"dark as a bird wing & softer"

this is the moon dark as a bird wing & softer, he said & at that moment I knew only the joy of my child

– Story People, "Simple Pleasures"

Last night while I was nursing my daughter, I tried to get my partner's attention two floors below. My child and I were rocking in the darkness of her room — it was slow, quiet, gentle. Knowing her sensitivity to sudden noises, I tried to hush my voice, cover her ear. But the third iteration of "Sweetie..." as I called down to my partner made her jump, and my sweet baby began to cry so hard. She was so startled that she had trouble catching her breath...it was that kind of cry. And my heart broke as I rocked her and tried to help her feel calm. It took some time...sudden noises disturb the core of her peace. Sirens, for example, can make her cry a sorrowful cry. When she finally calmed down, she seemed distant...curious about the streetlights and the lit windows outside, and uninterested in making eye contact with her mother. She still had the hiccup of crying, even as she fell back to sleep.

This morning at 5am I was supposed to be asleep, but I was wide awake, my heart racing, my belly unsettled, my mind still stuck on what had happened. Guilt, sadness, worry. I dragged myself out of bed and put my faith in practice.

All the way there my heart was heavy. On the bus, walking down the snowy streets, up the elevator to the shala. Had I scared her? Did she remember? Had I injured our bond? My heart continued to pound as I began Surya Namaskara, and I tried to direct my mind...

I imagined that my practice was breathing into my daughter's heart. I softened each vinyasa as I moved from asana to asana, and I saw the fluttering in her heart growing smooth. As I breathed, I tried to ease away the memory of how she had been so sad; I tried to speak to her heart and ask for forgiveness. The practice was like floating...the backbends opened, the jump-back was effortless. And somewhere into the seated postures, my own heart grew calm with the beginnings of forgiving myself. I don't know if she felt any of what I was trying to send out to her...I don't know if perhaps I was taking too much credit for being someone that made her so sad. Narcissistic of me, maybe.

My mother tells me my daughter doesn't remember it now, and she is probably right. But I will always remember it. And I will continue to be in awe of the fact that my efforts to soothe my child while she slept 10 blocks away made my own practice less heavy. Less of a burden. Less painful. I do not know what I did to deserve such a gift. I do not know how it happens that someone so small and young could bring ease to what usually seems to be so challenging. She does that for me over and over, and I never have to ask. I just watch it happening and wonder.

I think it will be a good idea to let her know throughout her life how much softness and faith she inspires. I am sure that I will tell her that she is beautiful and smart and strong; that she paints well, and runs really fast, and has a good eye for finding things; and that she is kind and thoughtful and honest. But I will also remind her that she is my sweet, sweet love, and that life started over when she was born.

Works Cited

Story People. "Simple Pleasures." StoryPeople. 2008. Web. 8 Feb. 2010.