the ebb and flow

i felt myself in my feet the other day. grounded and steady. much like the first time i ever stood up on a surfboard without falling off. i felt as though the earth and i understood each other and i could handle just about anything.
then water engulfs coastline and i realize that i know absolutely nothing about real balance.

everyday life is one thing. the long haul is an ebb and flow. occasionally, the surges are more than i can bear and i spend the day ill and irritable and lamenting all of the things that are off kilter, forgetting that in some parts of the world, the idea of a bad day like mine would be a vacation. i feel sorry for myself over the stupidest shit and i cry because i cannot think of anything i want to eat for dinner that will actually stay in my stomach and i whine until bryan takes me to the store so i can pick out some dessert. and i curl up in a ball on the bed and realize that my skin is marked with the ink of privilege because my bad days are just part of my everyday life. that the ebb and flow of my long haul is really just a sandy white shore with ankle high waves and that the worst case scenario is still not that bad. that it has been worse and that there will come time when tragedy is real and i will wish my greatest travesty of the day was that i threw up four times at work that day.

living with a three year old is like stepping off a tree branch without realizing you don't have wings. you feel the wind rush past you and you understand that something natural is taking course as you fall and sink and yet you wonder how exactly you started up there and landed down here and you hurt and you feel heavy and you think you must not understand gravity and flying at all and that perhaps you should have been born a lion, all roar and matted fur and gnashing teeth.
and then she will walk up to you hours later, after you have both spent time away from the wounds and she will ask you not to touch her and she will wrap her arms around your belly and lay her head at your sternum and she will say, 'i'm hugging the baby.'

your heart. it will ebb and flow and you will feel sick and you will cry and you will smile and you will sit with your feet on the floor and you will feel your toes on the clean and dry hardwood floor and you will be thankful for your couch and your fear and your waves of hormones. and you will hug without arms and fly.