The only thing that my husband and I argue about is money. How much I spend, what I prioritize, how little I take the thinness of our bank account seriously. Tonight we were half-shouting across the garage and Aspen starting dancing between us, singing happy birthday (to who, I'm still not entirely sure). She took one of my hands in hers and one of his in the other and asked us to dance. "Please," she said. "Mama, daddy, dance with me."
It's funny how children do that, isn't it? They are absolutely spilling over with light. And we are often too hazy to see it, or to pay any mind. She's asleep now, after an hour of trying to dance the dust of our struggle off the garage floor. And all I want to do is lay beside her and breathe her in. I am sorry for the strangeness of the life she's been given. I am sorry for the uncertainty of things. I am grateful that she doesn't mind.
Both he & I are wildly reaching for anything, anything, anything. Tipping our chins, struggling to stay above the surface of the water we jumped into, eight months ago. Sometimes it's difficult not to tug the other beneath the waves as we try to save our own body from downing. When we first dipped toes into our small business, we nodded and made the decision to sacrifice any sense of normalcy, any steady source of income, since KC would now be working and navigating and pouring heart into the shop all day, seven days a week. It is his full time job, though it doesn't pay. We thought I would be able to pick up the slack with design and writing. We were wrong. We are reaching for another answer. We are hopeful.
There must be a word to define the feeling of almost there. Almost on the other side. Reaching, stretching tired fingertips, and you can feel just the edge of it, broad and warm and certain, whatever it is. I can almost hear the answer to all of our struggles hopping from rib to rib, but I can't slow it down enough to listen.
I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
I'm feeling this sense of almost with our finances, and with my own personal business, too, which isn't a surprise, as these two things have always been so tightly tangled. Sometimes I find that I'm hungry for something that I cannot name. And this is the thing that will save us. Not writing, not storytelling, not designing, not illustration. At least not alone, or as they are now. It's like I'm just on the edge of figuring out what I'm meant to do with my fire. Everyone is given a fistful of smoldering embers from the start, I think, and if they're lucky, sometime during their life they'll discover the thing that blows sweetly upon them, that turns ember to crackle to roar.
I have only ever been half-lit. What is it that will set my soul on fire?
I've surely changed and unfolded and shed skin since becoming a mother, and now becoming a mother over again, I feel like I need to check in with my heart and dig deeper, peeling layers, reaching. Reaching.