Dear Sofia,

It’s been a while since I’ve written.

Here’s my excuse: I’ve been writing you a long Sofia Story. A difficult one. A 220 page one where I share with you some hard things about my life that I didn’t know how to tell you.

I finished it in November, truth be told. And I’ve been hiding out ever since. Part of the hiding is that I divulge “stuff” that I’m not actually sure I want people to know. And when I say people I mean, maybe, or especially, you.

I sooooo understand the urge to push the dark parts of our lives under the proverbial rug and keep it hidden there.

Just the other night a friend was telling me about some struggles she and her husband are facing. Then she laughed and said, “But don’t tell anyone. I want people to still think we’re perfect.”

We all do.

I do.

This is the whole idea of wanting to stay in our comfort zone, which is, by definition, very comfortable.

Like this morning: I was cold and I had allergies and I didn’t want to go outside. I was comfortable with my tea, in my pajamas, inside our house. But I went outside and I walked around the lake, and I saw this sunrise (see picture.) The most insane explosion of sun I think I’ve ever seen.

The comfort zone is not where the magic happens.

All the best things in my life have happened when I have stepped outside of this comfort zone despite every voice in my head telling me that it was a very very very bad idea.

And, by the way, knowing this doesn’t make it any easier.

Like later this morning: I wanted to send out my new website that explicitly delineates all the “yoga-y” stuff that I’ve been up to. And I’m scared. What if people think I’m new agey, what if they think I’m weird, what if they don’t take me seriously in the other work I do?

I ask your father, “What if your friend’s wife sent you an e-mail like this with this kind of website?”

He thought about it, then said, “I’d think ‘Oh, she’s into the same crazy shit my wife is into’.”

For the last month, in nearly every yoga class I have taught, I have brought up some version of the Toltec teaching I learned when I was in Guatemala: “God allowed me today to make a real face.”

Three classes a week for four weeks, the same idea.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that I’ve been trying to talk myself into it--over and over again.

And I think back to a couple of months ago when you were telling me about a fight that you and your best friend had gotten into. You explained that you were playing a pretend game where your friend was the principal and you were a teacher and your friend’s siblings were the students. At some point in the game she’d gotten upset and had said that she hadn’t wanted to be the principal. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you’d asked. But she didn’t know. “So then state, out loud, who you want to be?” Apparently, you kept insisting she state it out loud, but the more you did the more upset she got, and the more upset she got the more frustrated you got.

So I suggested that maybe you needed to back off, that she didn’t know who she wanted to be.

And you said, “No, she knew what she wanted, she was just afraid to say it.”

“Well, sometimes you have to give people time,” I continued.

“She needs to learn to speak up about what she wants.” You said.

“But maybe right at that moment she was scared.” I said.

“This was not a now lesson, mommy, this was a life lesson.”

 Right.

This is a lesson I clearly didn’t get when I was eight years old.  If a friend or parent asked me the question, “Who do you want to be?” my answer was silence, like your friend, but my actions were obvious: “Who do you want me to be?”

It’s subtle the way we do this to ourselves, even when we think we are not doing it.

The way we try to be what other people want, which ends up being what we think other people want.  Which in turn makes them be what they think, you want, which you didn’t want at all. 

It’s a giant loop of distortion.

I hear the voice of my friend who told me once, “When you are truly you, I get to truly be me.”

Then I hear your voice echoing in my ear. “State out loud who you want to be?”

I am a writer and a writing teacher and I teach yoga, and I lead ceremonies and I can help heal people.

This is who I want to be even if it does invoke all the labels I’ve been running scared from.

I dreamt of the goddess Saraswati last night. (While we’re in full disclosure sharing mode, yes, I dream of goddesses.) She is the goddess of creativity and writing and poetry and music and art.  

In the dream I am surprised and I say to her. “I was trying to dream about Laksmi.”

She is the goddess of fortune and money.

And in the dream Saraswati smiles and says, “God allowed you today to make a real face.”

However your life turns out, whomever you choose to be, I hope that you continue to state your truth, loud and clear. I hope that every day you take off the masks that we will all unwittingly impose on you.  I hope you step out of your comfort zone and you experience the fear of being your truest self.

And then, I hope, beyond hope, that you feel the magic.

Love,

Mom

Dear Sofia,

I am sitting at the airport. I have a 5 hour flight delay. 

There is a full moon.

I need to get where I am going. There is a friend.

I am reminded this is a tiny setback. And so I breathe.

I am reminded: appreciate all the times when things are smooth, when your life is comfortable. There is a woman getting a harrowing diagnosis right now. This is nothing. 

I breathe more deeply. 

