November
On Now: Ritual, limiting beliefs, and coming back home to ourselves
November was reflection and learning to be at home and finding my way back to my writing. It was holding onto the light of our shortened days and watching the trees shed the last of their leaves. It was going for walks alone around the lake and feeling the presence of Self that so often gets lost when I’m in the role of mother or wife or daughter. It was sex in the dwindling light of the late afternoon while the baby slept and the house always smelling like baking bread. It was committing to at least twenty minutes of movement in this body that I often forget even exists. It was finding the terror in my strength and doubling down on my power. It was missing my brother and looking at houses in Michigan as if I was actually ever going to move there. It was Elvis’ holiday album and putting up our Christmas tree a month early because we needed that daily reminder of joy in our lives. It was my son asking Santa for records and eating ice cream even when the cold made our fingers ache. It was river walks with the grass frosted white and the sun pouring through the naked trees and trying to make meaning out of slowness. It was couple’s therapy and talking about having another baby and not talking about having another baby. It was making art every day with my son even when that meant him drawing on his own face and painting his hands in every color. It was jasmine tea lattes and walks with friends where my face hurt from laughing. It was dancing in the living room with my son to the new Creedence Clearwater Revival record we found at the thrift store with no case for $1. It was writing in the company of women and guiding them through a series of prompts that made me want to cry with the vulnerability of it all. It was excavating my past to tell my grandfather’s story and being reminded of the passion and healing that comes with writing about my family. It was going through old photos from my son’s birth and those early days of postpartum and wondering if I could do it all again. Do I even want to?