spiritual teachings from the sugarplum fairy (#1)
secondhand sweaters, loving people, and the miracle of grasshoppers.
My daughter introduced me to myself.
—Beyoncé
If you want to get on the accelerated track to Being A Better Person, become a mother.
If you want to reside inside of a spiritual pressure cooker, and unpack all of your unpleasant baggage, and be forced to confront your demons head-on — you should definitely become a mother.
It’s honestly ridiculous. Like, I just GOT here, I’m hormonal, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m trying to keep this small human alive, all of my flaws have become glaringly obvious and I have to do all of this inner work on myself? Are you kidding me?
But seriously: what a blessing to be challenged to practice what I preach, to be cracked open in brand new ways, to witness my own strength, to be asked to live in integrity as the best version of myself.
I don’t have this being-a-human-thing figured out, and I definitely don’t have this being-a-mom-thing figured out, but luckily I have my tiny little guru here to help me along.
Spiritual Teachings from the Sugarplum Fairy: Part 1
Lesson #1: None of this was ever yours to keep.
I’m sitting in a pile of baby garments, holding this little pink hoodie that I thrifted for my daughter, who is 9 months old. I’m swapping out some of her clothes; it’s fun to rediscover the cute, forgotten things that were initially too big for her and got boxed up during pregnancy. It is also one of those tasks that has a clear start and finish, and thus feels good and productive. Certain items I fold and set aside easily. Others, like The Pink Hoodie, give me pause. She wore this all fall and winter, basically every day. It has always been the perfect thickness and coziness for balmy Maryland’s cooler months. I hold it limply in my hands, stare down at it. The tag says 4-6 months, but she wore it for ages. It always seemed to magically fit her, no matter which developmental month we were in. I picture her wearing it. Even I am not immune to the stupidly cute bear ears that seem to adorn every piece of hooded baby clothing. I wonder if it still fits. I don’t think it does. Now I am choked up. I rub the soft polyester between my fingers and wonder why I am having an emotional reaction to a random, dirty, secondhand sweatshirt. There is nothing particularly special about this. It was never a favorite of mine, nor was it some special gift. It was bought out of distracted necessity, but it has been worn so well that I’ve come to treasure it. I hang it back up. I stare at it some more. I resolve to dress her in it again, as if this will elongate time.
This moment, right here, is where I realize: motherhood is going to wreck me, over and over again, in the best and worst ways.
As a somewhat clueless first-timer, I was pretty certain that my newborn would be a newborn for at least 8 months, that my 8 month old would be an 8 month old for at least a year and a half. It took becoming a mom for me to fully grasp the universal truth of impermanence. Everything is eternally changing, both before my eyes and also in the time it takes to blink them. Even in the very early days, even in my postpartum slog, I started to feel a siren-like urgency to soak it all up. I relished in our contact naps, amazed as her legs began growing and awkwardly bumping up against my own while I held her; I drank in her touch, her smell, her little sighs; I took a million photos, I gazed at her in wonder. Still, like hot grains of sand, time slides through my fingers, a thousand moments, sounds, expressions, so-called routines, tears, onesies— gone in an instant. The pricelessness reincarnates, transfiguring into some new memory which I will surely long for just as much as the last.
When the ephemeral becomes difficult to accept, I think of this Buddhist teaching shared by Mark Epstein:
“You see this goblet?” asks Ajahn Chah, the Thai meditation master. “For me, this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”
—from Thoughts Without a Thinker: Psychotherapy from a Buddhist Perspective
I have always absorbed the broken cup story as a teaching on uncertainty, a lesson on a sort of empowered powerlessness. Now, though, I read it through the lens of impermanence:
The cup is already broken.
The sweater is already too small.
The child is already grown.
It’s precious, it’s exquisite, and we don’t get to keep it.
All of her other, smaller baby clothes from this time have been put away. Some have been passed along to sweet new babies, some have been packed away for my future babies— but today, my daughter is almost 15 months old, and that ratty pink hoodie is still hanging there, quietly nudging me to pay attention, permanently reminding me of the winding river of impermanence.
Clinging, and letting go,
Clinging, and letting go,
This is the tide of new motherhood.
Lesson #2: You are allowed to exist, just as you are.
