Recognition
Please forgive another little sentimental post, but this one bears writing today.
One of my favorite moments of the day is when I go into the kids' rooms to kiss them one last time before I go to bed. It's my favorite for a number of reasons. Not least among them is the fact that no matter how chaotic the day has been, they are peaceful. It's easy to remember their little baby faces as I lean in to kiss their cheeks, and it makes me fall in love with them all over again. The second reason is less gushy. Henry and Cora have a tendency to sleep talk. They often mumble to us when we kiss them and it's worth any effort to witness that moment.
All three of the kids generally react in the same way when we are kissing them: they startle and sit up suddenly, a look of panic on their faces. The panic usually changes to confusion, and then at last there's a little flicker in their eyes. Recognition. Their faces soften and they usually whisper something like, "Oh, Mama, it's you." Cora tends to throw her little arms around me then and pull me close. Thomas--who rarely stirs-- whimpers like a puppy, but settles in peacefully and goes back to sleep. Henry carries on entire nonsensical conversations in his sleep before finally drifting off again, at peace.
Micah and I were talking about it last night, about how fascinating it is. They are barely conscious, deep in sleep. And yet they recognize us. They know our voice, know our face. The panic they feel when they are first startled gives way immediately in the moment of recognition. "Oh, it's you." They are safe. Something deep, deep inside them--so deep they don't even need to be conscious--knows who they belong to, knows the place that's safe.
It's no stretch to imagine what my next point will be, but I'll walk you through it just the same. We are that way. When something happens--something new, something unexpected, something scary--we react just like my children. We sit up, startled, panic on our faces. We wait in confusion, unable to make sense of what has happened. But in our deepest souls--the parts of ourselves I think we too often squelch--that moment of confusion is followed by something else. Recognition. Something deep inside us recognizes the voice and the face that leans over us. It's so deep, so innate in us, that we often aren't even conscious when the realization first creeps in. But if we are still, if we sit in the silence and look long and hard into the face, we will know it. "Oh, it's you. I am safe." We know who we belong to, we know the harbor that keeps us. And in that moment--no matter what else is happening--we have the peace to settle back down and rest like a child.
It's worth any effort to witness, to find ourselves, that moment.
One of my favorite moments of the day is when I go into the kids' rooms to kiss them one last time before I go to bed. It's my favorite for a number of reasons. Not least among them is the fact that no matter how chaotic the day has been, they are peaceful. It's easy to remember their little baby faces as I lean in to kiss their cheeks, and it makes me fall in love with them all over again. The second reason is less gushy. Henry and Cora have a tendency to sleep talk. They often mumble to us when we kiss them and it's worth any effort to witness that moment.
All three of the kids generally react in the same way when we are kissing them: they startle and sit up suddenly, a look of panic on their faces. The panic usually changes to confusion, and then at last there's a little flicker in their eyes. Recognition. Their faces soften and they usually whisper something like, "Oh, Mama, it's you." Cora tends to throw her little arms around me then and pull me close. Thomas--who rarely stirs-- whimpers like a puppy, but settles in peacefully and goes back to sleep. Henry carries on entire nonsensical conversations in his sleep before finally drifting off again, at peace.
Micah and I were talking about it last night, about how fascinating it is. They are barely conscious, deep in sleep. And yet they recognize us. They know our voice, know our face. The panic they feel when they are first startled gives way immediately in the moment of recognition. "Oh, it's you." They are safe. Something deep, deep inside them--so deep they don't even need to be conscious--knows who they belong to, knows the place that's safe.
It's no stretch to imagine what my next point will be, but I'll walk you through it just the same. We are that way. When something happens--something new, something unexpected, something scary--we react just like my children. We sit up, startled, panic on our faces. We wait in confusion, unable to make sense of what has happened. But in our deepest souls--the parts of ourselves I think we too often squelch--that moment of confusion is followed by something else. Recognition. Something deep inside us recognizes the voice and the face that leans over us. It's so deep, so innate in us, that we often aren't even conscious when the realization first creeps in. But if we are still, if we sit in the silence and look long and hard into the face, we will know it. "Oh, it's you. I am safe." We know who we belong to, we know the harbor that keeps us. And in that moment--no matter what else is happening--we have the peace to settle back down and rest like a child.
It's worth any effort to witness, to find ourselves, that moment.