I am learning about patience. Over and over again. The hard way.

A delay is a delay. Nothing more. Things have their timing.

I know I know, I want to say to the sky.

I am reminded to be grateful.  

I am grateful, I say to myself. 

I say it again, this time without the sarcasm.

I sit at a table. I am in the Nathan's hotdog zone with a cup of hot water for my tea. 

I begin to do work on my computer.

I have music on with headsets. The world around me begins to disappear.

Suddenly- a little face comes up close with mine. Too close.

I show my surprise and hold my breath. 

It is a boy, your age, maybe younger. 

He has camel-colored hair. He is talking but I can't hear him. He is so close to me. 

I take off my headsets.

Hi, I say. It is what I say when I don't know what to say.

Hi, he says back. 

I look for a parent. I see a father watching. I want this father to say, Son, leave the lady alone, she's busy.

I am busy. Too busy. All week running around from different jobs. Traveling. I need to get back to my work.

But the boy with the camel-colored hair interrupts my thoughts.  

I ate bread and egg for breakfast today, he says.

Nice, I say. I think this must be a scam. Is the father trying to hit on me? Is he selling something?

What are you eating? He points to the aluminum foil on my table. 

And for some reason this makes me relax. And I know this is no scam.

Do you have cheese on it? he asks.  

No, I say.

Me neither! He is excited about our bread and egg with no cheese connection.

I'm allergic to cheese and to milk and to sooooooo many things. He says this emphatically. Are you?

I look him in his eyes now, they are a deep dark brown.

No, I'm not, I say. Almost wanting to lie so that we can talk more about it. About our allergies.

Oh.

He still likes me though.

He tells me about the day they told him he was allergic to soooooo many things. His arms reach up, his eyes move from side to side.

I was worried! he says. I thought, will there be enough food in the world for me? 

But then, he continues, I found out there was Chinese food and Jewish food and Japanese food. And I can can eat that!

His father laughs at this. He is a good father.

There is food in the world for me! He is laughing, exalted.

He brings his arms down. He smiles big and bright.

During the brief silence I wonder, Would I have let you, Sofs, talk to someone like this? Would I not have pulled you away, or said, Leave the nice lady alone, she's busy?  Had you stopped going up to people entirely because I'd told you not to, so many times? 

I feel sad about this.

But, the camel-haired boy is still talking. He is saying some things now that don't make sense. I wonder if he has a diagnosis. I think, He probably does, by the gentleness with which his father watches him. Completely free from annoyance. Unfazed by any sense of impatience.

It is like this father knows he may not be here forever.

Softly, his father says, it's time to go.

The boy lifts his backpack and looks at me.

Bye, I say, because I don't know what else to say.

Bye, he says back.

He is almost out of my view but he runs back to me.

And then, loudly, so that many people can hear, he says, I really hope I get to see you again. I don't think I ever will, but I really hope I do.

I blow him a kiss.

He blows me a kiss back.

And he is gone.

He leaves and I am bursting with love. For him. For you. For every single person.

A lady and her friend near me says, That was so beautiful, what that boy said to you. How darling.

Love is everywhere.

If I had not be delayed, I would not have met him, this child that I would probably never see again, who cracked my heart open.

Once again. Like a coconut in my grandmother's yard cracked open so the juice can flow out.

I fall out of myself. Out of my own constraint.

Sofs, treat every moment like this father with his son. As if it is fleeting.

With softness, without impatience. With wonder.

Watch this oyster of a world and look for the pearl she is waiting to share.

It's like this.

Why do we cross paths with the people we do? Why?

I don't know.

But I know that with every moment I allow myself to truly experience, I expand.

And the delays in life--give me the much needed time to do this.

If you do not slow down, the world will slow you down.

Be grateful for it.

There is plenty of food in this world for you.

And it may come in the form of a gregarious little boy with camel-colored hair.

Who knows how it will come. That's the fun part.

And when you find it.

Let it crack you wide open.

Because none of us will be here forever.

Ma

p.s. I found a poem: 

"Tenderly, I now touch all 

things,

Knowing one day we will part."

(St. John of the Cross)

I just returned from being in the Garden of Eden (Big Sur, CA).

And yes, they had to throw me out, once again.

While I was away, you’d gone down to Miami with your grandmother in the hopes that you would get to see the birth of your first baby girl cousin.

The only glitch is that this baby has decided that she’s perfectly happy to stay inside of your aunt/my sister’s belly.

It feels like only yesterday that I was awaiting my sister’s arrival from my mom’s belly. The excitement of that night! I had had my little yellow, red, and blue Sesame Street suitcase packed for weeks.

