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*day one.  flying.  25 Sept 10*

Wet sadness held court just behind my eyes.  Brushing my teeth.  Shaking rice crumbs out of OWL’s pjs & placing them in his overnight bag.  Picking a half chewed piece of beet off the bottom of my rough foot.  Hiking him down the hill to papa’s nest, to his nest with his papa.  Watch them play.  OWL asks for keys & inserts one (likely the same one each time, which he does with my keys, always choosing the apartment key over the others) into the cabinet with a missing knob.  Take one last picture, his new “I LIKE TRAINS” tee-shirt tight against his full tummy.  Cry & laugh & kiss my goodbyes for the next 6 nights.  Fall into the ex’s hug in fear & sadness & longing.  Never afraid of flying until last night.  If something happens, how will he know how much I love him?  How will he feel the mama’s love I know he’ll need every day of his life, good and bad and sad and everything in between?  Wipe my eyes walking to the bus.  On the bus, my lower eyelids a dam ready to spill over the edge.  From the train I text my girlfriend, a super-mama with a 10 week old, and ask her to keep up with OWL if something happens.  So he knows what a mama is like, what she sees and how she loves like no one else.  The dam breaks.  My life these days measured in the time between tears on public transit….

Fly eye to eye with Mt Rainer, blue magic walls coated in snow, holding the view steady and strong as the other mountains move behind it and away.  It amazes me. I know someone who’s summited, stood at this very peak and looked back out at the world.  Something I never really wanted to do, but sitting there, staring at eye level, I understand the desire.  I know I’ve been climbing my own mountains lately, but damn.  I bet that one has a better view.  Fly over Wyoming, over the Tetons on the opposite side of the plane so I cannot really see them.  It was here that OWL became his living swimming pre-self.  Where I felt so indescribably alive and energized by the air & skies & moons & starts.  History floods and cuts through me like the canyons chiseling the landscape.  Ledges and buttes giving way to hills green and rising like the folds of a soft blanket giving way to puckered earth.  I have to get back here.  Soon.  Next fall, I decide.  With OWL.  (Who’s up for an amazing road trip?) Fly into Colorado, the setting sun rests on the western slopes of the Rockies, reflecting a pink-tinged yellow, casting deep shadows over entire valleys.  On the Denver ground I recall a phone conversation, then-husband still driving through Kansas (which he was doing when I took off from Seattle a few hours before).  I feel and see the open  atrium where it occurred (on my end) before I reach it and when I do it is with a sinking heart.  This is where it began.  That trip.  The end of that summer.  The one that changed everything for better or for worse.  I turn my phone back on.  Picture comes through of OWL and his papa, snuggling on the fake fur blanket.  My little family.  But not really a family.  Just my piece and his piece of our now separate families.

I slow down and name the sadness.  And the fear.  This trip, in this moment and not 2 years ago, is about a new beginning for me.  There is no immediate decision to make.  But the next few days are about my eyes & my feel & my questions.  My future.  My potential.  My next steps.  If I love it, how can I make the choice to leave?  To pull OWL away over miles & mountains & a days drive?  And if I don’t love it, will there ever be anything out there that fits?  A place for me to grow & learn?

*day two.  wandering distractions.  26 Sept 10*

Morning & early afternoon lost to the drone of wheels against highway.  Full of heat. Low blood sugar.  Hitting reset only to wander the streets and shops in blindness. Picking up a few needed things here & there (like a new hat, which my fortune a few months back suggested I do, for a “new look”).  Sushi alone.  The wasabi and the maki pull me out of daydreams and back to the present.  Realize I spent the entire day distracted by art & soft things & beautiful fabrics & books & debit cards.  A way of walking without really looking or feeling.  “Good information,” I hear my therapist say.  “Great to get the message,” I hear my Monday night MI say.  Second reset. Need to let this place in, let it penetrate.  I need all the information my wisdom can gather.  This decision needs a place of clarity to come from my heart. Wisdom I need to see the direction my path twists and turns at this point.  Note these distraction are nothing new.  Some are fun & exciting, like my new hat. Others sad & destructive, like feeling ganged up on and put down by the people there to help when I was in labor.  And I let that go too, same as my day of distraction.  Back to the moment.  To the cheap chewy unagi on the end of my disposable chopsticks.  In coming back to the moment, there is no traveling forwards from the past or backwards from a fantasy.  I just arrive.  The weight of the fish in my hand, my breath disintegrating into the room all around me.

