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The Reality of This Moment by Leo Babauta

This was originally published on zenhabits and it was so incredibly beautiful I wanted to share it here. 

As you sit here reading this, pause and expand your awareness beyond your computer/phone … what is the reality of this moment?

You’re reading, and there are a bunch of other tasks you want to do on your computer, yes … but there’s also your body. How does that feel? There’s the area around you, perhaps some people around you. There’s nature nearby.

Take a pause to become aware of the actual reality of this particular moment.

As we go through our day, we’re often stressed because of all the things we have to do, the things we’re not doing. We worry about how things will go in the future, and procrastinate because we’re afraid of an overwhelming task. We feel we’re not good enough, we compare ourselves to others, we fall short of some ideal. We replay a conversation that already happened.

That’s all in our heads, but it’s all fantasy. The reality of this specific moment is that you’re OK. Better than OK, actually: there are so many good things to be grateful for, in this moment.

And there are the particulars of the moment that only exist, right now. The combination of sounds and colors and shapes and smells around you will never exist in this particular combination ever again. The way your body feels, the thought that pops into your head in the next moment, will never exist again, ever.

You yourself are changing all the time. We think of ourselves as one unchanging entity, but the self that you are right now is different than the one you were before you read this article. And that was different than the one who woke up this morning, because various things interacted with you to change you in small (or large) ways.

So the you that exists right now will change in a moment, from interacting with the particulars of the next moment. The you that exists right now will never exist again.

This is the ever-changing, impermanent nature of you. And in truth, every single thing around you is changing all the time, sometimes in less obvious ways. Everyone around you is changing. Each moment is a fluid snapshot of impermanent changing entities, interacting with each other.

That’s the reality of this moment. Don’t miss it.

And this awareness is available to you all the time. Throughout the day, as you start to worry and get lost in your tasks, ask yourself, “What’s the reality of this moment?”

Why I Love the Britax Pioneer 70

Litany of Remembrance

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our baby in a small service at our church. Our rector put together the most beautiful service that I wanted to share a portion of with you today. Not only as a part of my own journey, but also because so many of you have reached out and shared that you have walked this road before as well. May this prayer give you the same comfort it gave me. 

(Adapted from the Reform Jewish Prayer Book)

Memories of this child will come to this family, unbidden, sometimes unexpected, in all the various moments of their lives.  Although memories may bring pain, they also bring comfort, for as long as you remember, this child is still part of you.

 

In the rising of the sun and its going down,

we will remember this child.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,

we will remember this child.

At the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,

we will remember this child.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer,

we will remember this child.

At the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn,

we will remember this child.

At the beginning of the year and when it ends,

we will remember this child.

When we are weary and in need of strength,

we will remember this child.

When we are lost and sick at heart,

we will remember this child.

When we have joys we yearn to share,

we will remember this child.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make,

we will remember this child.

Merciful God, look upon the sorrows of this family for whom we pray.  Remember them in your mercy; nourish them with patience; comfort them with a sense of your goodness; lift up your countenance upon them; and give them peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Yesterday, it hit me. Another package arrived in the mail. Another incredibly generous gesture from another incredibly thoughtful friend. 

I had felt thankful for every bouquet, every meal, every message that had come over the past week but yesterday, as the sun shone on another perfect spring day, it was as if I felt all the love and the concern and the prayers rain down on me at once.

Loss can be so lonely. Grief can be so isolating. Losing a baby, especially when so much of your worth is tied to your identity as a mother, can be debilitating. 

And yet I don’t feel depilated. I feel sad, but also hopeful. I feel sore, but also strong. I feel pain, but I feel so so much love.

For that love, I have to say thank you.

Grief and the choices we make

In my mind, I had already heard a nurse or a doctor or my midwife tell me my baby no longer had a heartbeat. Due to instinct or mother’s intuition or plain old anxiety, I had rehearsed that moment a thousand times in my mind.

However, I never went beyond that moment. When my therapist suggested I walk through the “what ifs” as a way to cope with my anxiety, I balked. That moment was painful enough and imagining beyond it seemed like an exercise in futility.

