missing my life

Last week I was away from home.  I was physically away, in a different city, but I was also really, really emotionally away.  I was totally released from my day-to-day domestic responsibilities and completely consumed by my professional ones.  In this state, untethered from the ordinary life in which I’m usually so entirely rooted, I realized how intensely I love it.

With the crystalline perspective of distance, I fell in love, all over again, with my own life.   The practice and the poem.  I missed the poem and I even missed the practice.  I am immensely grateful for this reminder of how blessed and fortunate I am, for this reminder, again, to stop and look and breathe and be there for my own life.

I missed picking a sleeping Whit up before I go to bed and taking him to the bathroom, his head heavy on my shoulder, his feet dangling against my knees.  He is always soft with sleep and I have to prop him up in front of the toilet.  When I carry him back to bed, even though he’s surely more awake, he curls against me just as tightly, and often keeps his hands wrapped around my neck an extra moment or two after I put him back down into his bottom bunk.

I missed the morning chatter that Grace and Whit share as we drive to school and then hurry, cold, into the lobby of the Morse Building.  I’m keenly aware that Whit only has one more year in the Morse Building and then these cozy mornings in the lobby with the polka-dot rug and old teachers who envelop my children in enormous hugs are over.  Grace and Whit like to sit and talk to me for a few minutes before I take them to their respective before-school destinations.

I missed rubbing Grace’s back as she says her prayers, her voice slowing as she drifts towards sleep.  My fingers trace her spine, remembering the string of pearls, bright on the fuzzy ultrasound screen, so many years ago.  Grace’s prayers are full of thanks.  She always thanks the universe and her family and mentions her parents’ hard work and our tremendous good fortune.  I know she means these things and I fiercely hope she always knows them.

I missed talking to one of my closest friends every day for a catchup on all the minutiae of a life, my husband’s lattes, getting the mail out of my brass mailbox in the morning, and my familiar running route around my neighborhood.

I missed the strangely soothing inside-outing of pajama pants as I fold laundry, the smoothing of bright robot-covered underpants, the folding of tee-shirts, each piece of clothing full of memories.  I missed the flowers I always have on my kitchen island.  I  missed my long-term toxic beverage, Diet Coke (my office is a Diet Pepsi office!), and my brand-new beverage, morning green smoothies.

It’s so good to be reminded of my immense good fortune, to have my gaze yanked back to the abundance that overflows right here, right now.  I don’t want to wait for bad news, or disaster, to realize what I have now; none of us should.  Say thank you today for every single ordinary day.  As Katrina says, each one is a gift.