I worried about some things, like whether this baby would like me. What she would look like. And if she had the capacity to be the student I needed her to be in my already-planned endless games of teacher/school that I had mapped out.

I had the chalkboard ready. (Poor girl)

And I had decided that no one, except for me, could ever touch her head.

(This led to much heartache.)

And here we are, 30 or so years later, waiting for my little sister’s little girl (L) to be born.

Your job, down in Miami , was to entertain L’s two year-old brother, M, whom you adore. And apparently you guys had been having a lot of fun. Perhaps too much fun. As you woke up your 41-week-pregnant aunt one too many early mornings.

It’s not just that you woke her up, it’s that you were both screaming/singing Shabbat Shalom.

Last night, our first night back together, you cuddled up to me and squeezed me tightly into you.

Mommy, do you know why I squeeze you so tight?

Why, love?

I’m trying to get back inside of you.

And once again, you took my breath away.

Later, after you were in your bed and I could think about what you said, I realized that actually, in life, we are all trying to get back inside that state of pure rest and peace that we had inside of our mother’s bellies. Sometimes we get it by lying bare-skinned on the warm sand as the ocean flows over us, and sometimes it’s through chocolate, and sometimes it's in the embrace of the ones we love.

But really, it seems that this is what we are always trying to find-- in one way or another.

We all do.

And you and M were on to something with your early morning singing of Shabbat Shalom.

Shabbat means: the day to cease work, the seventh day. Put simply it is that we should take some time to be and not do.

And Shalom means peace.  Shalom as a verb is to make whole, the noun is to be in a state of wholeness.

That’s what we feel in our mother’s womb, a state of pure wholeness, of peace, of being. 

And this is what we spend our whole lives seeking.

It’s no wonder baby L wants to stay in!

Despite the fact that we are all ready for her to get here.

But we have to remember that there is no forcing the divine timing of life.

We may not understand why things happen or don’t the way they do.

And sometimes we have really great plans that don’t work out.

But we have to believe that there is a natural harmony to the timing.

In any case, Sofs, let’s whisper to L, about how wonderful it is out here. Let’s tell her about the wildflowers and baby penguins. Let’s tell her of the rivers that flow off of rocks and rumble into the deep grey ocean. About the people that sing and make music, and about the beautiful ring of authentic laughter.

Let’s tell her about the warmth of the sun and the shine of the moon.

Let’s whisper to her, “L, you will always be loved and held in this state of peace.” 

And let’s remind her, that whenever she wants, she can return to that place. 

By being silent and going inside herself she’ll find an everlasting Shabbat Shalom.

As we all can.

Love,

Ma

p.s. This is the true Garden of Eden

Today you are seven. Seven! The sun is shining bright, it is a beautiful Spring Day.

"You picked a good day to be born," I said to you. "I just wanted to get out," you retort. 

Your father and I can't help but smile to each other remembering the fact that you tried to come out a mere four months early. And we held you off for three months.

You were four weeks early, after a harrowing pregnancy and birth. Each year on this day, I remember it in detail.

In any case, you picked a beautiful time of year to arrive to us.

Today we will go to the race track for your Hawaiian Go-Kart party. You get to wear a birthday lei (which is just a regular lei) and together we will pick up your Hawaiian Go-Kart cake which was most amusing to discuss with the bakery. "You want a what?"  "Umm, a Go-Kart cake, you know with a racetrack and cars with aqua and purple and peach and green Hawaiian flowers that match this napkin, please?" All this accompanied by a big smile from both of us to make it all seem very normal.

"I wonder what it's actually going to look like when we pick it up, mommy." Yeah, me too.

You have, like every other year, planned this whole thing. You asked your whole family to get involved in the cooking, from mantequaditos to merenguitos to the little sandwiches that my grandmother makes for every party.  We're going to have a little bit of Puerto Rico inside a suburban Go-Kart place with a sprinkle of Hawaiian design, just for kicks.

The reason I haven't written here since December is that I have been working on a project for you.

Turning seven is a big deal. Seven is a sacred number: 7 chakras, 7 sacraments, 7 levels of the tree of life, 7 cardinal sins, 7 gifts of the holy spirit-- just to name a few.

In yoga, we learn that 7 minutes is an energy cycle, and that every 7 years we go through intense shifts, both physically and emotionally.

And, quite simply, it just feels like you're not quite my baby anymore.

"Will you still call me your baby when I'm 30?" you asked me as we left the bakery. 

"Yes my love. Always always always."

The deal is that before the age of 7 you are a child--completely free, completely one with the whole, truly yourself, beautiful and bright and overflowing with light.

