It's Christmas morning,

George woke up at 5AM (not because of Christmas just because that's when he's been waking), Fred got up with him and I slept until 7AM when June got up and then Fred went back to sleep for a couple of hours and now we're all up and Fred is downstairs with the kids eating his omelette while they play "Cariboo" and I sneak off to write a bit.

I feel openhearted. I haven't sent cards or even an email message out but I am sending loving energy to all of my friends who are celebrating today, to all of the soldiers who are away and not with their families, to children and families who are struggling today, to people in the hospital, to people in my life who have helped me and whom I have lost touch with and are maybe disappointed in me.

I am more able to watch my mind this Christmas morning than I ever was in years past and notice when I am stuck in racing thoughts. I am more able to quiet my mind and meditate on qualities like love. I am better able to notice changes in my body as I change my mind.

Some days, that is. Yesterday was a long day for me; it was the kids' first day of winter break and we had no plans. It is too cold and snowy here to be outside much. George was really rammy, his energy just never settled no matter what activity I tried. Being inside with an overactive child felt annoying and draining.

Noticing that, I didn't take myself to a place of judgement. I just acknowledged that's how my day was going and that's how I was feeling. Fred came home from work early (at 5PM) to support me and when the kids went to bed we watched "The Wrestler" which I had been wanting to see for a year.

I am feeling so open and shifted today, maybe because of the support, the self-care, the sleep, knowing Fred is here with me today and tomorrow we have plans to go see my sister and family. I think it is more, though; I think being in that annoyed, crappy state of mind yesterday without judging it is what's created the shift.

I am incredibly grateful that I am becoming more mindful of my funny mind and the thoughts that churn through it.

When I came downstairs this morning, George was still full of that excess energy. We sat on the couch together and did a lot of physical play--clapping, rocking back and forth singing "Row, Row, Your Boat." His eyes were sparkling and he engaged with me for a long time and sang a lot. I imagine his soul saying to me Mommy, this is what I needed. Thank you for tuning in and giving it to me.

I can see that in the past few years. having a child with autism has been a great motivator for me to turn inward and turn to my energy and intuition more, especially because so often George can't express to me what he needs or how he is feeling.

But I also recognize that this past year of facing my cancer and getting rid of it has lead me to know that tuning into my energy and working on living mindfully is neccessary not just for George's sake, but for my own.

I want to live a happy life. Being present and open is allowing that to happen. I see now just how much I wanted to control my happiness before, to make the happiness happen. And how devastating it was when suffering happened, like George's autism being diagnosed.

And now I get that the hard, challenging things that happen in our life are part of the nature of life and that every human being suffers and feels fear. And that my response to what manifests in my life is the gateway to happiness; not a fake response, not "be positive." No. My response is now "be present." Notice what I am feeling. Notice what I am thinking. Notice conflicts that I create in my mind. Notice that I am feeling annoyed as hell.

Notice the beauty of being with my husband and children this Christmas morning, notice how it feels to be here with an open heart.

Notice my prayers. Notice the gifts in my life, the incredible community of friends, the work that keeps opening up for me, the synchronicity, the doctors who helped me to get well, Rabbi Yael and Rabbi Linda.

One moment at a time is what I need to show up for. That's all.
***
Last weekend there was a huge snowstorm here and everything closed down including my work so I actually get three weekends off in a row instead of two. What a GIFT! It was snowing when we woke up Saturday morning and it never stopped all day, it snowed into Saturday night and Sunday morning.

I loved the hush of everything. I loved looking into the sky. I thought of other snowstorms in my life, especially of the snowy January and February that followed George's birth and how I wrapped him in layers of onesies and sweaters and snowsuits and put him in the baby bjorn so I could take him out with me just for a little fresh air and how a walk around the block was an incredible adventure and how I could feel his breath and gurgles against my chest and how I wrapped my arms around the baby bjorn and pressed him close against me. And how I remember and savor that delicious moment now because there I was, totally present, feeling the wind, the cold, and the love for my child.

And I thought about snowstorms when I was a child and how everything stopped in the big open of our backyard, set out in the mountains and how I would make snow angels and look into the sky and in the quiet there, I lost myself into the sky, into the falling snow. That quiet, that consciousness, is the place I ran away from, not knowing what to call it, not knowing that others felt it, too. It is the place that

am returning to in all weather, my life as part of an ongoing consciousness, part of the sky, the falling snow, the disappointments and suffering of all people and the release of all disappointments and suffering. Here I am, letting tears come and fall onto my keyboard, here I am writing it down.

Here I am, Christmas morning ( I need to get the kids dressed now and we're going out to the movies soon), wide awake.

