Embodied Hope and Other Small Miracles
Plus, a collection of delights for March
I am late. I lost track of time and am now attempting to run with a backpack full of textbooks and anthologies across the entire university campus, except instead of running, I am actually accomplishing something more along the lines of brisk speed-waddling. As I lunge up yet another flight of stairs, I think to myself that this is what it must feel like to be very, very pregnant. When I finally reach the English Department, I take a steadying breath outside the door and scoot into the classroom at the last minute. Sliding into an empty desk in the back of the room, I have made it just in time to hear my professor begin reading aloud from an Anne Lamott book like it is the Bible, itself.
It is my sophomore year of college, and I am taking an essay writing course taught by a soft spoken but fiery professor. I love this class, and I love her more. She has a way of making me feel as if I am in on a shared secret, as if there is nothing she’d rather do than help me patiently navigate how to best tell my stories.
At the end of class, she asks us to write an essay about hope. That is the only requirement I hear with any real clarity, but it is enough for me. I leave class feeling capable, eager, an idea already unfolding in my mind. The next day, I write the entire essay in a single sitting, as if I have been waiting my whole life to tell this story.
The following week, I find my graded essay returned in my P.O. Box. My professor has jotted a small A- at the top of the page, and in the margin below the essay’s final paragraph, she has scrawled in red pen: “Interesting perspective on hope.”
I perceive it as a compliment at first, but as I scan my essay again, it dawns on me: I have not written about hope, at all. I have written of its absence. I have written of despair.
* * *
“Mama, I don’t want to go to nature class.”
She is pulling on my coat as she says this, the pitch of her voice growing higher with every step. She says these words to me every Monday on our walk down the long hallway, past the salamanders and the painted turtle. My big feeler, my sweet and spicy child is usually convinced her fear is here to stay, that feelings are immutable, permanent. What she does not know is, though I am twice her size, I often find myself believing the same thing.
I kneel on the carpet to hang her backpack on the hook before looking in her eyes. She has heard these things many times and today, she whispers them to herself:
“My worry brain is telling me I am not OK, but Jesus is with me and my teachers care about me. I am safe here.” *
“Feelings are kinda like clouds—they will float on by. I am feeling nervous but I won’t feel this way forever.” **
We talk for a minute longer and I give her a hug before walking her into the classroom. I leave her sitting at the art table where she glues faux fur to a card stock cut-out of a red-tailed fox.
When I pick her up a few hours later, her smile is wide. On the way home, she tells me she did have fun, after all—that it just took a little bit of time to feel better, again.
* * *
It is 2019 and my daughter is not yet one year old when I first begin to wrap my mind around the fact that my body does not know how to really feel hope in a gritty, cellular way. One day, after putting my daughter down for nap, I read that hope is “…the bodily-based expectation that we will soon feel close and connected again.” The words are jarring, resonating in a way that unnerves me. I text my husband: “I do not remember the last time I felt this way, with anyone.”
That is when I know for sure: I am not good at hope by any stretch of the imagination. It’s like my body is a sieve and the hope slips right through, leaving behind a gnawing feeling of scarcity, a bodily-based expectation that I will not feel close and connected again, that I will not belong, that I will definitely be misunderstood, certainly be seen as too much.
The next year will begin the unraveling of the well-meaning voice that is no longer useful—the one trying to convince me that one argument with my husband means we will not be close again, that one ignored text means I am probably too much, that I should always be ready for the other shoe to drop, that good things do not stay.
My husband will sit on the bed with me a dozen times after a dozen arguments and remind me things will feel better tomorrow. He will tend to my heart, remind me he’s not going anywhere, soften my jagged edges by saying something like, “Hey, do you remember two nights ago when we laughed until we couldn’t breathe?” My therapist will wait patiently on the other side of the computer screen for me to finish crying, again. She will show me how to pay attention, how to hold gentle space for myself—again, then again, and again. My friends will meet me for coffee and tell me that I am not too much, that I will always belong, that they will tell me as many times as I need.
I will begin to learn how to leap, how to let in safe people who are willing to hold my trembling hand, help my body remember that closeness and connection are inevitable, remind my heart that hope is one of the truest parts of living.
