In the last few months, I have been emerging out of a confinement of the self where I'd been lost in caring for my children and stuck outside of myself. Sometimes survival happens, and that's where I've been for a while. But in the months that approached my youngest daughter's third birthday, some of the dependence she's had has loosened. The girls are beginning to play differently now that Jade is 3, and while my days are still filled with upset, conflict, meals, messes, and sweet, sweet girls who shower me with hugs and kisses, it has allowed me to look up from the work I've been doing with them and come out of a survival fog.
And it has been through this that I am remembering. I am remembering who I was before I had children, who I was as a strong woman and teacher of that strength. I am remembering where the boundaries are between me and others, and between my issues and the power I can choose not to give others over those issues. And I am remembering my body.
The quiet voice that once was loud is being heard when the hustle and bustle stops. In those moments of autonomy, both for my girls and for me, the whisperings of my flesh are making their way through my own inner quiet and reminding me that there are still lessons to tend to. The lessons have flooded my heart with quiet wisdom, and enlisted my mind with a gentle coaxing. The time to listen, the opportunity to listen, the need to listen to my body again is ripening.
Rachel, at Creativity Tribe, and I have been sharing in this process and the seeds of change are beginning to bloom. With a monthly moon blog focus, and eventually a website of it's own, this has become the Body Wisdom Project. A project to remember, a project to renew, a project to re-empower the wisdom of our bodies. We begin with this new moon cycle and with a focus: LISTEN.
So I am listening.
I am listening with my intuition. Listening with my cells. Listening between hugs and meals and stories and homeshooling.
I hear my body, my organs, my muscles, skin, bones. I hear my arms and legs, my spine, my head. Even my gray hair is speaking to me. It is a quiet chorus of chaos, a radio not quite tuned and needing a moment of focus to perfect the dial. But it's there, beneath the chatter and hustle and bustle of the outer experience. It's there amid the aches and pains and triumphs and joys.
I'm tuning in, and I invite you to do so with me. Turn the dial. A little this way, a little that way. Extend your antenna. Pause. And wait to receive the stream of the message.
I'll do the same.