From the Kabbalah.
And then there’s the story of the man whom God tells to push the rock. He tries over and over, pushing as hard as he can for weeks, months, even years, then finally comes to God and says, “I’ve tried as hard as I can! The rock won’t move.”
“I didn’t tell you to move the rock,” God answers. “Just push it. My job is to move it, but look how strong you have become trying.”
Kelli, look how strong you’ve become, throwing your body on that rock, again and again and again.
It’s so sweet of late. Last nine years have been bliss, upon bliss, upon bliss.
I don’t write, not much. Momma Bean keeps saying, “Write it down. Write it.” I don’t. I’m enjoying it all so much, soaking in it, my marinade life, so rich, so called, so asked for and intended and given to me so freely.
I wake up morning after morning, years of mornings now, and I don’t want to kill myself. All these years after the fact and it still is a shock every morning. I want to live.
I want to pay attention, deep, full-soul attention to this now–our girls, Lily, three, who wakes me up by holding onto my neck as tightly as she can, pushing her face into my face, my cheek, my cuddle spot in the middle of my neck. “I miss Mommy milk,” she says. “Do you?”
I tell her I indeedy do miss giving her milk, and she pats me on the head like a dog. “You good Mommy. You best.”
And Sofia, Sophia, Sofie Sunshine. I stare at her, still hardly believing she is really here. She is bright, so long, limbs for hours and so sparky behind her deep brown eyes. She takes my breath away. “Mom, you’re staring. You’ve got that look.”
I think about how I used to smoke-to-die, drink-to-drown, mope to beat the dead. I think about how I used to drink till the floor was waves, how I’d look at my pretty-skinny body and hate myself. I remember wondering how many days I had left on the earth and how to lessen them, or toss them, or spit them back at so generous my God. I remember this like remembering some former life, some person who may have been me, but doesn’t feel at all like the person I wake up to every morning, 43 years old now, 15 years past my last drink, Claudio’s wife and mother to these girls.
I’m not so important now–not important like I was when I wanted to die, the cycling swirl of my addiction years, Gin-Tonic Times, Tangeray Queen, when oh, I wanted the Merry-go-Round to break down and burn out and flood, music silenced.
I don’t matter so much. I’m not so loud in my brain. My fever broke. I’m no saint, but morning and night, inside my rambling, watery brain, this side of the rock, I say, “Use me, please use me,” and more than that, “Thank you.” I will never say thank you enough for this life. Light me, burn me strong. I will shine the brightest I am able. I really don’t matter so much. And oh, I love my girls. I love them more than I ever considered. I’m everyday in heaven, heaven, heaven and I’m so thankful I did not die.
Written for Momma Bean, wrote it down, Momma. Wrote it. I’m so glad to be 43 today.