My daughter bellows, “HIIIIEEEEYYY,” at the neighbor boy across the street and marches determinedly up the grassy hill towards him. She does not consider the fact that he always seems slightly afraid of her. She does not question whether he wants to play, or whether she can run up that hill. She simply goes. She squeals with delight when she is happy. She belly-laughs loudly when something is funny to her, does not wait for prompt or affirmation from anyone else. She hurls her small, powerful body onto the floor and wails with grief when she is displeased, she shakes and stomps her feet wildly when anger courses through her. She sits in her car seat and speaks to herself fervently in hushed tones, casting spells and telling stories in a language I’m not quite fluent in.
She does not consider whether she is allowed to take up space, she does not contemplate whether her feelings are valid, she doesn’t care what people think about her, it would never occur to her to doubt her worthiness…
…She just is.
Lesson #3: People are good, and endlessly interesting.
For me, the greatest gift and most uncomfortable part of having a baby (aside from, you know, having a baby) was the increase in social attention that came with the experience. As much as I felt resistance around this, I was incredibly moved by the way people showed up for me, even when I didn’t ask. I remember gazing around at my baby shower, stunned that people actually came (because really, who wants to go to a baby shower?) Every time someone walked through the door, I wanted to burst into tears of gratitude. My journey into motherhood reignited so many of my relationships in such a beautiful way, and this continues on past the first year of my baby’s life. The kindness of others has entirely overwhelmed me; it also made me sad to think of how grumpy and secluded I had made myself, when all of this love was waiting patiently for me on the other side of the wall.
“I am a sensitive, introverted woman, which means that I love humanity, but actual human beings are tricky for me. I love people, but not in person. For example, I would die for you, but not, like… meet you for coffee.”
—Glennon Doyle
I have historically erred on the more quiet and (erm, lovably?) grumpy side, even as a child. My instinct is to keep my head down. I keep people at arm’s length. I’ve struggled with social anxiety in the past, I’m judgmental, I’m quiet & brooding (but not, like, in a sexy way). My resting bitch face has caused problems for me, my brow is constantly furrowed. I usually assume no one wants to talk to me, and as Glennon said: even though I love humans, most of the time I’d rather not talk to them.
Becoming a mom— becoming Adeline’s mom, specifically—has forced me to undo all of these anti-social tendencies.
Allow me to explain. I have the most social baby on the planet. She is fearless, and absolutely adores everyone. We walk on the trail, and she squawks loudly at passerby, demanding their attention: You are here! And I am here! HELLO! She waves enthusiastically to children; she chirps happily at dogs, who we definitely must stop to pet, and then, of course, have a chat with their people. She bravely inserts herself into someone else’s play time in the kid’s section of our library. Her exuberance draws people to us. All of this has made my natural proclivity towards hiding completely impossible to indulge. It’s been very inconvenient for me. Now, I have to be seen. I have to converse! With freakin’ STRANGERS! I have to be PRESENT in my life! If it weren’t for her, I would miss out on a hundred lovely interactions.
A couple months ago, we were standing in line at the coffee shop. Addie turned to two women behind me, reached out, careened herself sideways in their direction and demanded that one of them hold her. Before I knew it, she was in a stranger’s arms, looking at me with this dead-pan expression, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. We all had a laugh and talked for a bit as the line inched forward, and I learned that one of the women used to be a child psychologist in Cuba. They ogled at her, spoke to her sweetly in Spanish, passed her back and forth between the two of them. It brightened their day, it brightened mine. At a play group recently, she strode (as much as a baby can stride…) up to a strange man, plopped into his lap, then snatched his daughter’s stuffed cat from her as the girl looked on in horror and her father looked down in confusion. This sort of thing isn’t unusual. Stranger danger, so far, has not been a thing for Adeline. To say I admire this about her would be an understatement.
I have felt isolated by motherhood at times, but asking for and accepting support has cracked me wide open— and by far my favorite plot twist in this new chapter of life is that I LOVE PEOPLE NOW! I enjoy talking to strangers, I love my friends and family more ferociously, I like meeting new people, I want to know my neighbors, I want to help everyone. I love that I somehow ended up with a Gemini-Libra-Libra sugarplum fairy of a daughter, who coaxes me out of my little crab shell on a daily basis and forces me to face my own discomforts. It’s probably not an accident. Maybe I’ve had this social-butterfly-nature lying dormant inside of me all along, but Adeline was the only one who could nudge it awake.
Lesson #4: Paying attention is the only meditation that matters.
I’m a Mary Oliver fangirl. I am all for slowness and paying attention; however, the reason I meditate and do yoga is not because mindful living comes easily to me, but because I am chaotic and impatient and Barb runs my brain most of the time. Having to turn down the speed dial of my life to like a ONE after my baby was born was incredibly uncomfortable for me. It still is, much of the time.
