There is our little altar. Above the stove, it will have to do. My friend is sending angels, and I was instructed to make them some space.
Treva has become very interested in Mary’s sacred heart, and my explanation that involves the martyrdom of all mothers. Ain’t that the truth (oh no, not really).
We are baking some coconut/chickpea felafel with eggy crepes, and I hear myself giving Horus and Treva the exact instructions that my mother gave to me and Alexandra: Keep the fork touching the bottom of the bowl. Mix. Now slowly *fold* the ingredients. Never *stir*. We don’t want everything flying all over the place.
There is nothing radical about this, except the force with which it hits me that I am my mother.
Reviewing the resolutions of the past few days, I allowed today’s revelation just arrive on its own. The usual kerfuffle upon trying to exit the house, the little sister’s hair gets pulled, I was about to holler but I just sat down instead to a great, deep, OM– that universal open-the-heart-strings-feel-the-vibration rocking waves of sound chakra blasting OM, and the kids sat down and looked at their mother. And then I whispered: It’s time to go outside now, beautiful children.
So number six is two: At least one OM, and speaking softly.
I want to say that I sense that change is coming, but really, when is change not? Coming, that is.
Anyway. I have suddenly felt quite introspective, and I think it’s Winter’s fault. Oh January.
Above: this is how it feels, lately. Poor Lee. He looks particularly harangued.