Yes, I'm here.

The practice(s) of being mama

Today’s letter is free for all mamas (+ everyone) to read. Keepers of the beat, may you be honoured today and every day. Happy Mother’s Day xx

Tuesday, 6:05am 
My mat is open and I am on it, an island in a sea of Lego. My hamstrings yawn awake as I bow into my first forward bend, head swaying to soften my neck as I feel my feet beneath me. Steam rises from the hibiscus green tea I’ve placed beside my mat, fittingly called Sunrise by its maker. The day’s first light illuminates my living room’s sheer northeast facing curtains.

This time for my senses to warm up in the quiet stillness of a sleeping household is a relief, a simple yet essential nourishment I crave like water. Candle lit, gentle stretches, tea, a few pages… not necessarily in this order, these gesture are the connective tissue of my morning practice, establishing a clear baseline and setting the tone for the day ahead.

It’s not long before I hear the familiar sound of little feet dropping to the floor overhead. Knowing in a moment those footsteps will be on the stairs, I let out a slow exhale and drop to my seat, circling my torso, creating a bit more space as I prepare for an impact that’s always sweetened by my effort to rise early. 

My littlest knows exactly where to find me. He beelines for my lap, collapsing into a soft heap and I breathe in his golden curls, savouring the delicious squish of his cheek against mine as I hold him. One of his creations from the night before catches his eye and he crawls off my mat to carry on building. I sip my tea and return to downward dog. A few minutes later I spy him doing downward dog from the periphery of my seated twist.

Yes, I’m here.

Wednesday, 3:42pm
I’m sitting in the grass amongst remnants of after school snacks, moving every few minutes to keep myself out of the encroaching shadows the sun’s movement casts down from the tree beside me, crunching stray Ritz crackers beneath me as I shift my position.

Up the ladder, down the slide… she follows him, tig! (aka tag) and runs off under the playframe as he squeals and chases after her. 

I’ve a birds eye view of them on the playground and yet what I’m watching feels like my own attention.

Is it? It is, I realize, feeling the relief of surrendering the opportunity to check messages and work through mental admin. I feel my breathing slow and steady, my spine lengthening toward center. There’s loads to do and yet, not really, this is all there is now.

My littles catch me watching them and wave. I smile back and flash a thumbs up, deeply contented I’d not been scrolling.

Yes, I’m here.

Saturday, 10:26am
I’m sitting in a booth at a favourite bakery with my 9 year old. Hot chocolate + plain croissant for her, decaf long black + brownie (the breakfast brownie, IYKYK) for me… She’s got her little pink notebook out, favourite pen collection neatly arranged, and off she goes. Our page date, she calls it, a practice she seems to have adopted on the back of watching me fill notebooks since she was a baby.

My phone dings again and again, I’ve annoyingly left the ringer on. The interruption is pervasive, as ever, and I can feel myself expending energy to ignore it. She feels it too and she asks if I’m going to check it. Nah, I say, it can wait. It can. She smiles and says let’s write some things and so we do.

Yes, I’m here.

Your leadership is needed.

So often it feels like there’s somewhere else we should be. The world and our phones constantly affirm this notion, with urgency. I’ve felt this most acutely while unloading dishwashers, wiping bottoms, managing activity logistics — struggling to locate feelings of enoughness while traversing the endless conveyor belt of mundane domesticity. The easiest escape route is within the shortest reach — our devices — and it’s so easy to disappear into void, trapped in the illusion that elsewhere is more important or valuable. How often have I swiped up for a quick “check” or scroll, only to let time pour through my fingers like sand through an hourglass? Often. Always, then, jolted back into the room by the familiar call of Mama! Mama! I look up and wonder where both the time and I have gone. Has it been 2 minutes? 10? I’ve truly no idea. 

In one of my favourite books, Early Riser Companion, Elizabeth Antonia writes, It’s impossible to give our children our care when our attention simply isn’t there. I think about this all the time. I’ve also come to understand that my attention isn’t available when I’ve lost connection with myself. Staying close to myself through my practices, even in the chaos, makes me more present and available to my children in the moments when I’m needed most.

My mind settles in child’s pose, and that ripples into my presence with my 6 year old when he wants to tell me about his drawing. Practice generates presence. They’re tethered. We feel it in our own bodies when we get on a yoga mat or put pen to paper or… and our children feel it in theirs. If we always rush, they too will default to that pace. When they see us treat ourselves gently, they can more readily recognize the comfort of treating themselves with kindness. Our practice informs their practice. Your leadership matters, so much.

I find entry points to practice in notebooks and on Lego covered yoga mats, but also in moments looking at the sky while I wait at the school gates, squeezing a chubby little hand, and calmly saying that everything needs to wait until I finish drinking my tea… That’s the thing about practice — it has a magic malleability. It’s available, just like your presence, fluid and able to meet practicalities in ways that fit our real lives. We just have to show up for it. Stay close to yourself. Practice.

Yes, I’m here. 

Your leadership is needed mama, in your practice and your presence.
What might that look like today?

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