An anchor for my soul

I had something else in my mind to write about tonight. Something other than what you will instead find in the space below. When I’m in the shower or driving and inspiration for a post strikes I jot it down. But having more ideas than time means that the list is getting longer. This frustrates me because I have the supreme adversity of being a postpartum, type B perfectionist. All that means is that every time I actually get the drive and inspiration to write, something (like a nursing baby) takes higher priority the second I sit down. But when circumstances for writing are perfect the free spirit in me rises up and shakes her chains and says “nope, you’re not writing tonight.” And then because I’m a perfectionist I chide myself for being a “bad blogger”. Such is life.   So I walked out into my backyard tonight to water the garden before settling in to write about a, b, or c topic on my aforementioned list but immediately I knew my fingers and toes and chest and belly were rising up with a story of their own. Because the moment my feet hit the grass on my walk to the garden the wind picked up and my whole body reacted to its meaning: change.

Fall is blowing in. A new season. Already, my mind asks? My baby was born in the winter, on the cusp of spring, but still two seasons ago. I wholeheartedly welcome the fall time in the Pacific Northwest. Autumn is my soul sister. But already? My son will be 6 months old this week. Half of a rotation. Half of a year. He sits up unassisted and babbles constantly, rolls across the floor or bed to what he wants. And in the same way that he was born, he greets the world face up, always joyfully grasping at life. And while I welcome days of more sleep and more independence I also crave the feeling of wrinkled newborn feet beneath my fingers. Every emotion that I didn’t yet have words for overwhelmed me in the face of this evening’s wonderfully cool breeze. I looked at my garden and took in its growth and ripeness, so close to harvest. Behind me the maple was tossing its first leaves to the ground. The first year postpartum is so much like the changing seasons. Somehow each day that lasts an eternity is over when we blink our eyes. We simultaneously love and hate the feedings and bathing and changings and forget to look up until the breeze hits our skin and suddenly we’re staring at the stars.

One of most overwhelming parts about the first year after our child’s birth is the sheer constancy of change. Just when we think we have a handle on something the rug is pulled out from beneath us. It’s really hard to feel like you’ve figured something out with your baby only to have a new milestone disrupt it two days later. Did you hear me? I said it’s HARD. It’s frustrating and exhausting and can leave you feeling really, truly powerless. Mamas, I am giving you permission to admit that all of this change is rough stuff. And I’m also going to let you in on another well-kept secret…it doesn’t exactly stop as they get older. There is always going to be change. Longer legs don’t just mean new clothes and a bigger bed. Longer legs can carry small bodies up and down stairs. Longer legs mean growing pains, and new words, and then school. Friendships and hurt feelings.  Eye exams and allergies. Every season will bring nuances to our kids that we love and some that we don’t really understand or care for.  But this first year is by far the most intense. It’s the year that strengthens us and builds up our stamina for the rest that we are given. It’s also the year that we fall unabashedly in love with our children. So much in love that on days when we are pulling our hair out because yesterday’s “get the baby to nap” trick fails we swallow our tears and keep at it. Love that shows us a bit more of what our Father’s love for us feels like.

Tonight as I swallowed the tightness in my chest God told me to press in to my fear and exhaustion. He gave me permission to feel it and explore its roots. But once I was done, I knew I was supposed to surrender. To bring my broken mothering and my broken offering to His feet where I could be embraced just as I embrace my son and daughter. With a ferocity of unconditional love. I have a ballast in Him. An anchor for my soul, and security that unlike everything else around me cannot be moved. Press in, dear ones. There is strength and peace to be found in every season. Even in the very hardest ones.


186,420 thoughts on “An anchor for my soul”

  1. My biggest struggle is that my income from month to month varies wildly. I’ll have a great month followed by a terrible month. I’d like to be more in control of the fluctuations! I’m working on building additional streams of income for the not so good months but it’s a slow process.

  2. meno ale che torna il bordoò, l'anno scorso mi sono presa un maglione in cachemire da zara ci mancava che quest'anno non andasse!!!pensa che il mio unico paio di doc martens era proprio bordoò. accidenti. mi ci sono rifatta i talloni!

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