(photo from ruthpclark.com)
i soaked the brown rice in water and apple cider vinegar. defrosted the shrimp. rubbed the kale. rubbed it some more. watched for hours as it went from over flowing the bowl down to a small tight mound of green.
the kids always know when it is a night when i need them to desire less attention from me. they push for just a bit more than they typically ask for. but they are so much fun.
i had asked two of my dearest friends, ruth and melissa, to come over and i would feed them and do some business coaching/masterminding with their businesses. i am out of practice and i wanted some beautiful humans to work with. and i knew we would have fun, no matter what.
i had an image of the night that didn't match up.
what i received was a huge gift. laughter. my kids showing me how amazing they are and how good we are and how right i was making the choices i have made so i can be the mother i have always wanted.
my life being designed beautifully after a whole shit ton of hard work.
my boyfriend texting me saying he was thinking of me and wishing he was there with us.
my friends loving each other up. talking about their dreams and visions and more dreams.
and I sat there in absolute joy. i felt like i was home. because i am home.
home in my skin, in my knowing, in my fear, in my failures, in my risks, in my love, in my mothering, in my dharma, in my sexuality, in my happiness.
i am home. and the people gathering around me are manifestations of what i have desired for as long as i can remember.
they let me nurture them and love them and hold space for them and laugh with them and then they ask me what i need and then tell me how they are going to show up for me.
i am home. and we talk business as the kids show up in their own ways around us. accepting this, accepting me, accepting this life i have been dreaming of for them.
we talk about hope and faith. we eat shrimp and rice and kale.
and ruth googles jim carrey's famous speech. and he says, "hope walks through the fire and faith leaps over it."
i feel like i am flying over the fire. i feel lifted and loved in ways i never thought i would be able to take in, to draw into myself.
our hamster that has been missing and suspected of building her nest under our oven made some commotion as we were talking business in the living room.
we miss her. she was my companion during the early days of separation when the kids would be at their dad's house and i would be with myself, struggling to know who i was now.
we miss her. so my middle little one set up watch and waited for one hour until he finally saw her run out to taste an orange we set out for her. she saw him and ran away. and his tears slipped out as he slid into bed after his hunting for the little hamster came to an end.
and we continued to laugh. and dream. we turned out the lights so the boys could sleep. and i sat on my chair and saw the texts from the man i am falling more in love with every minute that passes.
i felt like i was glowing. my women. my kids. my man. even my hamster.
faith. i walked through the fire for years. and it hurt. and i was lost.
but now my faith is so strong i am flying. the hope brought me to risk. the pain of what i knew was not my destiny, the walking through fire, the hard work. it gave me wings. and joy.
and here i am. leaping over fire. home. inside the giggles and snuggles and deep kisses and long talks.
the simplest things bring me joy. cooking them dinner. listening to their silliness. rubbing his feet as he tells me stories of his past. knowing texts from friends i adore.
my women leave and the kids are asleep. the house is dark and quiet. the hamster making no movement.
i pour a glass of water and brush my teeth. i think about setting the coffee pot but am too tired.
i text him back. the words that have become ours over the last few months.
"i love you still."
and at the same time we text each other...
"i love you again."
and we leap over the fire together.