When I feel that Addie and I are not quite in-sync with each other, and I can tell we need to slow it waaaay down and connect, I’ll put down the Very Important Thing that I’m trying to get done and we will go outside. I’ll say, “Look at the flowers,” and she waves to them. We say, “Hiiiiiiii, flowers,” and then we pick one and examine it closely and check out nature’s ridiculous handiwork— so delicate, so perfectly symmetrical you could cry—then she smashes the petals ruthlessly in her hand, because to her, everything is marvelous, and none of it is precious (see lesson #1). We find a grasshopper, which I definitely would not have noticed without her, and I try to catch it so she can have a closer look. While doing this, I wonder to myself, when was the last time you caught a grasshopper? and then I realize that this *thing* I am experiencing is what my dad was talking about that time that we were having bloody marys at the track in Saratoga and I was telling him how I really was not so sure about having kids, and he responded so plainly and casually to my haughtiness by telling me about how having kids makes everything cool and wonderful again. Oh, ok. I get it now. Anyways, I finally do catch the grasshopper and I am transported back in time, back to being 10 again. There is no seductive screen vying for my attention, no existential dread, no to-do list, just the smell of grass and sunshine and sticky grasshopper feet on my palm, and crushed fuchsia flower petals on my thigh, and my daughter’s whole, entire tiny hand wrapped all the way around my index finger. She transforms life into a slow, sensory experience. She invites me, with her glinting, trickster eyes and tinker bell voice, every day, into presence: join me in the here-and-now, won’t you please? and it’s insane that I don’t always say YES! every single time— absolutely wild that I don’t always immediately drop what I am doing to be with her in the way she wants me to be. Sometimes, though, I do get it right, and we are just together, the small backyard feeling gargantuan as we move through it at a glacial pace, nodding, paying reverence to everything and nothing, to all of the details of my life that I never cared about before, and I am astonished by her wisdom, awestruck at how no one else could possibly make flower petals or grasshoppers as miraculous as she can.
Recently:
➊ Poem by Marie Howe, The Boy
➋
➌ Interesting new study shared by my mentor on the impact of early swaddling on breastfeeding:
“Infants swaddled immediately after birth show a delay in initial breastfeeding, less successful suckling at the breast, reduced intake of breastmilk and greater weight loss compared to un-swaddled babies. Swaddling visually obscures feeding cues and reduces crying, thereby eliminating two key feeding prompts typically used by parents/carers.”
➍ This excerpt from Letters of Note gave me a chuckle:
“I have regrettably come to the conclusion that [their son] Auberon is not yet a suitable companion for me.
Yesterday was a day of supreme self-sacrifice. I fetched him from Highgate, took him up the dome of St Paul’s, gave him a packet of triangular stamps, took him to luncheon at the Hyde Park Hotel, took him on the roof of the hotel, took him to Harrods & let him buy vast quantities of toys (down to your account) took him to tea with Maimie who gave him a pound and a box of matches, took him back to Highgate in a state of extreme exhaustion (myself not the boy).
My mother said, ‘Have you had a lovely day?’ He replied ‘A bit dull.’ So that is the last time for some years I inconvenience myself for my children.”
Evelyn Waugh
Letter to his wife, Laura
25th August 1945
➎ Slowdown Farmstead is one of my longtime favorites, I especially enjoyed this post:
➏ It only took me an entire year but I finally finished reading The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down: A Hmong Child, Her American Doctors, and the Collision of Two Cultures by Anne Fadiman. When I was halfway through this book, I told a friend that I was certain of how it was going to end— I was wrong! This book is a rich, compassionate account of a Hmong child diagnosed with severe epilepsy and explores the cultural clash between her refugee family and her doctors, peppered with history and myth throughout. I second this review from medicine/bioscience writer & editor Caroline Richmond: “It is unputdownable, heartbreaking, scrupulously researched, and riveting.”
➐ John Steinbeck’s letter to Marilyn Monroe.
➑ Joe has been playing My Analog Journal’s YT channel around the house which ‘explores rare grooves from around the world on vinyl,’ it’s very fun.
➒ Addie says: hot, bye, dinosaur, duck, daddy, dog, yes, ma, that, “this is…” and I feel like she completely understands everything I say.
➓ Taking my baby to the beach for the weekend is sweet, but what is even sweeter is when we bring her home— she runs around with glee, greeting the space, remembering her stuffed animals with joy, and sits proudly in her very own little chair (which belonged to my grandmother when she was a girl!)
