It's true and I can tell you why.
Firstly, it's hard. I struggle, and not just with the heat or the way my tummy looks compared with the sixteen-year-old in the bikini beside me. (Who am I kidding? She's sixty, but she still looks better than I do.) My body actually trembles as I attempt to hold my balance and my breakfast, to place my leg just so without falling over, to hold my head up and relax my throat. To smile. And when I catch myself struggling, I think of M, just shy of four months, struggling to hold his head up, bracing himself with his chubby little arms, spitting up milk in the effort. I think of my baby and I am flooded with empathy. I feel new and old all at once. I want to go home and hold him. I too want to be held.
But the hard part passes, as it always does, and I am gifted with a moment's relaxation. I sink into this moment. I love the stillness. My body is all too ready to let go. Not so my mind. She keeps whirring, unfurling new ideas, sudden inspirations, quiet discoveries. For example, I realize (or remember) that my physical struggles are fleeting. I don't want to bend, I can't bend, I can't believe I'm bending, and then it's over. The discomfort, the hard breathing, the lack of faith in myself, it all fades. I remember my labours, how I survived each without giving up and what tremendous rewards I reaped. My beautiful children. A new respect for my body and what it can do for me when I listen.
These are not new lessons, but I need them again. I need to remember this when I am in the midst of a full-blown battle with E. This anger, this hatred, this guilt, this sadness will pass. He is only four. If I'm still learning, consider how far he has yet to come. Remember to have faith in him. Retreat and return to him. Rediscover him and fall in love again and again.