And after 7, life has had time to impose on you: war, hunger, injustice, violence. You understand these things now. They don't make sense (I hope they never do) but you understand them as part of life.

And just the other day, you spent an hour brushing your hair. "I want my hair to look pretty."

It's always been pretty.  It will always be pretty. But now, you're aware of how others perceive it.

Right before that, you ask me, "Why would a man beat up another man?"

And I just want to say, "No!"

In December, I decided that I wanted to document this time. So for 86 days, starting on Jan 1, every morning at dawn, I have written to you short letters.

Basically I took the little glimmers of light that have guided my path and tried to put them together for you.

Like pebbles that glow in the dark, helping guide your way.

I have felt deep emotions over the past few days. A mixture of mourning your "childhood," of re- mourning the loss of mine, and of the deep knowing that I can write enough glowing pebbles to fill the whole ocean--but at the end of the day, you will have to get tangled up and unravel it all by yourself.

What can a mother do but just breathe, and design Hawaiian Go-Kart cakes?

And point to the moon.

But it's your choice to look up and see.

It's a choice we all have, even though sometimes we are determined to stare at our own feet.

Look up, look down, look all around.

And keep this beautiful child alive, no matter what your chronological age may be.

Completely free, completely one with the whole, truly yourself, beautiful and bright and overflowing with light.

Now, let's party.

Love, Ma

The other day you and some children were running and playing games in a park.

The particular game you were playing was the infamous/ubiquitous 'boys chase the girls' game. 

In this particular incarnation, the rules were that the boys would try to capture a girl and then put her in jail. Meanwhile the other girls would surround the captured girl and halfheartedly try to fend off the boys. (For the record, from a parental perspective, it was all a bit disconcerting. It looked like you were yanking each other quite roughly, but every time we tried to intervene you said, "We like it.")

"I'm good at this game," you told me afterward in the car.  Which meant, I think, that you were able to wriggle your way out of the boys' grasps and remain out of jail. (I know, there are a thousand and one marriage jokes that can go here, from which I'm trying to refrain.)

"Rrr," you said and flexed your bicep at me. "See how big my muscle is. I'm stronger than the boys."

I concurred that you are strong and have mighty bicep.

I told you that I was glad that you were good at the game and could keep yourself out of jail.

And then I began to gather my wits to prepare a feminist speech about why there must be a better game whereby everyone could work together and girls wouldn't be put in jail, but were free. 

But before I could speak, you said, "Did you see that cute boy with the light brown hair and blue eyes?"

My ears perked up. I was ready.

"As a matter of fact I did," I said, nonchalant, waiting.

"Well, he growls at me. Which means that he likes me."

"That's cool." (I was trying to be cool) "Wouldn't it be nice if we could just tell someone we loved them instead of all the awkward growls."

"Yes," you said, "theoretically. But I like the growl. It's perfect"

Theoretically? How did you know this word? How did you know that a growl meant that he liked you?

And why are you so damn comfortable with everything exactly the way it is?

It made me think of how, recently, by coincidence, I have found myself in multiple discussions with several friends about this topic of love.  Both married and single people bemoaning different things about the people in their lives: either their partners were too much of one thing or not enough of another. Either way, whatever was missing in their partner or prospective partner, however they didn't match up with the idea of what they thought they wanted, the end result was that everyone was feeling completely and deeply alone.

How can we all be with each other, surrounded by each other, and yet feel so alone?, I found myself thinking. Why can't we all, like you, be comfortable with life and each other exactly the way it is?

It reminded me of my favorite love song as a child. A little known song from the play, Cinderella, called "In my own little corner." The song is, in essence, all about how extraordinary and perfect everything is when you're all by yourself, in your fantasy world. Only now, as a full blown adult, can I see the absurdity of a love song whereby you find yourself, in a fantasy world, alone and, mind you, standing in a corner. 

And this is what all of my conversations with friends had seemingly been about.  The fact that somewhere along the way we'd all gotten stuck in a fantasy world about love.

There's nothing wrong with dreaming about love, if you can move past the dream. 

But it appears that many of us seem to get stuck in the fantasy when it comes to love.

And it made me realize, if we want things to be perfect, if we want to live in a fantasy world, then we we actually will be alone (and possibly standing in a corner). Even if we have an amazing partner directly in front of us.

There's so much to learn from the simple thing you said.  Namely, that the growl was fine. What you alluded to is that one shouldn't jump to conclusions about a growl. That one should just be present for the growl, see the energy and intention behind the growl and just experience it, as you did.

And you said it was perfect. As all things truly are.

Rumi writes: "Beyond ideas, there is a field, will you meet me there?"

