Cue suspended animation. I am an artist frenzied with a vision unable to come to fruition. This piece must be set in place, this component must dry first. There is no more work to be done, only waiting. It is said I am impatient, but I am filled to the brim with the call of my soul and there is only so much room in here. I followed my Work across continents and the promised land is in sight. The contract has been written and the ink is dry but still I must wait and watch and stay in surrender while God moves the pieces into place. I am learning, always learning to be Still. 

As mothers we are filled with holes where all the things we must tend to pour out. My big kids sometimes find me distant but always one cord is stretched to them, connecting us, keeping my steps in time with theirs. There is only so much of me, but what there is contains these four lives that came through me and I am filled to the brim with my love for them. They are the stars I count each night in the sky. And yet, still there is room for one more, the boy that came with my love and I found space to worry over him, to hold him tucked under my wing as well. 

My love and all the pieces that came with him, not just the oversized chair but the fragments of his childhood and the demons he vanquished. All these things require handling with care and while it is my honor to do so, it is another thing that spills out of me when it can no longer be contained. My love wraps me up beside him and glues me together as we sleep, he counts his successes by my smiles. My love waits with buckets to fill me back up. Though there is only so much emptying and refilling that can happen to a girl without noticing the empty places. It is my job, another of my millions of countless tasks, to take care of myself and to place stoppers in the leaking places. But how can I heal myself when my hands are full of the care and feeding of so many little starlings in this nest? 

The loves and lives that came before are packaged in boxes with leftover fragments balanced on silver trays. The judgement of others lay heavy on my shoulders for many months until I found the rock of my truth that I now stand on. This small mountain affords an aerial view and I am perched here, balancing trays, holding boxes, sitting in surrender, patching wounds as new ones appear, allowing the fruits of the spirit to feed me. I am camped here, holding on to the strings of the children who need me, always vigilantly watching for danger and creating sacred spaces for my babies. I wait for my next assignment.

As women we are entire universes. We hold the promise of all the tomorrows and so many ordinary miracles come through us. We are expansive and hold the suns of a thousand worlds in their orbits. Infinite possibilities co-creating one afteranotherafteranother live in the fibers of our cells. We are always waiting to give birth. This is where the heaviness lies. My belly is full of what I have created and yet I still must wait until the moon is right. And so the soil of me allows the water to run through as I tend to the millions of seeds I planted and I hope my leaky places will hold and the dam will not burst and flood my fields and pour out my eyes. My hands are so very full and I am so very tired. 

I hold to the vision of spring. I hold to the vision of renewal and birth. The trees rarely crack from the weight of the ice. I’m made so resilient from the marrow of my Grammy. Her ring is on my finger while she whispers in my ear. “You are always enough. There is always enough. Rest now.” The unbearable void that is patience holds me rooted and motionless. There is beauty in forced stillness. There is peace in the valley. I will let love wash over me and find gratitude where the light comes in. The faces of my babies, my man’s heartbeat soft and sure on my cheek, the promises tomorrow holds. All of these things are plaster for my weakened places. They are the glue that sustains me.