and golden, the moonlight sank to earth on a parachute of stars and brought everything around me out of the shadows – the hulking shapes of mountains, open space, a black ribbon of road. Far away, the light of one house.

I stood in the middle of a road in northwestern Montana, shivering with the wind that ran through me like a hundred ghosts. I had stopped to get out, to look. No other car would pass by while I stood there. The night was big. The world was big. How many times had the wind that filled my lungs traveled along the curve of the earth? I breathed in, sure it told me secrets of what my life could be, how big it could be, now that it was all mine again.

Back home in Connecticut, my job waited for me and my husband did not. Our separation was new, no older than a month. With less fuss than it took to plan our wedding, we decided to break apart the marriage, each of us taking uneven halves of the whole, pieces that had never quite fit together and always left a space between two people who tried.

I settled into a new place and then took every vacation day and every bit of cash I could, and I drove – this time, from Connecticut to the western side of Montana, 5000 miles in 12 days. It was the middle of September – now, almost to the date. This time every year, I give myself over to nostalgia for that trip and for the person I was then. Brave. Unafraid to go as far as that, alone, to see something beautiful, to be changed.

And despite the disappointment of a marriage that ended, I still thought I could see ahead and predict the future, or shape it.

The joke was on me, of course. On her, on the person I was that night, eight months before I would learn that I was pregnant with my first child. Whatever I thought was brave or scary before hitched a ride to somewhere far away.

But she learned. You want scary? I told her. Having a baby is scary. Cobbling together a life with another person, with a new life between you, takes guts. Believing that it will all work out? Harder still.

At times, it’s hard for me to look at the photos from that trip. In them, I see how formed she thinks she is, how much she cushions the ache of her want, how tender she is with her hopes. How she still believes that there are answers to be found in a kiss, or on the curve of the moon.

I want to tell her what’s coming, and that she will get through it. That what is scary just might save her. That having children, though she didn’t plan it, will root her to her place in the world, no matter where or how far she goes. That she won’t want to go alone, always, and that she won’t lose herself completely, even when she is sure that she has. That one, I would tell her over and over and over. Or, I will. I do.

And most of all, even though I will never find words to explain how I know it, I would tell her that she’s right about one thing: That the moon – constant and round and white – is still, somehow, an answer.


Jennifer Schmitt is a freelance writer.
You can read the original post and subscribe to her blog, A Road with a View.

Featured by Editorial Director, Jennifer Doyle | @playgroupie


head over heels

{by Christine Green}

I was a feather of a girl for a while there. I could stand on my head in the middle of the living room floor for what seemed like hours. My mother would peer at me from the kitchen nervous that I would fall, but she did not scold or ask me to be sensible. She simply let me be.

She knew, I think, that those days were fleeting. She knew that someday the weight of many responsibilities would sit on my shoulders and my easy lightness would be replaced by a heaviness that would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

I’ve tried now, cautiously when no one was around, to spend some time upside down again. But I can barely lift my legs into the air, and my feet feel like lead weights. I’ve tried, too, in yoga class with plenty of prep and lots of help from the instructor, but I always freeze up. Fear washes over me and I convince myself that I will fall and break a leg or embarrass myself in front of the entire class. So I quietly move on to something else: a nice, firm warrior pose or a quiet, safe child’s pose.

But I see the others do it and wonder at the ease with which they seem to turn their world topsy turvey even for a second or two. I see them and I remember those sunny childhood afternoons I spent with my feet in the air and my heart easy. There was no fear, just action, as I swung my legs upwards toward the clouds. Then there was a calm while I watched the world pass crazily by as I stood on my head, motionless and quiet.

My son seems to be taking after me these days and spends inordinate amounts of time with his feet above his head. I watch him as he hangs upended on the couch, his small, perfect feet drumming a rhythm on the wall as he watches Scooby-Doo, and I envy the carefree flexibility of both his body and spirit.

I should, like my mother before me, let him be. I should let him hang there upside down among the cushions where he is happy, free, light. But I feel compelled to turn him right side up, tell him to stop before he gets hurt. I earnestly warn him that he could fall at any second. Even as I stand there scolding him, hands on hips, I know I shouldn’t. I should listen to the little voice telling me,

“Don’t fret. He isn’t about to fall. . . he is about to fly.”

Christine Green writes at Grown Ups Are Like That
You can read the original post here
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Story Editor~ Heather King ::: @HeatheroftheEO

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