She sits in bed writing what lies inside her chest.
It spills out in bursts and pauses today rather than intense moments of clarity.
She’s had this nagging feeling that she can go in two different directions, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally as well.
She’s pregnant, with her second child. She feels life beginning within her and it quickens her heartbeat and slows her reactions.
She feels sluggish.
She’s at that gorgeous, initial starting point where the finish line is visible, yet not something that feels real.
Her heart knows that it can handle two children, but her daily patience and overall inability to occasionally deal with stress makes her slightly fearful.
She doesn’t like feeling afraid.
For a time, she simply shoved it deep down and played with her daughter and felt nauseous and the beginnings of roundness, and all that comes with impending motherhood. Now, though, she sits typing and she stops—and she listens. She listens for whatever it is her churning thoughts are trying tell her.
Her practice has periods of bursts and pauses too.
One week she goes to class four times and practices at home as well; still others, she finds herself stalled by a sick child or her own body.
The first time that she was expecting, she pushed through a variety of workouts, through teaching yoga classes and even through new, additional certifications. However, this time she’s promised herself that it will be different, and she’s heard this from many second-time mothers.
The first time we start out like puppies, ready to race and play and squirm underneath any obstacle, but with time, and with wisdom, we see the merit in being a little bit less like that notorious hare and more like the moral tortoise.
That’s not to say that she won’t push through workouts—although she has temporarily given up teaching in order to be at home; to practice, instead, being the kind of mother she dreams of becoming—but she’s committed herself to enjoying this slight stillness—as much calmness as can be had with a toddler running around—before another addition comes into their family.
She finds herself feeling unsure of this new equilibrium that she actively seeks out. She finds it ironic that passivity, for her at least, takes active work.
She hears the pitter-patter of her fingers and the slight click, click, click of her longer nails as she types and, suddenly, something blurts into her understanding:
She’s always effectively stilled her stream of consciousness by moving physically through her body and this is the pattern that she’s trying to change; to break; to disorder.
For the moment there’s only disorder—random mental chatter of her flaws and her failures. She remains determined, though, and not just for her sake, but for her family’s and for this life that’s growing quickly within her.
She hits “save” and her fingers momentarily rest; stop; still.
She’s not sure precisely why she needs to do this for herself—to back off and let things happen more naturally this time around—but it’s a gut instinct and, she’s learned the hard way, those you don’t ignore.
Photo credit: tanahelene on Flickr.