Learning to be ordinary
because I think that might be the most beautiful thing.
Hello humans,
For most of my life, I have tried to be outstanding. Throughout middle school, high school, and college, I played sports, participated in plays and musicals, student government, and stayed up late not just finishing, but perfecting my homework. For two of those high school years, I also spent 15+ hours a week doing physical therapy and chiropractic care for my spine; I was not simply trying to prevent my scoliosis from getting worse, but to make my spine straighter. After the treatment didn’t work and I finally got back surgery, I launched right back into sports, acting in plays, and doing everything I could in order to maintain an impressive GPA.
I remember one day when I was 15, lying on my back on the hard plastic wedges my chiropractor had prescribed. I had just finished sobbing to my mom that I did not want to do my exercises anymore, that I did not want to lay my bony body on hard, plastic wedges again, that I did not want to wear my stupid hard, plastic back brace or eat my stupid diet or go to the stupid chiropractor again, and again, every day for the next three and a half years, as had been recommended. After I sobbed and screamed, I pulled myself together and dutifully got back to my exercises and my block-laying. I was still crying, but I remember trying to slow my breathing as I stared, determinedly, at a spot on the ceiling.
I heard my mom in the kitchen, talking with my aunt, who was visiting at the time.
“Sorry for the outburst,” my mom said quietly to her sister. “I think she’s pretty stressed.”
“It’s okay,” my aunt replied, patiently. “It just shows that she’s human.”
I’m sure they didn’t mean for me to hear, or for me to think that I had done something wrong, but I immediately felt ashamed. First, I had let my mother down by throwing a fit; then, I had let my aunt down by revealing I was “just human.”
I remember thinking, in that moment, that I would need to work harder, lest anyone describe me as “just human” ever again.
There was another day also around this time, when I shared a short story I had written with my dad. I was proud of it, and wanted him to be, too.
After he read it, he said that reading the story had comforted him. “It helped me to remember just how young you are,” he said, and I knew he meant that the story was immature.
Of course I was immature, but I did not want to think of myself that way.
I remember thinking, in that moment, that I would need to try harder if anyone were to take my writing seriously.
It was not until a few years ago that I started to accept: being “just human” is as beautiful as it is complex. And it was not until approximately ten weeks ago, when I became a parent, that I fully felt this reality.
After going through childbirth, I cannot believe that we have been doing this for thousands of years. More specifically, I cannot believe that people who give birth aren’t constantly talking about what an outrageous experience it is. Perhaps because so many people do it, it feels almost cliché? Or maybe because it is so personal, so unique to each birthing person, we feel we cannot fully explain it? Or maybe, evolutionarily, we need to forget how utterly unfathomable it is when it’s over? Indeed, I have caught myself wondering if it really was as intense, as painful, as un-fucking-believable as it was. But anytime I start to forget or deny, my husband is right here to remind me: Yes, it was. And anytime I look at Phoebe and think to myself, “This little human being was inside my body!” I am truly awe-struck.
As I think about how I want to raise Phoebe, I keep coming back to simplicity. I do not want to make her life any more complicated than it needs to be. I do not want her growing up thinking that she needs to make herself into anything other than who she is. I do not want to be distracted from the intrinsic wonder, the innate connection that we share, as mother and child, as a family, as people who love each other, dearly.
To this end, I have made the decision to simplify my own life (and by extension, our lives) by not returning to my weekly yoga classes, as originally planned. A big part of me will miss these classes, but an even bigger part is absolutely thrilled to be able to stay home with my perfect little Phoebe noodle. I will still lead occasional workshops and kirtans, but adding weekly classes to my schedule just doesn’t feel right at this moment.
I will also continue writing whenever I have two free hands and I feel like it. I have loved sharing my thoughts here, loved reading your replies, and I have extra-loved hearing your stories about parenthood, relationships, and your own self-inquiry. I am so excited to continue learning and writing and sharing and growing together.
I’ll leave you with a poem that I wrote for Phoebe (and maybe also for me?) a few weeks ago. Whatever your aspirations, I hope it reminds you that you, my dear, are incredible, just as you are.
Love,
Abby
Prayer
My prayer for you
is not that you
are exceptional
but that you are,
that you may be,
ordinary.
I do not mean you
should not do great things
or that I will not care
when you do;
I will be proud
right alongside you.
But I do not want greatness
to distract you
from goodness,
striving
to distract you
from being.
I pray that you trust
you do not have
to be something,
anything,
more than the
living, breathing being
you already are,
for that alone
is miraculous.