Driving back.  Exhausted by the day.  Catch a glimpse of a gold sphere emerging briefly from behind a grove of tall trees. Disappears.  I wonder aloud if it’s the Great Stupa (which, I still mistakenly think is in Boulder instead of 2+ hours northwest), majestically lighted in the dark September Colorado sky of 8:30 pm.  Crest the hill and find the waning harvest moon, so low on the landscape, like a building rising out of the earth and not a mass hovering and rotating above it.  Laugh at loud.  This is the essence of a moment.  Being surprised & taken not only by the light of the moon (which is ordinary even when putting on a show like this), but also being surprised that it is the moon in the first place!

Back at home base I look up directions to the Shambala Mountain Center.  Discover it is in Red Feathers Lake, not Boulder.  Over 2 hours away.  After my day of distractedly doing nothing, with a full schedule of “real” events starting midday tomorrow.  I should have been hiking the land and meditating my ass off in the stupa and….  So so so much is rising up in me.  So much without words.  After putting the pieces of three harvests moon together, there is so much behind every thought & movement.  Behind every landscape.  In every shadow & highlight.  A quality of hot hot heat and remembering.  Aching and moisture I cannot spare in this dry air.  I need desperately to go.  My super-mama friend assures me that is worth the drive for even a short stay.  Agrees it is a great space for me to visit now, after my day of distraction, a year after my husband left, two years since dawning OWL’s existence, in this part of the country, nonetheless.  Set my alarm for 6 am.

*day three.  the great stupa & a school.  27 Sept 10*

So much in this day!  Cook scrambled eggs and steep green tea.  Eat standing up. Slice an apple.  Pack walnuts, dried mangos.  Wash my dishes.  Honey for the tea. On the road.  Hard place to be the driver.  So much beauty in the mountains and bales of hay.  Horses flipping tails.  US 287 N to CO-14W.  Poudre Canyon Highway. A miracle.  Driving through this canyon, the river running seamlessly alongside, hugging the curves of the road and the looming formations, greenest of green hills ahead.  Bob Dylan singing Knocking on Heaven’s Door comes on NPR.  A song I’ve never liked all that much, so perfectly timed & inserted, so perfectly sung….  A new favorite.  More songs pass through the background without notice.  Cellos come into focus as I turn up the narrow dirt road leading up & up & up.  Remarkable sound. Quaking yellow leaves.

Hike under morning sun, among hoofed prints and chipmunks, distant birds, a brief visit from a pileated woodpecker.  Open the door to the stupa, empty and unlit, and say, out loud, “Holy shit” at the 18-foot buddha sitting on his lotus, vitakra mudra. Cold floor glides under my feet.  Eyes fixed ahead and upward.  Shrines & photos & guest book &….  Ground rolls and moves underneath my toes.  Awake!  Nice touch, this feeling of the earth I stand on every second of my life with little thought or effort.  Like a good student, I sit in Shamatha for at least 5 minutes.  Contemplate the weeks’ assignment, again.  Is there anything that does not change?  Is there a stable ground or foundation of all things & all experiences? Recall my recent revelation that I have nothing to do with who OWL is – he just amazingly is who he is.  Think of the parallel to basic goodness.  Birds & bees & trees & canyons & streams.  Summer fading.  Onset of Fall setting the stage for Winter.  Spring flowers digging in and waiting for their time to re-emerge.  Unchanging essence.  I have nothing to do with that either.  Just a part of it.  Same way I am part of OWL & he is part of me.  Indistinguishable, really.  My mama responsibility lying in creating and holding that space for him to flourish & grow & become his best self.  An active idleness.  Not engineering hopes & fears & story lines.  Letting him be in the world, working through it, teaching & helping & loving.  Providing tools.  Knowledge. Sharing wisdom.  And so too it is, with this home we all share.  With each other & birds & bees & so on.  In this current state of the world & affairs & the planet, I have the responsibility of stewardship.  Letting things be in the world to work as designed requires action.  Intervention.  Restoration.  That is my place.  My part.  Where I fit. This is one of those things mamahood & OWL were meant to teach me.

Nighttime open house.  Walk among small cottages, a greenhouse with foliage spilling out.  Small speeches and information.  A manuscript in poems.  More poems in a different voice.  Drinking in that cool mountain air & elevation like Kool-Aid.

