In Zen Buddhism, the practice of non-attachment inspires that there is only now, and that nothing is forever and we can choose to create a sufferer story and hold it tight hoping that we can fix a situation or change it, attached to the outcome, or we can just accept. I like this as a practice to become my essential nature, all that I Am. This doesn’t mean I can’t manifest my life; indeed I manifest it all, even things I don’t know what to do with, situations I may not like as my teacher. My practice now it to accept all that I bring to my own table, to accept it in hopes my cravings will lighten. I might just free up some of those chains I place around my being. And so I learn acceptance.
I accept that for the first time in my life I am content to live where I live. I find myself searching for that familiar struggle and frayed edged longing to leave, to move, to explore more, and it’s just not there. My search for space is done. For now. And yet I find myself not knowing what to do without it. It had defined me. It’s been my partner, a part of me for so long. I accept that I am here and that I love it here, that I don’t want to move. Which really sounds outlandish for me, but it’s here and now and it is. I accept a home.
I accept that I live with a four and ½ year old and that four and ½ year olds need time, love and understanding. They need rhythm, excitement, silliness and power. They need quiet time and a shit load of running around. They need not be expected to listen all the time or sit still or to eat what anybody else wants them to eat. I accept they are a whitwind of messy goodness and pain-in-the-ass sass.
I accept that I fail my four and ½ year old. I make her cry or I cry in front of her. I choose to be impatient instead of breathing and stepping back and feeling the slowness. I accept how I mother, how I try to mother. I accept that I want to try differnt things and I accept that I toss them out after trying. I accept my raw emotion as mother, I accept that love can sting and sing all in one moment.
I accept my body. Its curve and bulge and squishiness. I accept that my sides spill like waterfalls over my too tight waistbands and I just don’t look like I looked 11 months ago. I accept that I want to look like I looked 11 months ago. I accept that my boobs point down and to even to write that makes me smile big. I accept the fat while I wait for it to leave.
I accept my yoga practice as it is; anywhere from 2 minutes to an hour each morning. I accept that I have to get off the mat 10 times during that duration to stir mush, breastfeed or burp a baby, mediate a squabble over two sisters, take an urgent pee or pour a glass of water. I accept that my Chaturanga Dandasana burns my arms and my deep twists are hindered by the extra around my midline and that my spine feels squashed and short instead of long and expanding. I accept my heart center folds in right now. For a moment I judged myself for telling my kids that they can watch me practice or pull their mats next to me and practice with me; but they cannot touch me, climb on me or yell in my face. Now I accept those small needs and that I communicate them firmly.
I accept my husband and our relationship. I accept the journey we are both on, finding space in this new land and comfort in these surrounding. Moving is up there with death and divorce as bringer of all things stressful. We’ve been moving for almost a year now, and still not totally settled. But it’s not death or divorce and I accept this process of moving as it carries us closer to home. I accept my role in turning towards my husband instead of away while we take this journey. I accept myself in those moments I need to turn away, and I accept him in his. I accept his snore, his slob and his gentle and corny way of reaching out to me in love.
I accept that I am a full time mother with selfish needs. Like putting on high heels and leaving the house and not telling anyone where I am going or hiring a house cleaner or a babysitter for the whole day or putting on Mary Poppins two times so I can write or sleep or read a magazine or feeding the kids toast for a couple meals in a row. I accept these needs.
I accept the rain as it falls when I want to take the kids walking.
I accept my budget.
I accept long hour of uninterupted sleep.
I accept fatigue.
I accept my new bed that is totally uncomfortable and I accept that I don’t like it and want a different one.
I accept that I can’t do this alone, that I need a Mother Tribe around me; a community.
I accept stinky breath in the morning from little mouths.
I accept that to have land and a decent house we will end up buying a bit out of the ‘city’. I accept the drive and the country life and the mountains and the rivers and the farmers that will be my neighbors.
I accept my laundry pile, my drawer of single socks, my pee and baby spit-up scented sofa and the rotting kale in the fridge.
I accept that while I continually process Z’s birth, I am still resentful of people, uneasy about moments, doubting my choices and wishing it a bit different. I accept the birth. I accept my feelings about it. I accept that those feelings make me uncomfortable and I accept the discomfort. This birth has gifted me deep compassion and I can’t ignore my calling to get back birth work any longer.
I accept breath and it’s need to come through to me.
I accept life force energy inside me and around me.
I accept the sun peaking through the clouds and sparkling on the cracked wet pavement.
I accept that it will be a while before I can do any work outside the house. I accept I have a newborn and this is the time to just be.
I accept abundance.
I accept long hours alone while my husband works.
I accept the cries of the baby and the wails of a two year old and the kicks of a four year old.
I accept the warmth of a small body nuzzled against my chest all night long.
I accept coo’s and gurgles and small fingers wrapped around my own.
I accept my strength.
I accept phonecalls and ignoring phonecalls, too.
I accept my raging and volatile hormones.
I accept the delicate nature of post partum and I finally accept I am not always the strong, positive natured, constantly joyful being that others around me would like me to be. I accept depression. I accept being ugly.
I accept that it takes 2 hours to leave my house. I accept it when I forget diapers and wipes.
I accept the lecture my friend and I received from the grumpy old couple at the Co-op (in another county) who came up to us to tell us our kids were too loud and that we were failing at socializing them in the proper way. Yes, I even accept them as well as my too loud kids.
I accept sickness and disease in those I love.
I accept best friends spending long hours on planes and layovers, lugging kids and strollers and carseats, to visit me.
I accept healing and that it can happen. I accept that I am a healer in my own right.
I accept my anger and my right to express it.
I accept love. I accept love. I accept love.
I don’t attach myself to these things. They are life.
Some things are so easy for me to accept. Some things are so very hard.
I accept these beings, their presence and their wisdom.
I accept being read. I accept writing. I accept you.