Live, from Kripalu.

After a flight time snafu, armrest-grabbing turbulence, torrential rain, and a few construction detours, I made it to Kripalu for my writing seminar. 

I am bunking in a room with 5 other women, sharing a communal bathroom, and sharing intimate writing with total strangers. 

I hyperventilate if I think too much about it, so I've been taking it a moment at a time.  A breath at a time. 

The first writing exercise was to write about moments in your life that were extremely salient, where you were fully present and connected.

Here are mine (the first took place in the elevator of my office building on 9/13/01.  The second is pretty self-explanatory):

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I remember the sound of her cry.  I remember it every bit as well as I remember the sound of my children’s first breaths.

I remember the way her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I remember the way she smelled.  The way we both smelled, a gut-turning combination of smoke and melted metal and burnt flesh.

I remember each of those 21 floors.  I remember each and every breath as an opportunity to do something. To reach out.  To connect.  To comfort. To be human.

I remember how I failed.  I remember how I stared straight ahead like a good New Yorker. 

I remember how I studied the elevator doors, expecting the image of the gleaming metal to replace the image of the heavily-armed men guarding Grand Central Station.   I remember praying that the whooshing sounds of the moving elevator would replace the keening pleas of the ash-covered searchers.

I remember knowing, deeply knowing, what I could have done.  What I should have done as I stood beside her in that elevator. 

I remember how it felt to fail.   How it felt to forgot my own humanity.  How it felt to step off that elevator, my eyes focused on the ground, as though they were willing my feet to guide me away from my shame.

I remember the countless apologies I have whispered since that September morning.

 

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I have always been the ugly girl. 

Too tall.  Too big.  Small chin.  Big nose.  Flat face.  Goofy eyes.   Crazy hair.

I am the one who trips over your dog or steps on your feet.  I am the one who bumps into you in step class.  I am the one who drops a pile of books in the middle of the quiet library.

I am the one who avoids mirrors and cameras.  I don’t like what I see.  I don’t want to see.

My lament of self-loathing has been a constant companion, for all but one grace-filled and fleeting moment.

If asked, I never would have predicted that such a moment would have taken place in a dressing room in a suburban Massachusetts mall.  If I had been given a prior scripting rights, I would have placed myself on a mountain peak or in a serene yoga class.  At the very least, I would have been wearing something that was not covered in dried spit-up.

But grace is rarely ours to direct and I am thankful for the moments I am blessed to receive it, regardless of the location or the state of my clothes.

I was a new mother, and I was awash in wild hormones and leaky breasts.  My pants didn’t fit.  I wandered through the mall, carrying my son in his sling and my new, bigger, clothes in shopping bags.   I avoided my reflections in the shiny storefronts.

I was in a dressing room when Ean needed to nurse.  It was one of those spacious and well-appointed rooms with a soft seat and a large mirror.  I sat cross-legged; cradled my newborn, my first born, in my lap lifted him to my breast.  I rubbed his head while he nursed.  I leaned over to breathe him in and capture the nepenthe of newborn odor. 

Then I raised my head and I saw myself. 

I saw beauty.  I looked at myself and saw beauty.

At that moment, my body was not too big or too awkward or too polluted with shame.  My body was strong and capable.  My body could create and nourish life.  My body brought love into the world.

At that moment, my face was not a collection of mis-matched features.  My face was a work of art, an expression of the limitless love that passes from mother to child.

At that moment, I was the beautiful girl.

Comments

[Robin]

powerful, wonderful. Beautiful woman.

[debbie windover]

I have always thought of you as a confident, powerful, beautiful, warm woman/mother--and now I know you are an amazing writer as well. Thanks for sharing!
debbie