September has the tendency to make some people giddy. Our summer selves shuffle and scurry back into routine. Ah, routine: usually a guest we invite to put up her feet and stay awhile.
But this time I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for pick ups and drop offs, for labeling water cups and people telling me when to be where. The three Stockfisch ladies had a good thing going- waking up early (or late), eating right away (or in a bit), going for a walk after breakfast (or playing around the house), getting dressed for the day (or lounging in PJ’s), going to the park (or foregoing and heading straight to the library). It was the most mindless season that made me a more mindful mom.
It turns out having no plans, no friends, no real commitments can do wonders for your heart if you let it.
It was the pace.
That’s where the magic was. The no-plan pace watered the seeds of my human soul this summer. We took our time. And time seemed to go at JUST the right pace. It didn’t drag causing boredom and it didn’t fly causing anxiousness. It just clicked away- the way it should- imperfect moments met by consistent minutes.
That pace is something I’m quietly, inconspicuously fighting for. Acknowledging hurry when it comes up- not surprised (but kind of annoyed) by its presence- and silently remembering truths that ground me back in the no-plans pace. The simple truths.
I am exactly where I need to be.
I am loved by the one who authored love, and
much less is up to me than I think.
So on busy, routine-filled mornings, sometimes Rem and I slip outside in the backyard. Her tiny hands discover little treasures and I take pictures to remember her creases and curls. A worthy fight: for this space and this pace.