I love this. Imagine a place where we don't bring our preconceived notions to things or people; but where we just show up, fresh and new, and excited to experience whatever the moment and person has to offer. (Even if it comes in the form of a growl.)

This way, we can be sensitive to the beauty and perfection emanating from them, not because they match your idea of perfection (or your amalgam of movie/marketing images) but because you can appreciate the person and situation exactly as it is.

One of my teachers once said, "Is your creation better than God's?"

Use whatever word you like: God, nature, universe, existence, cosmos.

Bottom line, it's a good point.

So, let us step out of the corner, out of our imaginations, and out of our alone-ness.

Let us run to that field, and just be.

That, it seems to me, is true freedom.

That, it seems to me, is how we stay out of the jail of imposed and preconceived ideas.

I would never presume to know too much about love, especially to my daughter. 

But I feel confident that it has something to do with that Rumi quote.

In that space, what was once a faint sound, becomes audible and clear.

The call of love.

Don't miss it.

And follow it.

Thank you for reminding me not to limit love with ideas and expectations, but to have the wisdom to recognize love in it's myriad forms; and then to allow it to flow freely...

...just like children, running and playing games, in a park.

love

Ma

p.s. Wherever you are, in whatever situation you find yourself, remember, YOU ARE ALWAYS FREE.

p.p.s. Oh, and Happy Holidays

It is November and last week you did your Thanksgiving play.  You were marvelous.  Of course, your father and I are tremendously biased.  You were an American Indian, with your hair in braids and although you seemed to have a scowl on your face for most of the play, later you told me you had a great time.

You had your first official line ever in a play.

And this was it: "At last, our harvest crops appear." This came after one of your classmates, also looking terribly distressed, said, "Scene two" and before another classmate said, "Fall is really here." 

And we all beam with joy and love for you.

I don't know why, but I imagine you all backstage before the curtain rises looking at each other, fist bumping, "Okay, let's perform for the Parentals, they want to feel like they're getting their money's worth.  And then, maybe later, we can watch Spongebob." 

And so you all play your parts "as children in Thanksgiving play", and we all play or parts as "parents of children in Thanksgiving play."

It got me thinking about how sometimes it feels like this whole world is a big play. Today I'm going to play writer, yesterday I played builder, tomorrow, what the hell, let's do yoga teacher. Whenever someone tells me, "Oh, so now you're a yoga teacher." It seems so odd to me. I know that I am technically teaching some yoga classes, but I do not feel like a "yoga teacher," much in the same way that I never quite felt like a "writer" or a "builder." 

I feel like something outside of all of this.

And sometimes I have to encourage myself to put some enthusiasm into the part. So as to not sound monotone when I say, "oh. yes. i'm .writing. a. book .about. a. woman."  OR  "yoga. is. quite. healing. you. should. try .it." OR "i. loved. green. building. but. you .know. the. economy." 

It's not that I have not enjoyed playing these parts. But, really, they are not me. And sometimes, this whole thing does feel a little more like acting than, I know deep inside, it should.

What feels more like me, is quiet moments when I catch the sun setting into the ocean, from complete beginning to complete end,  as I did last weekend in Sarasota. Or the way the light enters the living room and I catch the pattern of circles on the ground.  Or when I see you and your father making some joke about, "I like him, not." And you seem at once six, sixteen and sixty years old. And I feel like I'm catching this extraordinary gift of a moment in life and everything sparkles and is light and is exactly how it should be.

These moments are rare, although becoming less so, and I cherish them.

They do not make for good cocktail conversation.

Scene: two people mingling in cocktail party: "What do you do?" With deep passion and enthusiasm, "I'm a watcher of sunsets and dots on the ground and when my kid jokes with her father and everything becomes light."

It just doesn't fly.

I have actually tried it, to miserable results.

On the flip side, the other day I was at a cocktail party when a nice filmmaker asked me about my book, and I began robot talk in a monotone way through my book's version of, "at. last. our. harvest. crops. appear."  And the person stopped me and said, "Stop, I can handle it. Whatever it's about." And suddenly I kind of flew in to myself and actually spoke from my being and it didn't make perfect sense-- because I don't fully know what the book is about-- but he seemed to understand my response and be okay with it, and we connected.

And it made me realize that although we are in this play, the only way to really get something out of it, is to connect with the people around you. Not with your preconceived idea of what you should say, or what they want to hear, (in other words, what you think your line is) but to connect through your authentic self as it is, at that exact moment.  And then, you speak from your being, and not as a character.  So that when the words come out, they come out naturally (with no periods in between them), and you feel that you are home, and that you are true.

Shit, Sofs, I think the, HARVEST CROPS HAVE APPEARED!!

