“But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone
there without its friend near, for I knew I could not”
~Walt Whitman

A dream of sleep this morning when the cold, hard winter sun broke through the diffused glass and wooden slats to warm my face. My girl sings to me to wake and read.

My eyes sticky with sleep recognize the familiar words of one book among many that are simply not enjoyable, but little ears yearn to hear.

Mamas’ minds and bodies that once showed reluctance now show gentle loving, hiding their truth so as not to stifle what they need to grow.

Balance intentional living, of self, and engaged parenting. Of love and being loved.

I rise, and seek to distract to cup my coffee with calm. The ritual begins the day, sets the tone, lights the day afire or gives the Zen that I was surely not born with.

I sip, my tongue burns from my impatience, I read. I sit. Immersed in soil and kinship of the soul – not what I would like to be, but what I am. What we all are fundamentally, but what many have disconnected from.

Where our roots seek to spread, deepen, warm the dark earth. Intrinsically we search to connect, to belong. Giggling with squishing our chipmunk faces.

I see now.