What I'm Noticing

On being present, even when it's the harder choice

March 2023

I squeeze my phone like a snake chokes its prey, as if a death grip will quicken the email’s arrival. My email’s refresh button yields No New messages, until it does. Breath catches in my throat, and I remind myself to inhale and exhale. I click the button to view my doctor’s report. Blood drips inside my veins, and silence rings in my ears. Please, please, please, I plead. I scan the results from my blood panel -- normal, normal, normal, normal -- and begin to breathe more regularly again. However, I see low next to the last hormone value on the report, and my stomach sinks to my feet. More testing and more waiting. 

Tears leak onto my cheeks, I squeeze my eyes shut, and my forehead clenches. I open my eyes, and the clock tells me nap time is over. I fill my lungs with a desperate gulp of air and retrieve my toddlers from quiet rest time. What I’m noticing is how hard it feels to be present as a mother right now.

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Winter 2016

When I start counseling for the first time, I wear pain like a locket -- close to my heart, always present, and shut tightly. My therapist works out of a brownstone converted into an office space downtown. Every other week I ride the metro, emerge into daylight, and ascend stairs to her office. Her one window looks into an alley, and I marvel how she can keep a leafy plant so green with such little light. At the conclusion of every session -- whether my eyes are puffy from crying or my heart feels like a dam burst open -- my therapist encourages me to close my eyes and practice grounding myself.

“What are you noticing?” she asks. “Do you feel the couch firmly underneath you?”

With eyes still closed, I mumble, “Yes.”

“Do you feel your feet firmly on the ground?” 

“Yes,” I reply.

“You don’t have to hold yourself up. You are safe in this moment. Take a deep breath in.”

Air gushes in through my nostrils and fills my belly.

“Take a deep breath out,” she continues. And I let all the air out as if blowing out candles on an imaginary cake.

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March 2022

On a whim, I enroll in a 30 day writing workshop titled “Notice.” On the first morning of the course, all participants receive a PDF file with journaling prompts. At the top of the PDF is a quote from Anne Lamott, “If you’re paying attention to your life, you’ll have material forever.” For the next 30 days I become a detective. I search for light in my house, noticing the difference in morning and afternoon light in my son’s and daughter’s rooms. I am aware of my anger -- when it flares because of a tragic news story and also because of my children’s slow obedience. I look for laughter in novels, in my conversations, in the way my son is working on saying his “s” sound. I spy on strangers to imagine who they are and what brings them to the restaurant’s outdoor patio to enjoy crisp salads and juicy burgers. For 30 days straight I practice pausing, eyes and mind alert, to search for meaning and a story. 

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March 2023

Although I don’t feel ready to mother after receiving disappointing lab results, I transition Ethan and Anne from nap time to snack time. They stand in kitchen helper towers at our island and finish the last of their graham crackers and apples. 

“Let’s go for a walk around the block,” I suggest. “Being outside is always good for our bodies and minds.” After obsessively googling my blood panel values, I need the fresh air. 

Late afternoon sun kisses my daughter’s blond hair. She runs ahead of us on the sidewalk, and her bare feet barely meet the pavement before taking off again. Her Michigan ball cap is slightly askew, and wind flutters her mint lace sleeve. She pauses to turn and look back at her brother and me. She opens her mouth and throws her head back, unable to keep a giggle inside at how far ahead she is of us. What I’m noticing is how big she is, how confident she has gotten, and how unweighted she is in this moment.

Evergreen trees tower above us and fresh pine straw lays neatly at the trees’ feet. Other trees that seemed lifeless only weeks before are pregnant and round with bright green leaves. Light dapples through all the trees to create a maze on the sidewalk. 

At the street’s end, we turn a corner. Sun hits us, its warmth spreading across our cheeks. A juniper bush full of small berries perfumes air with its herbal, woodsy, cedar scent.  

“Do you want to smell the juniper?” I ask. I pluck a berry and crush it between my fingers. “Don’t eat it,” I say and hand it to Ethan and then Anne. (They will ask to smell juniper every time we pass the bush from now until eternity.) What I’m noticing is how full my breath is right now, how eager my kids are to breathe deeply as well, and how calm my body feels infused with aromatic juniper. We drop the berries and continue walking.

The sun plays hide-and-seek with a cloud to cast our shadows onto a neighbor’s lawn. I stop our walk. “Look, kids!” I exclaim and wave my arm. My shadow twin does the same. Our bodies block the light to distort reality into shadow versions of ourselves. Yet, light continues to envelop us. 

“Shadows!” Ethan shouts. He pumps his arm vigorously up and down. “Hi, Ethan!” he calls out. Ethan opens his mouth, and his laughter joins the clouds. Anne twirls and gasps when her shadow dances as well. We continue playing with our shadows. 

“Mama, I’m noticing a butterfly!” Ethan exclaims and points to the delicate creature a few feet from us. Anne follows his finger and says, “Butterfly is black, Mama.” The butterfly, our family symbol of hope, decides to land on a leaf next to the sidewalk. Her black wings are streaked with yellow. 

I hadn’t realized how closely Ethan was listening to my phrase. Giving my children the skill to notice keeps us aware of ways God shows up for us every single day. What I’m noticing is how content I feel in this moment -- my children are internalizing what I am still learning, being outdoors has shifted my mood after my lab results, and God has stopped a butterfly to remind me that He sees me.

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April 2023

My husband purchases two magnifying glasses to encourage Ethan and Anne to keep noticing. Late spring has officially arrived in Alabama. Daytime temperatures swell into the 70s. Grass begins to turn emerald. The last of white dogwood blooms scatter on lawns. Daffodils are already gone, and tulips in red and purple and yellow take their place. Azalea bushes adorn themselves with pink and white blossoms. Cherry blossoms in white and pink dot trees. Birds begin morning songs well before 7am and plump bumble bees buzz lazily in the afternoon. Darkness waits longer each day to claim the light.

One morning we explore a nearby trail. Late morning sun warms our arms, and silence covering treetops is broken only by birds. The green overhang nearly meets in the middle of the trail from trees marching on either side. Wildflowers in purple, orange, red, white, and yellow dot the area next to the path. 

“I want to see ant closer,” Anne declares and points. She hovers above two workers scurrying to find their homes and magnifies their black bodies and quick moving thread legs. A few moments later Ethan halts us.

“Mama, look!” Ethan exclaims. “It’s a dandelion for wishing!”  He bends down so his eyes are nearly level with the iridescent puff. He plucks the weed to place it beneath the magnifying glass. We notice each individual seed attached to the center, their white fluffs creating a globe. Anne, Ethan, and I circle the dandelion. One at a time we hold the dandelion, take a deep breath in, and exhale. The seeds dance through the air with our wishes. What I’m noticing is how a child’s eye transforms a weed into a wishing flower.

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“What I’m noticing” becomes the anthem of our walks -- how the trees change, how the flowers bloom, how the light shifts with time of day. I have to remind myself that to notice I have to be slow, present, and full of curiosity. I still don’t know what will come to pass, if the doctor will give me news I will be happy to receive in the coming weeks. But I do know I am glad to be present today. 

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale — an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Overheard at Home".