I don’t have any great words for you right now. No eloquent speech or captivating story.

Instead, I have simple words. Objective sensations.

Tight and pulsing and throbbing ears. So much hard and sharp that meets them – so much of what we deem to be loud. Of my children. Of the news. Of my thoughts. Of my husband on conference calls. Of the grief that is surging for the loss of my nephew two years ago to this day.

Of. Of. Of.

For every thought I have, a real live little voice seems to interrupt it. A question. A request. A celebration. From these 3 little people who rely on me. Who turn to me. Who trust in me.

For every moment of peace I find, a cacophony of noise crashes in. Screeches. Dishwasher on twice a day. Doors slamming this way and that.

Even the sounds of spring feel too much right now. The birds never ceasing their back and forth calls. On and on and on and on…

Silence. I want silence so badly. Just a little quiet. Just to be off duty for a minute in time. Just a little space.

I remember this feeling. A yearning. A pleading.

“Just give me a little space.”

A tightening in my chest and a cinching in my belly.

I know how to take space in our normal. I am a master at it.
I am no master at this new way of doing. Not even close.

So that’s why I don’t have any wise words for you. Because I am swimming and surfacing for air here and there. In the stillness of the pre-dawn morning. In the pause between the voices. In the gap between you and me.

When my nephew died, I remember the silence was deafening.

In this moment of global and personal heartbreak, the sounds are crushing.

I trust myself in this. To navigate and to dance and to fall and to rise.

But oh man, I am not graceful in it. Watch me try, flounder and fall. Watch me stand up again. Learning to walk once more. Learning to breathe day by day. Learning to swell and stand down with the pulse of the world.

I don’t have wise words for you. Because I don’t have the bandwidth to separate my words from the blur of letters, words and sounds that are flying this way and that. Constantly. Day in and day out.

Fortunately, there are plenty of folks who do. The words that helped me to re-remember what I need to know right now are those of Ethan Nichtern in his weekly podcast, The Road Home, Practicing in the World As it Is.
Receive if you desire.

One step. At a time. Sleep. Feed our 5. Explore routine. See them each as I am able. Repeat.

One day this will not feel like survival. One day this will not feel so damn exhausting. Like I just had a newborn arrive in the house. Or a dear loved one abruptly exit the world. One day, I will sink into this and see the magic that was here the whole time.

And for now, this Is. My resistance. My reluctance. My frustration.

My grief for what was and what may be.

My love for what has been and what is.

Wishing me and you and all of us – every single one – peace.

With Big Love,
Rachel