12 April 2019

welcoming april.

i am writing from my beloved perch in the window overlooking our street down below, a gathered moment while francis dreams so close to me that i can hear the suckle movement of his rosebud lips. the unfolding of this morning hums with the rhythm of our daily life: we walked to our laundromat around the corner and tossed in the family wash, and spent its cycle at our coffeeshop, mama sipping café au lait and baby making his rounds greeting baristas and neighborhood friends and rhoda the pup. then it was back to tending laundry, and we spent the tumble dry at fairway, plucking five essential oils from the shelf and narrowing them to three. some combination of my own making is puffing from the diffuser just now ~ ylang ylang and basil and lemon ~ and i feel as though i live inside a greenhouse, and in my heart, i do.

one of the many things, for better or for worse, about apartment living in new york city is that almost no one has outdoor space. a patio garden is the rarest of luxuries, and nevermind a greenhouse. i dream of walking just beyond our door with my babies, barefoot, rain or sun, and tending flowers alongside them and drinking from a cold hose and playing in buckets of water and holding earth in our hands. and if we cannot do that, not just yet, i can instead brew up some elixir of ylang ylang and basil and lemon and we can feel a bond with the natural world. that can be something. that can, for this season, for life lived inside these new york years, be enough. 

yesterday sat atop my shoulders in a way that felt funny and so we baked an olive oil and chamomile cake in the afternoon, and it's got me thinking about how one of my grandest, most potent desires for my children is that they see, truly feel, the beauty in their lives, cloaked all around them, yet often hiding in plain view: the impossible pink of the first blossoms of spring. the way their own handwriting slants just so. the angels from heaven masquerading as strangers offering words wrapped in warmth in the coffeeshop or grocery aisle. a letter from a friend delivered by post. what gratitude feels like. how easy it can be to talk with god. lace curtains painting scalloped shadows on the wall.

and if one day they look and don't quite see it, may they look again, perhaps shifting their vision just an inch to the left or right. and if that particular day feels heavier than most and brightness sits just beyond their view, may they make it for themselves.

i think of this so often in my mothering, how i want to the sort of mother who makes with her hands and tends her family in soft ways and takes funny days and makes a cake out of them. a mother ever aware of the magic trickling through her children's bones, poured by the very hands of god, and mindful of her purest role as the maker and giver of space for that magic to bubble to the surface and flow wildly, freely, eternally.

it's such a beautiful experience, to live these hours and days of francis' babyhood so entirely alongside him. to be a mother at home with her baby. to know that his whole world, and everything that colors it, every story and song that ignites his ears, is something i dream up and make for and give to him. i want to write more and more about this, and all about our days welcoming april ~ tulips and daffodils covering central park, cool mornings sharing smoothies by the window, adventures in the village and in brooklyn and on swings, adventures on our very own floor, a sweet visit from my own papa, baby's feet meeting earth, the poetry of strawberries sitting atop the kitchen counter ~ and i will, but just now francis is sleeping feet from me, just over there, sighing deep and satisfied inside his dreams and his cheeks are plush and blushing and begging for kisses, so i am going to do that instead. be right there, darling boy.

1 comment:

  1. Filed under: "manifestos for motherhood" and "beautiful things my friends have said."