I will remember...

A letter to my unborn babe (+ a huge thank-you)

Hello, wonderful people,

I hope you’re all enjoying your sweaters and Blundstones and pumpkin spice everything as we cozy up into fall…

I’ve been home from my retreat for nearly a week, and am still reveling in all the joy it brought. It shouldn’t surprise me, how deeply nourished I feel after each retreat, but it somehow manages to, every time. I am so thankful to have been able to host this one, and also so glad to say:

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who helped make this retreat happen. To the amazing humans who came (see below), to our fabulous caterer, Dana, to the folks at Buckhorn Springs, and to everyone who responded to my last post so generously. To all of y’all who donated (and for anyone else who cares!), I am delighted to report that, instead of losing $3000 on this event, I made - hold onto your hats - $26! So, I suppose after taxes, that’s more like $18, which is even more hilarious, but my point is: I am extremely thankful a) to have been able to hold this extremely special event with such extremely special people, and b) not to have lost a ton of money doing it.

Did I learn some things about hosting events and setting pricing? Yes. Did I also (re)learn that I love my job so much that the money is absolutely not the point? Yes. All I want from this life is to feel nourished, loved, and connected, and right now, I feel all those things. So, dear people who helped last weekend happen: Thank you.

The piece of writing I want to share today is inspired by the retreat. Throughout the weekend, we explored the theme of transitions. We noted that sometimes, transitions take the form of movement between things: moving from one yoga pose to another; moving from one home to another; applying to school, or a job… Other times, however, transitions occur in the pause between things: sitting quietly once we’ve arrived at a yoga class; taking a few minutes of silence after an interesting podcast ends; taking some deep breaths after we’ve eaten; taking a hand to our pregnant belly and simply feeling… In movement, things are stirred up; in stillness, they can begin to settle and integrate. Both the stirring and the settling are essential in transition, and in transformation.

On our last morning together, I gave each student a piece of paper and an envelope to self-address. I invited them to write a letter to their future selves, a letter that I promised not to read, but to send them, in due time. The letter would serve as a bridge, a reminder of where they once were, and what they hoped to take with them. My hope is that, upon receiving it, they might take a moment to be still, to feel and integrate all the things that were stirred during our time together. The prompt I offered was: “I will remember…”

As I started writing my own letter, I thought about my own transition from non-parent to parent, and how there are so many things I hope to remember about this time. What started as a letter to myself about the retreat soon became a letter to my unborn child about pregnancy. Maybe I’ll seal it up and have Alex send it to me (or our kid) when I least expect it… In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading.

So much love and appreciation,
Abby

P.S. For those of you who are curious: my last class before parental leave will be Thurs, Oct 10 (the day before my birthday)! So if you want to come see me before I duck out for a few months, I’d love to see you in class, and/ or at Kirtan next Friday, Oct 4!

Just a few of the best people, in one of the best places…

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I Will Remember

I will remember the first time we heard your heartbeat: so loud, so strong, so fast. We listened, watched in awe, as your tiny lima bean body declared its presence. I have arrived! you seemed to say, and there was no missing you this time.

I will remember how nervous we were on the ride home, and for the next nine weeks, how scared I was to believe that you would stay. I will remember that it’s okay to be scared, and that trust takes time.

I will remember how ill I felt during those first few months, and how thankful I was. It reminded me that things were happening, that you were still here, that you had no intention of leaving.

I will remember that it is a gift to feel.

I will remember the one who came before you, the one who wasn’t ready.

I will remember the one who came before them, the one we weren’t ready for.

I will remember that grief does not make sense, and that time is not linear. I will remember that this is especially true with loss.

I will remember the first time we felt you move. I had just laid down, your dad snuggled up next to me. By chance, or by some perfectly timed curiosity, he placed his hand on my belly and you immediately gave us a show. I will remember how wild it felt the first time, how wild it still feels, every time.

I will remember the week when it seemed all you wanted was to rest your head in my right abdomen, occasionally wiggling your arms and legs, maybe to see if you could make more space in there. I don’t blame you; you’re not a lima bean anymore.

I will remember how much space we all need, especially as we grow.

I will remember the time we took you to a music festival, and how delighted everyone was to see us, to see you. What a gift to your child! they said, To expose them to so much music, so much dancing, so much joy! I agreed, and I hoped you did, too.

I will remember how excited some people get when they see a pregnant person, how it almost turns them into children.

I will remember how sad some others get, how sad I would get, before you came, and sometimes still.

I will remember that it’s okay to feel everything, that I will feel everything, sometimes all at once.

I will remember that I do not need to heed everyone’s advice. I will remember that you do not either, even when the advice is mine.

I will remember all the people who told me I would be an amazing mother. I will remember this especially when I am not doing an amazing job. I will remember that it’s okay not to be amazing all the time.

I will remember to forgive myself when I don’t show up as my best, and to forgive you, too.

I will remember that patience is kinder than perfection.

I will remember the time that we, you and I, walked by a woman on the street, moving her tent. I will remember the tenderness I felt toward her, the tenderness that you continue to remind me of: Everyone is somebody’s baby. I will remember this especially when I don’t want to, when it would be easier to close off and harden.

I will remember to stay soft.

I will remember the class that we, your dad and I, took where they taught us how to talk to babies. Tell them you love them, they said, even if you don’t think they understand it. They went on: Hold them, touch them, stay with them, patiently; even if they keep crying, trust that your presence matters. I will remember to do this for you, and for the adults I love.

I will remember that oftentimes, loving presence is enough.

I will remember the yoga retreat I took you on, 33 weeks in, and how much joy you brought us. I will remember how connected you helped me feel, how present, how loving. I will remember how much we, all of us, laughed and sang and cried, and how I could not wait to bring you to another retreat, once you were on the outside.

I cannot wait to laugh and sing and cry together.

I will remember that I cannot predict all the changes that will come, that my teaching, my writing, my heart, will evolve exponentially, if I let them.

I will remember that the only thing harder than change is resisting it.

I will remember the yoga class I took where the teacher asked us to rest our hands on our bellies, to offer our babies something: a thought, a prayer, or just simple touch. I will remember how much I felt you move in that moment, how I wondered if you could hear my thoughts, or at least feel my hands.

I will remember how much love you were surrounded by, how much love we were surrounded by, even before we saw you, before we heard your heart beat. I will remember to pause long enough to feel that love, especially when it’s hard, especially when it would be so easy to rush.

I will remember how fast time goes, and how slowly, and also that time is arbitrary. I will remember that you will challenge my sense of time, my ideas of relationships, my sense of self, my sense of us.

I will remember to hold you, tenderly, and to let you go, tenderly. I will remember this especially when I don’t want to, when I want to keep clinging. I will remember that you will move at your own pace, in your own time, with your own rhythm.

I will remember that even the quickest rhythms must include silence, must include a pause, and that there is always a beat between beats.

I will remember to notice the resonance, as well as the sound,
the movement, as well as the rest.

I will remember that the spaces
between are a
part of connection.

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Upcoming events w/ Abby: