Morning Meditation, November 23

Cradled in the belly of the beech Sisters, I find myself swaddled in fog. My cloak surrounds me, and my hood covers my face. It is extremely comfortable in this, my secret place. This morning's meditation is one of listening, to drops falling from leaves and the rustling steps of unseen animals. Even though the fog heralds a shift towards more typical November weather, I am warm in my layers of clothes, fuzzy bathrobe, and woolen cloak. I breathe slowly, experiencing each inhalation as one of safety and coziness. With each exhale, I assert myself as a participant in this world of blue haze and ambivalent shapes. Eventually, I move and lift back my hood to look upon the foggy forest. It is time to go back home, where the sleepy loved ones are waiting for me.

The Kind of Mother I Am

This is the kind of mother I am: on a sunny November afternoon, I chase my almost-4-year-old child into puddles along the driveway. This is not a problem, since he always wears "muck" boots. We pretend I am the Wicked Witch of the West, cackling after him, but I cannot risk going close to water. He splashes at me most joyfully. As we near the house, I steer him towards the largest, deepest puddles of all. For a long time, he races back and forth through them, trying to kick the water close enough to "melt" me. I'm not really interested in getting wet, but I love those frabjous smiles set in a face taken straight from a Renaissance Cupid. Soon enough, his pants are brown and wet, his boots are full of water, and his coat is dripping. He comes to pour the boot water on me. I "melt" dramatically. Then I tell him he might as well take off his socks, too. Beaming, my little guy goes back to the deep pools, digging in the mud with his bare toes, splashing with his small hands, feeling all the temperatures and textures of a mud hole in the woods. He tells me that mud feels squishy, leaves feel dry, rocks feel poky, and the water feels wet. I watch carefully for signs of being chilled, but there are none. No goosebumps, no red feet or fingers. We rejoice in the sun and water and trees and time. It is a moment of kairos. But finally, the Wicked Witch of the West decides to transform into a Good Witch, and make a potion. The little one is lured inside to rest in a bath while his mother makes hot chocolate. Now, as I write, he is naked, wrapped in a very soft blanket, drinking fabulous hot chocolate and eating cheese crackers.