The ritual of re-entry
Learning to honor the space in between
IN ALL HONESTY | AT A GLANCE
This week’s column is for paid subscribers, and it holds:
a featured story on the importance of acknowledging transitions
Oh, and be sure to check out the last column:
A pilgrimage towards radical acceptance
I’ve been in a tussle with What Is, attempting to bend it to better fit the shape of What Could Be. It’s a losing battle, and yet I can’t quite figure out how to stop...
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“On my way home,” I texted the babysitter after hauling my Doula bag into the front seat of the car. Five hours of early labor support whizzed by for me in what felt like an instant. Outside of Birthlandia, however, the afternoon had already melted into evening, my eldest son was home from school and my husband was preparing for his weekly guitar lesson.
I hurried back. If I returned within the next 15 minutes, I could stay within the same babysitter pay rate.
By the time I parked in our driveway 5 minutes down the street, the incessant beeping of the IV monitors was still ringing in my ears. And the artificial chill of the delivery room was still sending shivers up my spine.
Even so, I raced up the steps to our front door, ready to resume my role as wifemotherwoman.
Minecraft Story Mode blared from the TV, greeting me before anyone else could. “Mom! I’m learning how to make an origami swan!” my oldest yelled out. “Mama! Mama! Mama!” squealed my almost 18-month son as he twirled around with a bright yellow block in his hand. “Everything went great!” the babysitter said, her voice rising slightly over all the commotion.
I thanked her, paid her and walked her to the door. Guitar licks hummed through the air from the music studio as my husband prepped for class. My stomach growled, harmonizing with the rest of the house’s ambience.
I wanted to transform into my domestic self without missing a beat…
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