learning to trust - your timing, not ours

My dear beloved Amaree,

Today, I have to apologize.

Four years ago, when you were conceived, all the odds were against your arriving here – I was 41, your dad and I used birth control, my thyroid levels were off, and we had no conscious plan to become parents. But when we found out that you had been planted in my body, and this just two days before our long-planned trip to visit the villages of our Eastern European ancestors, I knew: there are forces much larger than your father and I here at work. We are in the realm of great mystery. We were not in charge.

It was clear as day that you had been sent from the stars, from the wishes of the ancestors whose lands we were going to greet, and were no “accident.”

When it came time for you to emerge, and your “due date” (ha ha ha) rolled around, you stayed put, probably quite warm and cozy. Your dad (who has always concealed some mystic talents) put an ear to my belly, startled for a moment, and then looked up and said, “Oh! She’s not comin’ out until the very end!” And so it was… 5 days, 7 days, 10 days, 14 days… and we knew once again, you and your guides had your own plan. Your own timing. It was my job just to surrender and to say yes.

And then you came out, and you grew into a person.

And somehow, three and a half years later, your father and I forgot. Yesterday, we told you about our plans for your first gymnastics class, you were excited. We all hopped in the car, eager to go. When we arrived, though, you began to nervously clutch my hand. You entered the building, packed with adults and kids in all directions and pounding with pop music, and were clear: you did not want to go to the class today. You did not want to leave mommy and daddy’s side. You wanted our warm comfort, you wanted our laps, you wanted just to watch. When the class started, and the owner came over to invite you to join in, you began to cry. And we didn’t listen. We bribed you with a cupcake, saying you could have one after class. And you wanted that cupcake so badly, and told us, “You can give me the cupcake now, or I won’t go to gymnastics until I’m as big as mommy.”

In the crowd of the Saturday gymnasium, in the ruckus of the shouting teachers and talking parents and the music blaring, we forgot our sacred contract: you come from the stars. You are holy. Your timing is sacred. You are not to be rushed.

I am sorry, Amaree. From my knees, may we never rush your risk-taking again.

Only you know when to speak, when to reach, when to step, when to wave goodbye, when to high five.

Only you know just how warm and cozy it is within the seed of your body-mind, and all the small inner steps you are already taking toward one day -- when the light is just right and the breeze has whispered at just the right treble – cracking open and unfurling your first leaf.

Your timing has never been in our hands.

And may it never be so.

Amaree, you come from the stars and the wishes of the ancestors. Amaree, you carry the mystery of all life. Our job as your parents is to watch and say “yes,” to listen and to catch you when you take your first step (toward gymnastics, toward “hello”-ing a stranger, maybe someday even toward college), and to be there ready with our hands outheld to protect you when the moment comes and your shell cracks open, when divine mystery pushes through.

Amaree, we will love you forever, whether you don a shiny leotard now, or you wait until you’re as big as mommy. (I will proudly don a leotard, too, and step into that gymnasium with you.)

The truth is it has never been my choice, and only you will know when that day has come.