Milk musings

Our baby girl is down to usually six feeds a day, sometimes seven, depending on how long she sleeps at night, which means that most days I have about 90 minutes of captivity--stuck on the couch with my thoughts and lots of funny noises coming from this tiny miracle. It's my time to reflect, to take a deep breath, and since I got the Nook (and the library app) figured out, time to read. It's my me time, my intellectual time. While I nurse, I think a lot about this crazy journey of motherhood. And one of these days, I'm going to get back into blogging about it. Not because I think the world needs another mommy blog, or because I think my insights are particularly unique. Mostly because I want to write (maybe even need to write), you write what you know, and--right now--this is what I know. I know that I couldn't have understood, even if someone could have explained, how it's possible to love a tiny person so much that it feels like my heart will explode. I couldn't have believed that I could survive on so little sleep, that I had this much of myself to give, that it would be so hard to get one load of laundry folded. I couldn't have known how natural yet miraculous motherhood feels, because I, Laura, was made for it. But here it all is, in a 13 pound package. Right now, we're in a catnapping phase, which severely limits my time to write (or do anything else). But I'm hoping that some of these breastfeeding musings will make it to the page (screen?). Thanks for reading.

"Take a moment to remember..."

It’s now been over a week that we’ve been down from camp. The end of summer party has come and gone. The counselors have returned to their homes. I am (almost) unpacked. I’m still trying to capture the enormity of the four weeks, to somehow process it. My journal entries provide a raw look at what transpired during those weeks, so that’s where I started.

As I read the musings of my heart while at camp, I was struck by the intensity of it. So much longing, so much doubt, so much desire, so much gratitude and regret and openness. It’s no accident these writings spring from the grace of daily Mass, frequent confession, adoration, and daily prayer. When I am close to Him, my true heart is known. I can know myself more accurately, see His work in me more easily, hear His voice more clearly. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Camp is hard—the writing is evidence of that—worry, anxiety, frustration. The storms, the fatigue, the soreness, the feelings of inadequacy. But more than that, there is comfort. Prayers of gratitude and safety and confidence in God’s love also fill the pages. I can almost hear the sigh of relief as the words move from questioning to resting in Him, over and over again. He is in control, and He came to give us life to the full.

The Suscipe of St. Ignatius made its way to the front of my mind numerous times at camp, and is one of my favorite prayers. It embodies the abandonment necessary to give completely of oneself without calculating the cost. This is the radical availability that we live at camp, which is one of the greatest lessons and challenges of the whole summer. 

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will,
All I have and call my own.
You have given all to me.
To you, Lord, I return it.
Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
that is enough for me.

The Edge of Time

My creative writing final. Not perfect, but I learned a lot while writing it, and a classmate said I'd improved 10-fold. This is a throwback to last summer's camp experience.

I spend most of the morning in the shadow of the cliff, my eyes drawn again and again to the imposing wall as if by some unseen force. It stares back, daring me to a rematch.

Two weeks earlier, I stood in the same shadow, with anticipation instead of wariness. The climbing route is aptly named: The Edge of Time. The edge is what strikes you, no matter how long you spend trying to take it in. A great slab of rock, wedged upright into the ground, as if a huge headstone was cracked in half and this piece was planted as a memorial.

That edge is where I got stuck that first time, forty feet up, my right leg shaking like it was tapping out a telegraph, despite my best efforts to control it. That edge is where I dangled, head heavy under the weight of my white helmet, telling my belayer to lower me down, mortified that the teenage girls had outdone me.

Now I am back, unsure if the possibility of vindication is worth the risk of another defeat. Being the only female on this climbing trip raises the stakes even higher; I can’t be “the girly girl”. I tighten my harness straps around my thighs and tug up hard on the belt loop to make sure it’s snug. My sweaty hands slide over the knots, double checking everything one last time. I turn back to my friend, holding the other end of the rope.

“Belay on?”

“On belay,” he says, indicating he is ready for me to begin.

At least one of us is.

I step closer and lay my palms on the cold granite. Inhale. Exhale. The rope pulls taut into my chest as the belayer takes in slack, forcing me to lean around it. I close my fingers around the first holds and lunge upwards. I settle into a rhythm of reaching, pulling, standing, reminding myself to use my legs, not my arms.

I surge past the point of defeat from two weeks ago, but my victory is short-lived. A few feet higher, I pull myself to standing and reach up yet again. My hands sweep left and right. Nothing. The ledge above me is barely enough to hook my fingernails on. I use my foot to grope for a step to my right, but it is out of reach. I am stuck. Again.

Voices call out from below with encouragement and suggestions, but all I hear is the one in my head telling me I’ve failed. How many more half-hearted attempts before I can throw in the towel? One more?

Resigned, I push up on my toes, pinched in the tight rubber shoes. I lean into the wall and strain upwards, trying to use my momentum to drive me past that ledge. Suddenly I’m 18 inches higher on the wall, not sure how I got here. I hear cheering from below and my fatigue and doubt evaporate. Surging ahead, my adrenaline crashes the same time my fingertips touch the metal anchor at the top. I collapse into the harness, letting it enfold me while I am lowered to the ground.

 

I am a writer

Today was Day 1 of Introduction to Creative Writing, an online class I enrolled in through the local community college. I have been wanting to take a class (in anything) for a while now, and wanting to improve my writing always, so this seemed like a perfect step. Not sure why it took me so long.

Day 1, for those of you who have never taken Introduction to Creative Writing in an online format, involves reading a brief lesson (which consisted mostly of encouragement that we are already writers, even if we aren't published--or even good--and that we just need to practice) and then practicing free writing. Free writing is an exercise in futility for the perfectionist. Or so I'm told. One simply takes a pen in hand (or a keyboard on the lap) and writes for a set amount of time. Whatever comes into your head. Some call it "stream of consciousness writing". No planning. No restructuring. No editing. No even fixing typos. Gah! I may not make it to Day 2.

Our class is composed of at least 2 dozen aspiring writers from around the globe (apparently Introduction to Creative Writing is very popular in Australia. Not kidding.) ranging in age from 14 to 73. We have students, teachers, mothers, grandmothers, military brats, and me. I'm sure the experience, talent, and attention to grammar is going to be vastly different among us. I'm told we'll each work on a piece throughout the 8 weeks that should be completed by the end. A finished creative work. You may even get to read it, if you're lucky.

For now, I'm excited to be a student again. After all, doing it for 24 years, I've gotten pretty good at it.