Yay! A happy post!

I love how fresh and promising everything is in the early morning. The birds are singing (and its a good thing for me I enjoy it, as my neighborhood is practically over-run), the sun has just begun to pull itself up into my world, and my mind is quiet and hopeful, somehow dreamy and alert all at once.
My children are dozing snugly in the little cocoons they've created for themselves, Sam surrounded by Kung Fu Panda stuffed animals, Anna with the 3 or 4 baby blankets she likes to hug beneath her as she sleeps. I have the bed all to myself - heaven! - and am free to spend 5 or 10 or 20 minutes breathing in the morning, stretching, preparing my mind for the day.
I don't know that I could call what I do each morning meditating. From the many times I've begun a meditation practice in my life, that word conjures up for me a constant struggle to force thoughts out of my mind, or worse yet a struggle to not struggle or force it, followed by exasperation, frustration and a stinging sense of failure. So instead I think of myself armoring my mind for the day: I want to dwell as deeply in this morning peace as i can, and use it to refill my well so that when the day's havoc is too much for me i can drink it in then, when i need it the most.
On days like this I find myself even looking forward to my children waking up, anxiously awaiting Sam's sleepy footsteps or Anna's insistent "Baba Mama!" from her crib. Anyone with children knows you don't always look forward to that; there are days when all you're thinking is "oh please just let them sleep late so I can have another cup of coffee in peace." I have lots of those days.
But today isn't one of them. I'm grateful for today, open to what it will bring, hopeful about how I will feel about it tonight when I snuggle into my own cocoon.

thunderstorm

I love a good thunderstorm. I love how slowly the fat clouds roll in, almost too heavy to move; how they hold out until they can't possibly hold out any longer, and then...release. Imagine what relief they must feel when they finally burst...
So I'm on a weather kick, I know...
Last weekend, over the holiday, the husband, kids and I went to visit my in-laws. I always like this trip, not just because my in-laws are nice people (if a little wacky about religion) but because it gives me a real break from the constant attentions of parenting. We show up, they shower the kids with kisses, I crack open a magazine and nod off on the sofa.
AND as a bonus, I can usually get some alone-time. So Sunday, while my father-in-law took my son to the grocery store and my mother-in-law picked up the spoon my daughter threw from her high chair 792 times, I snuck out to the back porch with my book, just in time to see some fat, round clouds rolling in. The back porch having a roof, I wasn't too concerned when the drops started falling. By the time I realized that I'd have to walk around the outside of the house to get in (due to some oddity of architecture) it was pouring, pounding really, and for a moment I felt pure relief. "I'm stuck out here. Alone. No one would expect me to run through this storm and get soaked when my kids are obviously being well-cared-for...awesome."
As things slowly improve with my depression, and they are improving (dear god what will i write about?!) I notice the irritability and fatigue lightening...lifting, a bit. And while this is of course a very good thing, it leaves room for my mind to dwell on a more disturbing symptom: I miss joy.
Time was, being alone, outside but sheltered, in a thunderstorm would have filled me with joy. I'm weird that way, but its true. I would have sat still & quiet and breathed in the rain smell, watched the little rivers form in the street, felt my hair starting to curl and been filled with anticipation for the next lightening bolt or thunderclap. Now, I merely welcomed this as an excuse not to care for my children.
Time was, I didn't want a break from my kids, or at least not so many breaks, because spending time with them filled me with a pure joy. Of course there were exasperating moments. Of course it was tiring and sometimes mundane - the feeding, the changing, the getting them to sleep. But still, in the back somewhere past all that, there was joy.
I don't really feel like the joy isn't there anymore so much as I can't get past 'all that' to the back to dwell in it...
I have storm clouds gathering in my life right now, and watching them slowly roll in, almost too heavy to move, fills me with a dread that thunderstorms haven't inspired in me since I was a child myself.

The Eye of the Tornado

Sylvia Plath wrote, "I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo." I revisited that gem last week, as I was gorging myself on books rather than packing them up for a yard sale as I'd promised. I don't think I've ever heard depression described more elegantly or more accurately.

For me the storm is my marriage, my dishes, my kids, my laundry, my (once-thriving-now-nearly-forgotten) career...what's for dinner? How long will it be until my husband and I have officially been in counseling for HALF of our marriage? Can I afford to have my carpet shampooed rather than scrubbing it on my hands and knees AGAIN? Where did all these toys come from? Am I actually considering medication for my 5 year old son? Can I squeeze $15 out of the grocery budget for sushi this week?

This is the...debris my particular storm throws about. And, just like an actual tornado, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to which parts of my life it will leave intact, which it will flatten.

I wonder, does the eye of the tornado steer the storm, or is it steered by the storm?