Small House

I live in a small house and I lead a small life. But I gave birth to a towering beauty of a daughter who boldly walks around the edge of a circle instead of in the middle. And my six foot four loving husband has the most compassionate, all encompassing spiritual heart I have ever experienced.

A light coming from my vagina seeped out into the entire birthing room when my daughter was born. I am daily illuminated by a presence beyond the ordinary. I see huge reasons for being in every person I meet. With age I find I have nothing and everything to fear. I read hearts and can put strangers at ease. If there is blackness I keep my distance. But usually every encounter has the possibility of immeasurable joy and reflective wisdom. These encounters include the soft caress of wind and clouds, the songs of birds, the touch of feline and canine fur. My eyes become dazzled by the new green of trees, the brilliance of continual invading color, the pelting rain and the expanse of space; and my brain bursts as I contemplate the shadowed layers of mountains, the depth of oceanic horizons, the unfathomable mystery of humans.

When I sit inside my hovel of a home and hear the pounding of the rain against the thin skinned windowpane, I shrink into a dot on the universal map. But outside, simply walking outside, makes me feel as though there are never ending possibilities of meaning. Who will I meet today? What newness will I see? What thoughts will meander in and out of my consciousness? It's not that I'm not grieved by dark days because I am. Then I am wound back inside myself and have no outer vision. I miss the color and I miss the sounds. I hear only my own complaints and feel only my constant judgment.

In darkness I'm small. I forget to say thank you. I forget to read lips. I wish I were somewhere else and forget my truth. When I'm small I'm weighed down with self imposed burdens. My ego clouds the source. It's there...whatever “it” is. It's not bothered by darkness or burdens or ego. Sometimes I can see it when the patterned rain slants on the windowpane or my daughter's protective nature permits her to open an inner drawer. Look quick before this drawer shuts again. She hides her love; she hides her truth. She rightfully saws constantly at the umbilical cord. I want to snap it in half and be done, but then I'm sitting there with needle and thread.

This reflective, sensitive, push pull life isn't easy. Words give and words take away. But I can't stop my tongue, my brain, my hopping up and down. Maybe I can erase, crumple, sculpture the troubled times into something whole. My lover does this for me. He stands firmly on the ground and reels me in. He patiently tucks me into bed and tells me everything will be alright. Will it? His never changing love tells me to hold on. Tells me my world is larger than it seems. Tells me there will be breakfast in the morning.

Tears can be larger than smiles. They swell my heart to twice its size. When my daughter left I wondered whether my world would shrink. Or would I become newly born? From far away I watch her like a mother lion who knows that with every twig creak and with every wing flutter, there comes both magic and danger. The layered vastness of this universe invades my psyche as my daughter and I continue to open our gates.

Home is safe; home is small. And then I go outside and remember. I remember the touch, the look, the infinite measure of beauty. I remember the treks around the globe and each time I return I pile gem on gem. My heart has been rubbed raw and my heart has become like a cherished, sweet and warm cup of coffee. There is no smallness without expansion and no darkness without soul. For every step through the door, my daughter carries out and leaves behind a beaker full of love and learning. I remain permanently pregnant. Try as I may, I have never been the same. This daughter who is not mine has stretched my emotions to the furthest corners of this unfathomable universe.

I want to let smallness go. I want to passionately grab my husband and breathe in unison. I want to grab the creative self walking beside me and tell her it's time: the umbilical cord has been retied. I watch the light from my vagina seep under the door out into a wide and waiting world. And I say thank you.

© 2011