* * *
The week of my twenty-ninth birthday, I am walking to the Creek with my daughters. It is March and winter is slowly turning into spring. The slow melt has me thinking of all the small ways I am letting my heart thaw, as well—all the ways I am learning to practice hope in my body.
I let myself cry instead of remaining angry. I trust that my friends and I can make wildly different choices and still be close. I have a few places where I really belong, a handful of people who help me feel what it is to belong. And on the days when it seems like all we do in our family is hurt each other’s feelings, there is a quiet assurance among us that we will each be heard, that we will make things right before long.
My daughters are thrilled to see the Creek thawing in several places, and we stop to heap piles of wet snow into the rushing water for the sheer joy of it. The one-year-old is screaming, “Splash!” at the top of her lungs, the four-year-old is whipping snowballs into the bare treetops, the airplanes are soaring above us in the gray sky, and the ducks are oblivious to it all, dipping their heads under the rippled surface, tail feathers in the air.
I do not want much for my birthday this year, but at the top of my list is more moments like this.
More joy. More presence. More embodied hope.
* * *
*from “Raising Worry-Free Girls”
**from “The Whole Brain Child”
learning with littles
A snapshot of what the girls and I are learning together in our day-to-day:
Real talk: March is the month we start to burn out a little bit (and all the homeschool mamas said, “Amen”). Particularly in Minnesota, there is just something about the never-ending winter that makes one feel, by this point, they are perhaps stuck in Narnia and the White Witch is reigning on her throne. I consider our family to be very pro-winter, but even the four-year-old is starting to ask when she can go outside without taking thirty minutes to bundle up, and I don’t blame her one bit.
It’s all good, though, because I have a Homeschool Burnout Game Plan, and it goes something like this:
-more baking (chunky monkey oatmeal and soft-baked granola bars are the girls’ favorites on repeat, over here!)
-more pizza & movie nights (so far we’ve seen Frozen, Encanto, and Tangled, and Moana—Encanto is my favorite, by far.)
-more science experiments, art, free-play, dance parties, read-alouds, outside time, and playdates.
I am pleased to report, the plan has been a success. Sometimes (read: every time) it’s good for me to lower expectations, lower them again, and then one more time. Sometimes (read: every time) it’s good for me to remember what it feels like to let loose and be childlike with my girls.
March’s theme was rainbows and the following are some tried and true rainbow activities we really enjoyed this month:
-I dyed a bunch of pasta for a big playdate we hosted. (This is a great tutorial—I used rubbing alcohol as opposed to vinegar because the smell completely dissipates once dry. I also double bagged each color to prevent leaking). The kiddos made necklaces with the rainbow noodles using pipe cleaners (easier for toddlers to handle), and my girls played with the leftovers in a sensory bin for the rest of the month.
-Rip and stick rainbow craft. We used contact paper and hung ours in the window.
-No rainbow unit is complete without a Fruit Loop rainbow craft and a Skittles rainbow experiment. I stand by this. Both of these things take minimal effort, while providing maximum Cool Mom points. It’s a win-win.
-Busy Toddler’s Hidden Colors was such a hit with both my girls—they loved creating “fizzing rainbows”! It also allowed me to make dinner in relative peace, which was magic all on its own.
This month, we learned about: rainbows/color/light, magic, and all things St. Patrick’s Day. If you’re interested, you can find more of our homeschool content here.
beautiful words
In no particular order, here are some words I read this month that deeply resonated with me:
-This beautiful poem by Olivia Murphy for Coffee + Crumbs on how our children perceive us, how we perceive ourselves, and how we contain multitudes.
-Some writer friends who know more about poetry than I do suggested I follow Maggie Smith and may I just say, wow. I am stunned by her work, her voice, and her encouragement to other poets. Give her a follow here.
-My friend Elizabeth Berget shared this piece by Lindsey DeLoach Jones on politics, faith, shifting values, and how to live in the gray. It really resonated with me in this season.
-This NYT article on introverts and friendship (louder for the people in the back!)
-This poem by Elizabeth Hudgens from Ekstasis Magazine, loosely on church/culture wars/perceptions.
books / podcasts / shows
A list of things playing in my ears, sitting on my nightstand, or streaming on my tv:
-Some poetry I read this month: Ada Limón’s The Hurting Kind, James Crews’s anthology, How to Love the World, Rupi Kaur’s Homebody, and Kate Baer’s What Kind of Woman.
