She is learning to swim. In the pool she repeats, “I know, mama- you’ve got me.” It is a question as much as a statement. “I’m not letting go,” I assure her.
I am reminded of this picture. One I snapped months ago, when the world was full of different, hard news. When she crawled into bed beside me one morning before the sun had reached us.
Her small arm draped across my body, her hand closed around my neck. She fell back asleep. “I know,” I think, “you’ve got me.” This time, it is a statement. I know the day will come that a little hand will no longer wrap around my neck, but this memory of being held, this memory of being loved – it won’t let go.
—
I look back at the picture captured early that morning. The lines are blurry. The edges are soft. The tone is grey. It’s not clear, I muse.
It’s foggy, one might say.
—
I have been feeling foggy lately. Disoriented, at times; straining to see what’s ahead. Reaching for fog lights [in all the wrong places]. Seeking information or inspiration, clarity or comfort - I can’t seem to find the right button. Everything feels blurry, the edges run together, the colors- dim.
—
And then, this science lesson:
Fog is made up of tiny water or ice particles. It disrupts visibility by reflecting and refracting the light that hits it.
And it hits me. The fog may be clouding my view of what’s to come, but it is also reflecting the light that is already here. Might I soak it in a little bit longer.
—
I need not look beyond my arms. Beyond her tiny hand. Beyond the ones who hold.
I think of the things my hands have held lately: her, of course, his hand, too. Petals and dirt and bugs and seeds. Food and water and toilet paper. Pens and paintbrushes and pillows and piles of laundry. Books and laptops and notes from the conference call. Door knobs and sunscreen and Avocado (the stuffed giraffe). The light is here.
And I think of the holders. Those who hold hands, who hold grocery bags, who hold masks, who hold hospital doors, who hold steering wheels, who hold medicine, who hold packages dropped on doorsteps. The light is here.
—
In life, in motherhood, in a pandemic.
The lines are blurry. The edges are soft. So many things are grey.
But the light is here. For we are holding each other.
And we won’t let go.
I realize I am seeing clearly, after all.
PS- A favorite practice related to mindfulness is to focus attention on our hands throughout the day- a visible and tangible reminder of our life in this moment. May we be present. May we be holders. May our hands offer the light that is here.