So, you and I both, let's play these parts, and pay attention, and connect to other lovely beings playing their parts, in this play we call life.

And let's watch it all with the passion and love and newness of parents watching their six year olds, say their very first lines, for the very first time.

And in whatever "costume" you find yourself in, with your hair in braids, or not, with your face in a scowl or not, just have fun with it, see it for what it is, a play. Be fresh and new and innocent and bright and natural. Exactly as you all were during the play.

You weren't being robots! You weren't plotting to watch Spongebob. You weren't. You were just exposing the complete truth of the situation, "I am not actually an American Indian, but a suburban child, my teacher forced me to learn this line. You, my parents, seem to enjoy the performance, so here it is."

And that's why we watch with such devotion.  That it why it is so beautiful and resonant with us. 

Because this kind of pureness, is rare in regular adult life, and we (the parents) know it. 

So, when we're lucky enough to  catch it, we understand that it is special and worthy of tears and videotape.

And that's part of why we beam with joy and love for you, because we're proud of you, yes, but also, because we know you are reminding us to be our authentic selves, a little more often.

Thank you for being your true six and a half year old self, and for reminding me to be mine.

I love you,

Ma

p.s. SUNSETS!!!

Dear Sofia,

Yesterday you walked into my office, or as you call it, "the writing room." You walked right past the sign that you made that hangs on the door, "keep out, may get distracted." 

Then, you sat at my desk, while I was reading on the couch, and you scribbled something and then push-pinned it onto my bulletin board.

The bulletin board, that sits to the right of my desk, leans up against the window that looks out onto the  park. On it lives pictures and quotes that inspire me.

So I barely looked up when I heard you attach a new message. "What did you write?" I asked.

"I am the deadest in the world."

"What?" I sat up quickly, threw the book aside, and tried not to freak out. "What did you say?"

"I am the deadest in the world."

Focus, I thought to myself. Stay calm. I walked over to the board and, sure enough, on a long strip of white paper, pinned next to a picture of a waterfall in Costa Rica, you had written, "I am the dedist in the world."

"Are you saying that I am the deadest in the world or that you are?"

"I'm saying that you are. It's your board."

"Sofia, what do you mean by this?"

"Well," you explained, "you live in heaven. You know, how everything for you is wisdom and love and praying, so that means that you're dead. Not dead, dead, because you're here. But dead."

"I'm not following, Sofs."

"Is my Godfather dead?"

"Yes."

"Is he in heaven?"

"Yes."

"So, when a person is in heaven, they are dead. And you are always in heaven."

I had no idea what to say.  I tried and failed miserably to disentangle this idea for you. I said things like, you can be in heaven here on earth. I'm not dead, I'm alive. Very much so. 

I said all sorts of things but you kind of shrugged me off.

"Ma, everyone knows that when you die, that's when you get to heaven. So, if you're always in heaven, which you are, then you must be dead."

And then you left the writing room and you left me thinking.

Do we have to be dead to be in heaven? 

There are so many people I see walking around and they are physically/technically alive but their souls/spirits/the light in their eyes is dead.

Especially these days, with people losing material things so quickly and getting lost in it. Could all these people think that if, inside, they die a little more each day, that then they will reach heaven sooner?

Do we really think we need to wait around in a sort of purgatory, waiting to die and then we will reach heaven?

This does not appeal to me.

So, for the record, Sofs, I believe that heaven and hell are here on earth. 

And that every single day, we wake up and we get a very important choice: Will we live this day in joy, peace, and love? Or will we choose to live this day in fear, clinging and suffering?

My child, choose the former.

This is the Maya of heaven. Maya means illusion. And this is our illusion of heaven--- some far off dream land with virgins (I'll explain later) and harps and such, that can only be attained after we are physically dead.

Forget the harps and the virgins for a minute. Forget the angels and the fluffy white clouds; just think about happiness, and freedom and peace.

To find heaven here and now---we must be here and now. Not hoping for a future that is better.

We must be grateful for every single living thing around us even if it is not gilded or fluffy or flying around with white wings. 

We must surrender to the river that is life. 

Then, when the waters get rough or we find boulders in our path, we will allow ourselves to tumble past them, around them, no matter how disconcerting the topsy-turvy adventure is.

I remember the couple of times that I've gone whitewater rafting. This is the first safety lesson that they teach: if you fall out of the raft, just let yourself tumble, eventually you will be able to get your head above water. But if you hold onto a rock or a branch, you will get stuck and then the power of the rushing water will cover you, and you will not be able to catch air and you can drown.

