Taking a Breath

And then, the clouds parted.

What a week.

I’ve had a few decent nights of sleep, several cups of coffee and a good amount of wine (not all of those beverages were consumed this morning, don’t worry).

I made scrambled eggs for Leo yesterday morning, even though there really wasn’t time. That night I let Ellie have the stray Valentine’s Day sucker I found in Leo’s backpack even though bedtime was in twenty minutes (is it true about sugar amping them up? I really haven’t decided. The girl sings and dances in her crib most nights until 10:30 p.m. anyway…)

Last night Leo and Ellie built hayrides way beyond bath time. Erin took them upstairs and the living room had that slightly tornado struck look. I quietly loaded all the Little People back to their appropriate places and went upstairs to join the splashing and the bubbles.

This morning (and every morning this week) Ellie and I drove to school with “Baby Beluga” on repeat. “Mommy it’s my favorite!” she says. Really? I hadn’t noticed. She commands me to “Sing Mommy! I will sing with you.” And of course, I do it. Not a bad way to start the day, is it?

I’m trying to relax a little. The heavy thoughts are still there. I’m acknowledging them but not letting them torture me.

Amidst all of this, I stumbled upon a wonderful quote that I have not been able to get out of my mind since I read it (and in this case, that’s a good thing). Can a quote be that powerful? It can be for me. I'm a professed quote junkie. It just fits everything I’ve been feeling lately (with credit to Cate who first introduced me to it). I’m headed to the library this weekend to check out both books by the author, Kate Braestrup. The passage below is from Marriage and Other Acts of Charity.

One hundred percent of marriages end. As long as we're being brutally realistic, however, why not admit the whole truth? One hundred percent of all relationships end: paternal, maternal, spousal, avuncular, friendly, or filial; one way or another, you will lose everyone you love, everyone you cannot bear to lose.

One response to this appalling reality is to posit the existence of heaven, a place where everyone gets to be together again, just like the old days (though, as my friend Moira declares, in heaven her husband is going to fold laundry).

In the meantime, however, what are those of us still here on earth to do in the face of loss? Jesus has some advice: When he is no longer physically present, he tells his disciples, then those who really loved him should go on to love others -- lots of others -- just as they had loved him. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it to me." If you can't, in fact, go on to love others, you never truly loved him to begin with.

But you don't need to take it from Christ. Maude in the movie Harold and Maude says the same thing: Love more. Start with your siblings, or your spouse, or your parents, but don't stop there. Love whoever needs what you have; love the ones who have been placed in your path.

It seems so obvious, doesn't it? It is the kind of knowledge we all should know, and instead even the wisest need reminders. Fortunately, the reminders do come, from sages and prophets and out of the mouths of babes: If your heart breaks, let it break open. Love more.

I'm trying. I'm really trying.