The longing swells
like a beautiful ache,
too much
and not enough,
like words
that tumble over each other rushing to be heard,
to claim a vibrant, humming space
inside each breathless moment.
A longing
for his childhood
to never end,
or at least not yet,
not soon.
Not with the dragging weight
of self-conscious awareness
to steal his effortless presence in each moment,
Not with the need to fit himself to others’ expectations.
Not with the maturing steadiness
I know he needs to find
just
not yet.
A longing also,
guiltily,
for the energy
inside these slipping,
sliding,
urgent moments
to be here
with him
with joy.
To hold the space I know he needs
when I am already so over-stretched
and strained
from the need to fit myself to others’ expectations.
But,
most of all,
this longing that expands,
demands,
this swelling space inside,
is for the world –
somehow –
to make a space for him
(and,
perhaps,
as well for me).
To open its heart wide enough.
To receive this precious gift
of his excitement
and imagination
and utterly original
Life.
Faith, Family, & Focaccia 