i feel like a fraud when i’m running- my body laborous, lumberous, slow. i feel like a fraud at yoga- my body awkward, goofy, stiff. i feel it, hard, when i dig deep to find breath/grace/strength and still come out exploded and clumsy.
i feel like a fraud as a wife. i know that marriage should be more a verb than a noun but, participation is limited when life has so many needs and we are torn in different directions.
sometimes i feel like a fraud as a mother. though i see my children thriving: healthy, strong, joyful (mostly), and expanding themselves in the environment that i provide, i still wonder.
am i living up to this? to them? to their ideas of me? do i live up to my own expectations of myself? my spouse’s? do i meet my parent’s wishes for their grandchildren with approval? i do, afterall, get irritated; sharp. i have been known to yell more often then i should. i do, sometimes, resent the role. perhaps they interpret this as more then it is, perhaps they think they are less to me then they are.
am i the kind of model that i aspire to be? do i put enough energy into this aspiration? do i begin my days with intention, with regards to my practice as a mother?
fortunately, i’ve made a habit of attending a yoga class, a yin class, which asks me to go slow, go quietly, and to go deep into my breath, my body, and my stretch.
i am not a yin person. i am a yang person. i thrive with more, with busy. with demands i am more efficient; with more crazy, i become calm.
yin yoga brings me to a place i wouldn’t (couldn’t?) normally go. yin is good for me.
my teacher claire, is also good for me. she often says, i’ve heard her say it across many classes: “if you’re feeling it, you’re doing it”.
so, here’s the thing: i’m no fraud.
when i’m running and my heart is about to burst out of my chest, i feel it. i feel my energy, my effort, my motion.
and when i’m at yoga class, and i am not thin, and i am not lean, and i am not fluid, i still feel it. i feel my body lengthen, my breath expand.
in bed, when my husband reaches over the pillows and places his hand on my forehead, his big, strong, rough and beautiful brown hand, the sheer pressure of it, the weight of it- i feel him. when we walk by each other in the hallway, both busy responding, providing, parenting, and he high fives me, i feel the connection: the narrative that weaves through this life and brings us to water, and to love.
when i am mothering, and i see my baby amusing himself with his lips forward, mouth ajar, and banging things together, i delight in him. i feel his gift. or when i am on the ground and he blows raspberry kisses on my cheeks, nibbles my nose, sucks on my lip, smushes his forehead to forehead, i feel that. i feel a deep appreciation; i feel a true, unadulterated adoration.
when my three year old comes running in the room, eyes sparkling, eyes blazing, spirit bright with everything in him that screams ‘able’, i feel him. despite some of the challenges, i feel him in everything i do. i feel the sound of his voice in my ears and it resonates. i hear his laugh when he is delighted and released in a moment, and i feel the release in my stomach, too. i feel at peace.
when they are on me, cuddling and resting, or their hands are both in mine, or when i’m driving and look back and see them, forward facing, i feel at home. i feel like i am living the life i am meant to be living. i feel joy.
i feel it, i’m doing it.
i’m doing it well.