Life Unmasked: It

I'm standing in my bathroom, immersed in stillness, breathing in and out rhythmically, having a mental stand off with the second-floor bathroom sink.

Bathrooms in my house are regularly neglected because I find little motivation to keep cleaning them when these boys of mine just.keep.peeing all over them; but every week or so I get sick of them smelling like a urinal, arm myself with an entire bottle of vinegar, pull my gloves up to my elbows and I normally emerge victorious.

Except for the upstairs sink.

It remains only partially cleaned, haphazardly tidied.

Simply, I can't bear to be faced with the upstairs bathroom sink for too long or else I see them reflected in the mirror, half hidden, half exposed: three positive pregnancy tests tucked behind the white drawers atop the vanity that I'd taken before that red Friday in September when I miscarried.

And in really digging in, really cleaning the sink, I'd have to make a decision. A decision to allow them to remain stacked atop of each other behind the white drawers atop of the vanity next to the sink

or ....

Last week I saw a friend who felt the tense in my shoulders, the strain across my chest with her therapeutic hands.

And she wondered aloud as her hands felt the tightness "what are you holding onto in there?"

She'd breathed out a huge breath and she urged me to let.it.go.

I tried. I breathed and I relaxed and I prayed for the stress in my chest to lift, for my body, my mind to let go to whatever tightness both had been harboring.

While some of it melted away, she'd said, there was more that would eventually have to release, too, before the strain would relax into peace.

It's like peeling the layers of an onion, she'd said. There are more layers yet to go.

I'd left her house feeling better but still heavy.

And then, here, in the bathroom this morning*, it hits me amid my silent standoff in from of that sink.

I hear music humming softly through speakers, two little boys playing together on the wooden floor and I see reflected in the mirror the white bodies of the those tests.

Gloves pulled up to my elbows,eyes brimming with tears, I do it.

I clean the sink.


Not just haphazardly tidy -- but really, really deep clean the sink.

I make the decision, hold the pink lines in my steadied hands

and I let go, one more layer peeled back, away.


*a morning last week.

Bigger Picture Moments: The Smallest Jobs

"Do small things with great love."
Mother Teresa of Calcutta

"Mommmmmyyyy!" my 3 year old cries. "He's doing it again!"

I drop the dishes into the sink and run into the dining room only to find a grinning nearly 20 month old dancing atop of the dining room table.

I thought we'd broken this habit several months ago.

But, oh, dear God, he's at it again.

And with such determination; it seems that every time anyone leaves the dining room abandoned for a moment, E. climbs back onto the table and begins executing his sweet toddler dance moves, sans any audible music.

But he grooves so happily, so intentionally that I swear he's hearing the beats, the melodies of songs in his heart.

I put on my I-mean-business-mommy face before gathering his excited body into my arms and escorting him off of the table.

"E.," I say sternly, staring into his big blue smiling eyes, "we do NOT dance on the table."

He keeps smiling.

And the next time I leave the room, G's hollering again that his little brother's back on the table dancing his heart out like it's his job or something.

And, kind of, it is -- a toddler's main job in life is to explore, connect the dots, put things together.

I mean, really, the kid has no idea that tables aren't meant for dancing.

So he keeps climbing back on top and getting down with his small self because he loves it.

He just loves dancing on the tables, and it's vividly clear, this passion of his.

Honestly, he loves just about everything he does, entering into each activity with open palms, open heart, open eyes.

I look at myself in all of my adultness and think about how I set about doing my own work.

I think about how I scoff at folding the trillions of socks overflowing from the laundry basket without so much as giving thanks for the small feet that fill them.

I think about how I quickly wipe down finger-printed windows, never really appreciating that there are finger prints on there from two little blessings.

I think about how I become slightly irritated by the dozen or so sippy cups scattered around the house, never feeling grateful for the hands that hold them, the mouths that drink from them.

And I think about how I miss the wonder in the small parts of my job. And how I see things only for what they are sometimes and miss altogether the meaning behind them, making it impossible to really grasp the joy, dance my heart out in adoration of the tasks at hand.

Maybe I've just placed too many sanctions on too many things to really find the joy enveloping them. Maybe I don't really see what's laid out before me.

Maybe table tops really are meant for dancing.

Have you found the Bigger Picture through a Simple Moment? Link with Sarah!

Live. Capture. Share Encourage.

{Originally written but never posted in April 2011.}

Everyday Life: Just Let Go

During the second day of Creativity Boot Camp, our coach encouraged us to get out our paints and

just.let.go.

Paint whatever we wanted.

Whereever our creativity took us, we were to land there, explore.

Make a huge mess for the sake of letting go.

That's hard for a Type-A personality who likes to plan where she's going,

have a road map marked out, a path to her art that's been building in the pit of her stomach, soul.

I wondered if I even knew what "just let go" meant in terms of creation.

But we painted, nonetheless, anyway, with abandon and recklessness and spontanity.

E and me.

We made a mess, and I took my cues from his toddler movements, ventured where my paint brush felt like venturing

through swirls of turquoise



and lyrics of Copeland repeating in my head

around and 'round the cornflower blues of bright eyes.



And when we were finished, both of us coated in our craft physically,

the letting part of the go

finally

seemed to make itself known

through the gentle ebb of thoughts in my mind

the relaxation spread across my shoulders

the small smiles spread across my lips

Instead of wearing my art in huge tidal waves of pent-up emotion, the only trace left of the creative energy bound up tightly in my body was the paint streaking my knuckles.