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About this time two years ago, I was hiking the mountains and lakes of Wyoming in pure happiness. Feeling so alive. Completely myself. Open. In a place I dreamt about visiting, and there I was. Finally. My end-of-the-summer tour-weary then-husband was not as inspired, I think, but it did little to dampen my mood although it did limit my activity. He was ready to sit. To settle. Be home. Down time. Read without interruption. I sat in the shallows of Leigh Lake  alone, watching the water slip over the rocks as a raven on the beach picks apart a large rodent. Herds of elk roamed under the full harvest moon, their eyes aglow in the flash beneath the orange. Riding stubborn horses over narrow trails. Stars & moons & skies so large I disappeared seamlessly in my own smallness. Lakes & jagged peaks & blue like I’ve never seen. Sperm met egg.

This time last year, I watched the blazing harvest moon on a long walk home. So low in the sky it could be held. I was lost in its enormity. My smallness now a disconnect. OWL, a few days shy of four months, slept without effort, cradled safely against my chest, the warmth of our blood and skin and bodies still inseparable. Then-husband’s declaration of leaving only a week old. Weeping. The view bringing me back again and again to him. Our neighborhood. Our hill to climb. Our street. Our neighbors turned friends. Our maple tree. Our house. Our moon. Between breaths and night nursing, I manage to scribble some words.

Walking home in the full moon & sadness. Shared view so familiar & so far away. Light years from where I want to be  The moon felt like home. It was so clear & I was so empty. Have things come so far apart they cannot mend? I wanted to take a picture. To always remember, like it was something I’d never see again. Harvest Moon. Longing. Marking of time. Loneliness. Sadness. Stay. Stay in the moment.

And this year, I type from the small kitchen of our “new” one-bedroom apartment while OWL feeds himself rice and plums and pears, makes tofu and rice soup in his blue speckled camping cup. My body twists and cramps, swells and aches. A sleepiness beyond sleepiness. An embedded memory of pregnancy, a physical recollection so strong I drew blood just to be sure. Apparently, this is not uncommon. That is how much we hold in our hips and organs and hormones. OWL is that deeply recorded under my skin. His imprint in the muscles and tissues. The veins and charkras and centers. This year, I celebrate the harvest moon under cloudy skies and rain. Mark the time and the passing of so many changes. The unseen moon is full and it is the night I start looking at Fearlessness.

And then, it falls apart. My evening plan disintegrates. My friend is sick.  OWL is unnapped and unfed and lays his head down on the cardboard cat scratcher. On the bathroom rug. On the footstool. Rubs his eyes. I go through my list without success. I call my soon-to-be ex, desperate for this time to myself. Especially after the week and the day and my body having its own memories. He needs more notice. I lose it in tears. Wanting so badly to call out of my own life, just every now & again. He asks to call me back after dinner. Decide that OWL comes with. I clean the apartment just enough so I can walk without dodging piles of books and wooden blocks. I warm up pad thai and brown rice from last night’s family feast and slice up the rest of a pear. Pack the diaper bag with books and a toy while OWL experiments with chop sticks. Blow dry his wet pajama top. “Adventure!” I tell him through a weary smile as he rubs his whole face while I pull his arms through his orange flannel coat. We are out the door. He sleeps within minutes. This is my life, our life…. In the end, the soon-to-be-ex came through, without complaint, and watched OWL so I could go solo….

Not feeling so fearless, walking in tears in the face of feeling used up and out-dated and discarded. The sky fading to night. Feeling the lines of age and stretch marks, without makeup, without a full night’s sleep. But, I keep walking. I arrive. Take a moment to let the rest out through my eyes, and take stock of the physical moment. The trees with shifting wet leaves and the orange shed. The open wooden gate, dark from an earlier rain, swung wide at the mouth of the driveway. The light from inside illuminating flowers and friends. I dry and enter. Sad and ready.

Fear is a heaviness that sits in front of and all around me. A feeling of forever, a permanence in never being enough. Of deserving the mess. Sometimes I can see the open space on the other side, but cannot move towards it. I freeze at self-created comparisons, naming everything and everyone under the sun that is better. New houses and weddings and babies with parents under the same roof and jobs to complain about and friends and night lives and new lives…. I can go on. If we conquer our fear by studying it and knowing its nature, if that is the path of fearlessness, I must be on it. So many layers shed. The exposed pieces raw and basic. And in my glimpses of letting go, of surrendering to the moment and wheeling OWL down the hills of Seattle, allowing myself to lean into that sadness for a bit, I feel its truth. And I pull a bit of confidence out of my pocket for seeing my fears, for naming and feeling them, and let it all penetrate me.

Tonight, I cannot see the harvest moon through the clouds, but I feel its presence and know the gift of my smallness.  I am sad and grateful.  I snuggle and sing and rock OWL for 20 minutes after he wakes up in screams, an unbreakable connection growing and manifesting beneath the changing moons and seasons.

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