A week and a half ago it was 60 degrees out

and sunny; it was Thursday, the day I keep June home from preschool so that we can have June-Mommy time. We walked to the Elkins Park library and stopped at Elkins Perk for bagels with cream cheese on the way home. Being with June on a sunny day in December filled me with joy and when we arrived back home it was about 1PM and we still had a couple of hours until it was time to get George from school so we planted tulip bulbs that I had been meaning to plant for about a month and a half. I dug the wholes and June plopped in the bulbs and covered them with dirt

and I remembered how one of my first blog entries last march right after my surgery was about taking a walk George and noticing tulips and daffodils sprouting up in my yard and not remembering having planted the bulbs the previous fall. And there I was, with my garden gloves on, digging in the dirt with June, the sun shining on our backs and shoulders, laughing with her as she dangled worms between her fingers, thinking

I've arrived. I'm here right now, I'm in my life, breathing and laughing and being with June...whereas a year ago in this kind of moment, I know that my mind would have not only been circling around my to-do list but also be reminding me of all the things that I hadn't done right or well or thinking about people whom I "owed" a phone call to or ruminating about some mistake I'd made at work.

And now, the blessing that is coming out of my contemplative practice is noticing how my mind works, so that I can turn it off or at least be aware of it so that racing thoughts can't stop me from soaking in the sun and dirt and the joy of being with my daughter

who marvels at worms and how they squirm and how one can become two worms.

Having survived cancer, I am sure as hell not willing to let my anxieties or perfectionism rob me from living my life.
****
For the last two weeks or so, I've bundled up the kids in hats and coats at 5PM and taken them out for a brisk walk before dinner. George really needs physical activity to settle his sensory system and the fresh air does us all good. Entering the winter making a conscious effort to move my body is one of the ways that I'm hoping to fend off the usual seasonal depression that sets in for me about this time of year.

We look at our neighbors' Christmas lights. George gets fascinated by blinking lights and stops to gaze at them and jumps up and down. I wish he could describe to me how he's seeing it because I can tell that it is very magical for him.

June wants to celebrate Christmas this year, even though I've explained that Chanukah is our tradition. Sending her to a Jewish preschool can only do so much, Christmas is everywhere. It makes perfect developmental sense to me that it's hard for her to distinguish between "ours" and "theirs" and I'm trying to be low-key about it and not make a big deal about the distinction and focus on making warm Chanukah memories that will become part of her foundation.

There is one house we walk by that is the best: it's got a yard full of dancing santas, trees wrapped like candy canes and a glowing creche scene, complete with camels and the three wise men on their way to see Baby Jesus.

The first day we saw it, June asked me if she could sing a chanukah song to Santa(s). I said sure and she launched into a very dramatic rendition of "S'vivon, Sov, Sov" ("Spin Drydel") at the top of her lungs. We said good-night to the santas and walked over towards the creche scene. June asked me who the baby was and I said baby Jesus and that Christmas is his birthday and June said who is the Mommy and Daddy and I said Mary and Joseph and they are so happy that there baby is with them just how I was so happy when I got to hold baby George and baby June because you both were my dreams and then God brought you both to me.

And Georgie, who hadn't said anything for at least an hour and was jumping up and down as if his body was receiving electrical charge from the lights, started singing the song from Barney I love you, You love me, We're a happy family...

and it's not like he watches Barney or anything and we probably hadn't sang that song for a year maybe and he pulled it out, there in front of baby Jesus and he sang it beautifully, the whole thing.

And I don't know if his singing was the miracle of the moment or that June stayed quiet and let him sing or that I was alive and well holding my two babies mittened hands or that God had brought us all together, the four of us, our happy family

but I did thank God for my expanding heart, for all of my blessings, and for the beautiful story

of that baby, which evokes love and hope in my heart.
***
And that I'll figure out how to say to June that religion is a metaphor and that Judaism is our culture, a beautiful and complicated civilization with a language, food, ethics, traditions, etc. that we can draw strength and wisdom from.

But God, I offer to both of my kids, is the consciousness inside of us, around us, connecting us. God is our breath, our awareness. You don't have to know anything to access God; God is there, God is holding us.

I am so much more gentle and loving to myself now. I can see myself more clearly because I am not afraid to see my life clearly, its deep challenges and its blessings.

I am thankful to light my little Chanukah candles this December, this Hebrew month of Kislev, and watch them rather quickly melt. I may only have a moment or two to notice them because someone is whining to open presents now or needs their special holiday kiddush cup filled with more apple juice, but that moment is enough right now. To have one moment and really experience the candle's light allows it to stay with me when it is dark and gone.