With hot water pouring down on my tired body yesterday morning, I prayed to have God’s heart for the day, instead of my weary, malingering one. I wanted to feel like there was enough love to go around — that every time I felt petty, slighted, disappointed, afraid, or just plain exhausted, I would be able to draw upon Goddess’s heart, feel it pulsing within me with love for myself and others.
As my job and my role as mother both ask of me to be the “Giver”, I sometimes feel that if I widen my heart and give grace to everyone, there simply won’t be enough left for me. It is true, actually — with my own little heart I do not have enough love and graciousness for all the moments of my life. I need God’s heart to draw upon, and yesterday it wasn’t enough for this to be some esoteric, external concept. I needed it to literally be in my body, to feel that heart expanding me.
It was really a prophetic prayer, because I was in dire need of it. The day was very long, I got some disturbing news about loved ones, I had many little annoyances and disappointments along the way, and it didn’t stop GOING until midnight. Having God’s heart in my body did not give me superhuman powers. I still felt all the sadnesses and frustrations as they occured. But I felt that the well was a lot deeper for me to draw from, and what I drew was sweetness and balm for my soul.
There were two main gifts of the day. One was that Olive’s godmother, Joel’s cousin Fabienne, was visiting from NYC. She is such an incredible woman and having her around this weekend to meet Olive was an experience that I will never forget. She brought so much fire, wit, wisdom and generosity to our little place all weekend. She filled it up with her amazing self.
The other gift was getting to hear my husband’s band, Ellul, play live. It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing them play, and everything about the show was magical. The venue, a gorgeous church a few blocks from our home, was candlelit and filled with lovely and unconventional icons. Olive was with me, and she played in the space and said hi to all her friends during the first band, which was an amazing classical ensemble whose creepy tunes I would love to live in.
When Joel’s band came on I settled Olive in my arms, as it was way past her bed time, and she was already decked out in her footed jammies, which had elephants marching all over them, trunks entwined. As the layering beats & melodies plinked and strung their way through the hushed nave, Olive lay peacefully in my arms, her eyes getting heavier with each song.
Sometimes I like to talk to her telepathically, to just sort of send her messages through our hearts’ connection. I told her to drink in these sounds, for these songs are her siblings. Created by her father, some of them inspired by her mother, carried by her community to fruition with both struggle and beauty. Of course the art we create is not literally our offspring — the metaphor is not direct and cannot capture the true essence of both experiences. But the art that our parents create moves alongside our lives, informing us, guiding us, and hopefully providing a legacy when our parents are no longer physically there to support us. My father’s poems are so dear to me, and are a part of my heritage and the history of my family in a way I cannot fully explain. Olive drifted off to her father’s lullabyes last night, even when they veered into noisy experimental guitar solos. It was indeed a magical evening, and made me believe for a moment that the mystic miracle of having God’s heart in my body could be real.