This is the same as in life. If you surrender to the river, and tumble your way through the rough waters of difficult situations, eventually you will be able to lift your head and get air. But if you cling to the branches and boulders of the past, or of the loss, or of the disappointment, it is quite possible that you will not be able to catch air, and you will drown.

This is no way to reach heaven. 

You brought up your Godfather.

Your Godfather, my love, reached heaven long before he was physically gone from us. He reached heaven by laughing often and making others laugh, by listening to music and by strumming his guitar and making music, by protecting the earth's water (he was ahead of his time) as a hydro-geologist and by loving everyone around him deeply and truly and passionately.

He taught me, and many of us, that to love this way means to bring heaven, here and now.

I am reminded of a quote that says, "Those who live passionately, teach us how to love. Those who love passionately teach us how to live." (Paramahansa Yogananda)

By loving passionately, we learn how to live. And your Godfather was a living example of that.

So don't get caught up in our cultural and religious myths and stories, about a heaven after death. It is simply how we console ourselves through loss. 

Remember these stories, they can point us in the right direction, or they can make us get very lost. 

Always, work hard to try and see through the stories and myths, to a greater truth.

There may well be a heaven in death, but I don't want to wait that long to find out. 

Let us live in heaven, now, IN LIFE, as your Godfather did.

Ma

p.s.  Yes, I will get distracted, but please do not keep out. I seem to learn the most when I am lucky enough to notice the distraction for what it is.

I returned from California the other day to find you calling me, "Ma."  Flat A. Just like that. 

Before, when you were a baby, you called me Mama, and then Mommy and there was a short stint when you made up your own language and called me Aste, but MA---this was new.

And I can't say I was entirely thrilled.

I don't know, I think it was because I couldn't remove the preconceived image of a "Ma" from my mind.  One of a Rubenesque woman standing over a stove top in Brooklyn stirring tomato sauce, with large sons who yell out, "Ma, I'm hungry." 

Or maybe it's just that you're getting older, and I'm getting further removed the sweet day, when I first heard you melt my heart by calling me, "Mama."

Or maybe, maybe it's that I'm projecting forward, to a day, not far away, when you'll call me by my first name--- if you'll call to me at all. 

I know, it's overly dramatic---but you know your Ma.

And then last night you lost your second tooth.  After we read a book about warrior women (a gift from a warrior woman) you put your tooth under the pillow. I was in the middle of tucking you into bed when you popped up, pulled the tooth out from under your pillow, kissed it and said, "Thank you for being with me.  Thank you for being such a good tooth and helping me eat. I love you."  And then you placed the tooth back under your pillow.

The next morning, this morning, you told me how much you missed your tooth. And how your tongue keeps looking for it.  I was about to offer some consolation about your new strong big girl tooth that was forth coming, when you said. "You know what, the space, this gap, it gives me room to play."

Of course.

You left for school and you left me thinking about how you just seem to know. You just seem to know that all we need to do is be grateful for things when they're with us. And that we should tell them how grateful we are, and then, when they're gone, we might miss them a little, but the gap, the gap proves to be a great place of freedom and play.

I realized that finding this gap is the reason I meditate. The reason I try and breathe and be present. Because in this precious internal space--- names don't matter. 

And I know, deep inside, no matter what you do or don't call me, my love for you is real and nameless.

Oh, my love, it feels like this is the theme of late, shedding skins, moving into new incarnations, from mommy to ma, from baby tooth to big girl tooth, from word filled self to space filled self.

And, thank you, once again, for reminding me that what looks like 'a missing' can actually be the room we needed to play.

Sofs, you are my greatest teacher.

I love you,

Ma!

p.s. In some of my research on Hinduism I discovered that Ma means divine mother.  It can also mean 'the world' and it represents the element water. So, you know what, I'll take it. xoxox

Dear Sofia,
Today, we walked the dogs, you chased a blue butterfly and then a white one and then a cicada bug. 
We went looking for the owl but he wasn't there. 
It's overcast, so we came inside to take a shower and I asked you about your angel friend, Mrs. Rosa.
Today, you had a lot to say about Mrs. Rosa. "Right now," you said, "she's tubing in Tallahassee."  Apparently she's there visiting her mother and sister, although she is 70 years old.
You told me that you've known her forever--since you were inside my belly-- since Mrs. Rosa was 41 years old. I tried to argue the math, but the path of angels seems to know no time/space bounds.
You told me her name, it blew from your lips like a song, "Luna Ellie Rosa."
"Oh, that's beautiful!" I exclaimed.
"Well, you can tell her yourself." You said. "She writes me letters that only I can read because her handwriting is so tiny. In fact it's invisible, like cells. But if you write to her in your big handwriting then I'll send it to her."
And so I did. I told her that I loved her name. And that I was very thankful that she protects you and that she talks to you. 
She wrote back very quickly, telling you to tell me that she also likes my name and that I should get an angel talker.
Right away, you ran over to your room to get the "angel talker."  You handed it to me and explained that it was invisible, even though I kind of got that.  You said, "Not only is it invisible, but it's wireless."  And I said, "that's very useful."
So, we tried calling Ms. Rosa, but she didn't pick up.
"That's right, she's tubing, of course." You said. "Of course." I said back.