When the nightmare in my head became a reality in my life, I was faced with decision after decision that I had never imagined.

April 10-15, 2014

Our ultrasound appointment was for 10:15. I had kept myself busy all morning to distract myself from the worry and dread that seemed to occupy my every thought.

When we got to the office, I confessed to the ultrasound tech – a longtime family friend – that I had been paranoid from the beginning. She told me that was normal. She told me often as mothers we feel like there’s an increased likelihood of something going wrong the more children we have but, in reality, we start each pregnancy on a level playing field. She also told me that older mothers worry more because we have more life experience with things going wrong.

When I reminded her we weren’t finding out the sex of the baby, she asked what was the purpose of the ultrasound. I told her Nicholas knew I’d be paranoid by now and we just wanted to take a peak to assuage my fears.

My heart began racing the second she put sensor to my skin. I looked away under the pretense of not wanting to unexpectedly see the sex of the baby, but the truth was I was on the edge of a panic attack. I took a deep breath and finally looked over because she was remaining so quiet.

The baby was curled up. Still. A perfect little silhouette.

“Something’s wrong isn’t it?” I asked.

She looked at me and said, “Sarah, I’m so sorry but I don't see a heartbeat.” The baby measured 16 weeks, which meant it had been dead for three weeks.

“I knew it.” That’s all I could keep saying over and over again.

*****

The doctor was very kind and informed me I could take my time but I would most likely be induced and deliver the baby. Immediately, I felt every cell in my body scream, "I don't want to do that!" Birth is so incredibly special to me. The thought of experiencing all of the medical interventions I have moved heaven and earth to avoid on top of an already traumatic experience was more than I could bear.

I called a close friend of mine for a second opinion and to rage against what seemed like the most unfair scenario possible. He told me that I had a surgical option as well. He told me I could have a D&E but that he didn't perform them. He mentioned another doctor in town who did and I called the office.

The doctor got me in that afternoon. She was kind and compassionate but very straightforward. She answered all my questions and was patient while I thought up more. Her ultrasound tech - a friend from high school  - confirmed that the baby was 16 weeks. My surgery was scheduled for Tuesday.

*****

I had four days to be with my baby. If the doctor had offered surgery that afternoon, I would have done it. However, as the days passed, I became strangely protective of our time together. 

For the entire pregnancy, I had feared the future. I couldn't be in the present moment because the present moment terrified me. I would look down at my every-growing middle and my head would immediately fill with every dark scenario possible. The only way I could cope was to distract myself and try not to think about being pregnant. 

Now that my worse fears had come true there was nothing left but the present moment. 

The baby and me and our last few days together were all that was left. 

*****

On Monday, we arrived for my pre-op appointment. I signed scary release papers, had my blood drawn, and had to face one of my biggest fears - general anesthesia.

I told the doctor my goal was to never be under general anesthesia.

"Well, we're going to need a new goal."

That evening I took Cytotec and spent most of the evening and the next morning in pain. By the time we got to the hospital, I was having contractions. Once I was in a room, the nurse gave me medication to relieve the pain.

A few drowsy hours later and I was wheeled back to surgery. I vaguely remember a nurse giving me what she described as "I don't care medicine." Then, I was awakened by another nurse telling me I had done great and was already in recovery.

It was completely surreal.

Moments later, the doctor was at my bedside  holding my hand. She told me they were able to remove the baby intact and that the cord had been wrapped around the neck twice very tightly.

It was an answer. I had hoped for an answer. Yet, as I laid there, all I had was questions. 

Loss

On Thursday, Nicholas and I went to the doctor for a routine ultrasound and heard the words no parent wants to hear. "The baby doesn't have a heartbeat." I had worried incessantly about this pregnancy from the beginning and had been expecting to hear those words at every doctor's visit. At first, this seemed to help relieve some of the shock. However, it is doing nothing to help with the overwhelming grief. 

For those of you who have already reached out to us, your love and sympathy are so deeply appreciated. We will be moving forward with the next step medically this week and dealing with our broken hearts for much longer. 

She Let Go

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

 - Rev. Safire Rose

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