You'd think, by the picture and by the title that this post would be about, perhaps, Hazel Rae taking her first ones--steps, that is. But, you forgot, this blog is primarily about ME. This is about me, taking steps. Steps to sanity, naturally. I think before Haze was born I was walking at a trot, getting through with optimism in my fingertips, taking the time deserved by each task. Holding baby boy's hand in one of mine and baby girl's hand in the other.
Then, I had another baby girl and she didn't come with an extra hand. Then, I think, when she busted through to this side of the equation, my scales were tipped too too far one way and it set off a switch that blinked in red lights *survive*survive*survive*. So with utter obeisance I began to do just, and at times only, that.
Every rope has an end, and when you reach it and it's frayed you don't accept these loose ends and try feebly to weave them back in place. You snip off the end and start with a clean edge. Then, start climbing back up and just breathe. Just breathe.
Through breakfast and her dishes. Breathe through the 10 minutes it takes to put those fleecy jammies on squirmy baby. In and out. Your breath has capabilities to hold you in the space that time takes. Your mind fights against your breath catapulting you into another time: tomorrow, next week, after this year, tonight, after he gets home, after they go to bed...but life has not breathed space into this time yet and it will suffocate. It is suffocating to live where there is no air to breathe.
So breathe, now, here.
This evening, I walked outside in the dusklight for no reason--not to sweep or gather the drying swimsuits or move the chairs back. I stood on Seth's swing and let my breathe move me. In and out. of. that. moment.