All this to tell you, that I hope you always talk to angels.
I did 100 hours of yoga in 10 days in an attempt to talk to angels.

We adults, it seems, tend to do this, an intense yoga retreat or a lot of church or temple.  Or we wait until really bad or really beautiful things happen to us, to get us to talk to angels. 

Instead of remembering that they're always there for us, if we would stop and listen.

I've read that at about the age of seven you may stop talking to Mrs. Rosa as freely as you do. And that as you get older you'll be less inclined to believe in other worlds. 

This makes me a little sad, especially since today you explained to me that there's another Tallahassee inside of Tallahassee especially for angels.  And why not? 

There's so much we don't know and can't see.

Sofs, I will continue to encourage your travels to these wondrous worlds and I hope you will continue to encourage mine.

There are so many magical, mystical wonders in the world.  Of, which YOU, my sweet girl, are one.

So I thank you and Mrs. Rosa for giving me an angel talker today.  And more importantly for reminding me to use it. Because here, is where it really counts.  Away from the yoga retreat, away from the bad and beautiful days. Just in the ordinary days, the days of making your lunches and watering the plants and doing the laundry and writing.  That's when you can really hear the angels and allow them to guide your life towards beauty.

So, my Sofs, I want you to always remember, that no matter where I am, in whichever world I find myself in, if you use your angel talker, you can always always find me.

And, even if I'm tubing, I'll always keep mine on.

lovelovelove

Mommy

p.s. I'm glad to hear there are some Angels in Tallahassee.

Dear Sofia,

It is storming outside, and I miss you. You are on a a great adventure with your beloved cousin, aunt, uncle and grandfather.  You are no doubt swimming, boogie boarding, feeding endless treats to the dogs, enjoying being the "big cousin" and reading "When Papa Snores" with your Papa.  You have decided he snores less than your grandmother.  This debate is a source of ongoing entertainment.  In any case, you do not miss me. Which is good.

I'm thinking about you for a lot of reasons - but mostly because of the fact that I want to apologize for being so distracted lately.  There has been a lot going on.  Some good, some not as good, and while I know that ultimately it is the nature of growth, it still hurts.

As a child I remember waking up in the middle of the night in agony from leg cramps (appropriately named growing pains). And my parents would explain that this pain was the result of my bones elongating and the muscles and skin around them stretching to make room for my new, bigger bones. 

I remember being in so much pain that I did not want to grow, that I didn't want to make room for more bone and more muscle and more skin.

And that is why I have been distracted, and why I am apologizing, because now, just like when I was a child, I have been saying to myself, "I don't want to grow, it hurts too much," and this has taken my attention.

When you make room for something new, and you kick out the old, no matter what, it is painful. 

One of our favorite neighbors whose children you adore have moved. And last night I ran into the mom as she walked out of her now empty house with the realtor, who was to officially put up the 'For Sale' sign the following day.  We were talking about her new house and how much she loves it and then, suddenly, she just burst out crying. "We were engaged in this house," she said. "All three kids were born here."  And I understood. She was torn about pulling down the wooden, hand-engraved sign that hung over the mantle top that said, "Once upon a time..." 

Their story in that house was ending.  And as the credits rolled and the words, 'The End,' came up, there were tears.

Your father and I are ending a chapter of our lives as well.  The credits are rolling.  The words 'The End' are coming up. And there are tears. 

But we are excited for the future.

As a child I could never have known where my grown legs (that had hurt so much to come to be) would take me.  I am thankful for every single place - good and bad - that we have gone.  And I have come to find that the thing that anchors me through the undulating waves is writing. Writing my book, writing to you, to friends, to family. Pen on paper, scribbling; or, in this case, fingers on keyboard, tapping.  It is my way of kneeling to kiss the earth.  It is what grounds me. 

And I would ride a hundred waves of despair to remember this.

So find the thing that grounds you. That anchors you, when the growing pains come.

For they surely will.

In the meantime, laugh and play the day away with your cousin and the dogs, without missing us.

But if the day ever comes that you do miss us, or anything from the past, if you ever wake up empty and scared, take down a musical instrument and let the beauty you love be what you do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth.

I love you,
Mom