Warmer

I'm so glad that this has taken me so long, cause it's the journey that made me so strong.

"Warmer Climate," Snow Patrol. I've loved that song since I first heard it nine years ago. For the whole of it, for the atmosphere. But a few weeks ago I was surprised at myself when I choked while listening to/singing those last lines. I teared up. I heard it at the right time, really heard it, really felt it. It's true.

Open your heart to the thought that life is something you're not caught at.

I'm caught up in sentimentality right now. I'm also catching myself in moments of frustration and anger. Last week, week fifteen, was a rough one. There was nausea worse than I've had it, and headaches, anxiety, shame. I didn't have time for yoga. I fell asleep every night on the couch and then struggled to sleep when I went to bed after Phillip left for work.

But I might be feeling the baby, leaning forward on the couch. It's not fluttering but a rumbling. Not hunger but lower. It might be the little avocado. I'll know better in a few weeks.

Baby, you're the words and chapters, the sweetness in the morning after.

Every day we have Jack now he wants to listen to my tummy. I pull up my shirt and he presses his ear to me. "I hear it," he says, confident. He knows the baby will stay in there until she/he's big enough to be with us. He will be nearly five by then, a true big brother. Four will be joyful.

Breathe in Life

You can send your breath to your toes, to your spine, to your elbows. You draw awareness to your body, piece by piece, acknowledge it, soften, move on. You relax. When done, you breathe life, energy, back into those places. You inhale life. Of course you inhale life, but you breathe in life, you breathe out trouble.

Tonight I did yoga nidra for the first time. There is only one pose, and the intention is complete relaxation. Meditation. Potentially sleep. I breathed in life and sent it to the baby. I breathed in energy and sent it to my heart. I breathed in joy and sent it to every limb.

Sunflower Yoga Studio has been open for almost two weeks now, and I've been to three classes, all gentle, restorative, centered on relaxation and calming the nervous system. I love it, and I'm grateful for it, particularly that it has come now, when my body needs my gratitude and attention.

The bump is slowly growing. I'm now using the rubber band method to secure my dress pants because I can't button them. It's reassuring to feel the roundness, the proof of growth. I know this is only the beginning.

Now we're listening to Josh Rouse, stretching in bed among the seven pillows. Phillip is playing video games in the living room. Scooter sleeps in the hall. Snickers is somewhere in a room, settling in. Jack is elsewhere, likely dreaming of soccer and zombies. This is my family.

I never dreamt of what my created family would be when I grew up. The house we would live in yes, but not the number of kids or pets or who my husband would be or what I would be. I imagined an atmosphere of adulthood, one that was calm, thoughtful, considerate. It was more of an intention of how I wanted to live, but I had no idea how I'd get there and really no plan for it.

Internally, all along, I knew that Jedsen wasn't it, that I was not at peace and wouldn't be. But my plan didn't call for breaking up a long, committed relationship, regardless of the troubles. It took finding my own inner peace out there on the Blue Ridge to strengthen my will to make the whole atmosphere of my life balanced. I shed the negative and was one again. I achieved my intention of adulthood alone, and then I walked into it whole with Phillip, and here we are today. I didn't imagine it, but I knew it was home when I entered. I felt the stillness of right.

Clearly, this pregnancy makes me reflective of my path. Thirty makes me reflective. Yoga makes me reflective. All, gratitude. And perhaps that's my intention for the next phase of adulthood: an atmosphere of gratitude, empathy, breath, joy, love, energy, nature. Yes, I can live with that.

Eve

I am here.

I wrote that in the sand on my first time seeing the ocean. Hunting Island, the Atlantic, 2010. I was 25, at the beginning of my professional life and on the verge of discovering my true self. The journey took me to more mountains than beaches, but it was a series of attempts, of trails discovered and summits peaked.

I couldn't have predicted then what the next five years would hold, that the trail would lead back home. And that back home would be with the man who first truly saw me and accepted me, and that it would mean helping to make my hometown even better, and that it would have me thinking in terms of leadership, community building, and finding a sense of place on the plains.

I am here.

I find myself with the urge to write this now, here, on the walls of my home, on the skin of my stomach, in the dirt of our yard. I am here, a few days from thirty, growing into a new meaning. I am thirteen weeks pregnant, six months from becoming a mother. For the last two years, I have been a bonus mom to four-year-old Jack, a part-time parent trying on the role and testing out that love. But, most days, I'm still just me, that girl longing for a mountain alone or a long drive with my love. Most days, spontaneity is mine, reclusiveness is an option, time is relative.

Phillip is excited for his thirties: a chance to prove himself wrong, he says. I wonder where my twenties went, how I got here so fast, but I welcome the change. A chance to prove myself right, to build on what I've discovered, to dig deeper into the passions. And to grow a human being and to teach him or her what I've learned. To show a little one what love is and what community is and what nature is and how to live a meaningful life--or at least provide the foundation and the support to discover all of that on his or her own.

Yes, I am here.