-Shrinking on Apple TV is hands-down one of the most hilarious shows I’ve seen in awhile. My husband and I straight up cackled at so many scenes. You really can’t beat Harrison Ford as a grouchy therapist, not to mention Jason Segel’s inability to maintain any kind of boundaries with his clients. Pure entertainment gold.
-TED LASSO!!!!!!!!! IYKYK. I have been waiting for this season for what feels like an eternity, along with every other TL fan. It came out the day before my birthday—it’s like Apple+ did this on purpose. Happy birthday to me, indeed.
-Beth Moore’s raw and honest conversation with Kate Bowler on her new memoir had me crying and laughing and nodding and adding her book to my cart ASAP. It is safe to say there are not many “evangelical” voices I love with my whole heart anymore, but Beth Moore is a treasure.
-Maintenance Phase’s episode “Doctor’s Have a New Plan for Fat Kids” was a great listen for making sense of the AAP’s ridiculous new set of guidelines for “childhood obesity”. NPR also wrote about it here. (TL;DR—The AAP is coming down hard on children with larger bodies, with recommendations for medication and even surgery for children as young as twelve. That is a big #hellno from me).
-This conversation between Alain de Botton and Krista Tippett was phenomenal. It is not a recent episode, but nevertheless an incredible breath of fresh air. If you need a reminder that love and marriage are hard work and our expectations are often supremely unrealistic—look no further. My husband loved it, too.
-I cannot send out this newsletter without expressing my sheer joy and excitement for Ashlee Gadd’s new book, Create Anyway. I just received my copy a couple days ago and friends, it is beautiful. I cannot wait to dive in deeper and give a more full review next month!
feeding the fam
Here’s a rundown of some of the family favorites that showed up on our table this month:
-Heidi Swanson’s Sunshine Pad Thai is a late winter/early spring staple in our house. Broccolini is coming in season and all the ingredients come together so easily. We usually add crispy tofu, but chicken would also be delicious!
-I will forever love Tieghan from HBH, and her One Skillet Lemon Butter Dijon Chicken and Orzo is delish. I have two words for you: feta sauce. Even the kids love this one (deconstructed, but hey, whatever it takes tbh).
-My friend gifted me this cookbook for Christmas and it absolutely lives up to the hype—easy, delicious, family friendly recipes. We especially love her Sausage Sheet Pan Dinner on nights we don’t have a lot of time to cook (recipe in the above cookbook, but this one from Once Upon a Chef is similar and delicious).
the little things
A list of some little things I’ve been loving:
-I grabbed these rain/muck boots on sale and am soooo glad I did. My ones from Target were getting holes in the soles and I needed something that could endure the slush, mud, and snow of this in-between winter/spring season. (Apparently, this is the brand all the Alaskans are wearing through their own sludgy weather, so now I feel extra hardcore).
-I bought some framed pressed flowers at a little corner shop this month (see photo above). I put them by our kitchen sink and they’ve been a sweet reminder to remain hopeful, even in the mundane of washing dishes and wiping noses.
-My current at-home mom-iform is cropped tees (yes, I have caved to the trend), high-waisted leggings, and this shacket.
-This body spray is my favorite. Consider it a grown-up version of Bath & Body Works body sprays (RIP “Japanese Cherry Blossom”—you were good to me).
words I’ve written
Here are some of my own words put to paper this month:
-I’m very eager to tell you all about Michelle Windsor’s new Substack publication, Part-Time Poets! Every month, she will be putting together a collection of poetry from various “part-time poets” (i.e. mothers who are writing in school pick up lines and in between feeding + changing babies), and I’m honored to be one of the contributors alongside some super talented friends. Check out the first issue tomorrow, April 1!
-Most of my poetry is now being housed here, on Substack, and my first collection on giving ourselves permission went out earlier this month. You can find it here. Keep an eye out for more regular poetry coming soon!
Until next month, friends—may you continue on in hope. May you encourage your body to remember that closeness and connection are right around the corner. And may the ones you love hold your hand the whole time.
Love,
Krista