Holding
The Cosmos and a Laundry Basket
The Fuchsia Witch is a series of stories woven from life and a little magic. There’s no need to read in order; step in anywhere and you’ll find your way. But if you’d like a proper introduction to the witch, you’ll find one here.
Naps are a precious time for the witch. A quiet pause between being needed, in the house not so different from this one, in the place not so far from here. A moment for the witch to rededicate herself to the day.
But to get to nap time, we must first get all the little ones asleep.
It starts well before the nap. Running and playing outside with the toddler, throwing balls for the dog and the child alike to go fetch. Sandbox and bubbles and her son’s new obsession with finding dog poop for her to clean up. This is not just play time - this is nap preparation. And then inside.
She feeds the babies, even if she has to wake them up to do so. Then supervised tummy time while she makes lunch for herself and the two year old, sneaking him veggies at the counter while she prepares because this is when he’ll actually eat them, when he’s hungry and there’s nothing else at hand. And then babies sit in their highchairs to watch mama and big brother eat. It’s a workout for them all, designed by their dedicated personal trainer, mommy. If she’s timed it right, their full morning and full bellies will settle them all into sleep. The twins are easy - into their cribs, maybe a few minutes of fussing, and, inevitably, sleep. Her toddler needs… a little more.
They begin by cleaning the table. Somehow, with her son, this feels a great deal like herding cats.
No, the dog doesn’t want your bread.
Okay, the dog does want your bread but please don’t feed it to her.
Give me those sticky fingers, oh look you got so much lunch on your shirt.
Spray the table and wipe it down, good job, now it’s mommy’s turn.
And then a diaper (yes, we do need to change your diaper),
and into bed,
stay there while mama throws the diaper away.
Oh look, you followed me,
okay, let’s go back to bed.
And finally, he is ready for a book. His favorite, more often than not. I love you when you’re angry. I love you when you’re sad. I love you when we both have days that try to drive us mad.
And, ah, at last. Do you want me to tuck you in? And he cries duck, duck! So she pulls the covers up, tight around his body just the way he likes.
Do you want a kiss? And he gives a little smile, pleased, puckers his lips, diss! muah. She’ll miss these little mispronunciations when they're gone. She pulls down the shades and promises I’ll sit right here while you fall asleep. And she does.
She settles into soft crossed legs on the floor, shifts her hips in little sways side to side, front to back, and feels the undulation up her spine. An old song aches through her. She closes her eyes. Begins to breathe. And this moment, right now, is when the pause begins. This moment, even while he is still awake, when she begins to meditate.
This is not the first time the witch has maintained a meditation practice. She’s meditated for many years, in many ways, and for many reasons. This is only the second time in her life she has maintained a meditation practice purely for herself. For the experience of it. And this is the first time she’s meditated consistently in her own way.
She settles into her seat, and she holds. Not with her hands, or her lap, this is not that kind of holding, although sometimes her little one does climb out of his bed and into her arms to fall asleep there.
No.
She feels the bowl of her pelvis holding her organs. She feels her rib cage, not a cage at all but a trusted home, a lover’s hold, cupped around her lungs’ sacred movement. She feels the round perfection of her own skull, and the multitudes contained within. Blood vessels and eyeballs and skin, all of them hold her so indelibly that much of the time she never feels them fulfilling their role. Her body is made to contain itself.
She holds her emotions. She’s tired (of course she is, she’s a mother), and she is alive. She rocks to the swell and pull of her own hormones, postpartum waves still playing on her shore. Sometimes she cries, right there by her son’s bed. Sometimes she hums, or chuckles to herself. Somehow, if she’s being authentic to herself, these little noises never keep him awake. It’s only when she deviates from her own truth that he is jarred from his drifting and begins to bounce and climb and demand her. So she is learning, day after day, to hold all of herself with rigorous honesty.
And she finds an expansion inside her. It’s as instinctual as breathing, this reaching, this longing within. It is not a dissatisfaction with what she has, it is not a desire to move on - it’s a deep love that fills her and overflows her and seeks to hold more, and then more. This does not always feel like happiness; sometimes she loves with despair, or exhaustion, or anger. But when she truly holds herself, in all of her truth and all of her glory, this love always comes next and transcends. It is both of her and channeled through her, and as the channel opens, she breathes the world in dark rose light; thorned and aching and radiant.
And so she lets it run free. She opens the door in her chest, ribs expanding to contain the room and all within: twin breaths of her and her son, twined in the dark; psychic imprints of busy feet and curious hands in every corner; well loved wall decals and optimistic paint, stuffed animals and cars and dinosaurs and herself and her baby; she holds it all.
And then her ribs become the outer walls of their home, breathing all the souls of this little family, and she knows where each of them are, the twins in their beds, their father in the kitchen between meetings, the cat under the keyboard and the dog on the couch, and all of them held in the pause between her inhale and her exhale.
(Can you feel it? How big you are, too, to hold all this?)
It is only one very short step from there to contain… everything. The whole of the cosmos and you within it, too. This is the root of her power, this is what she was made on this earth, in this time, to do. She is a holder, created to contain the sacred and the profane, and to know they’re really one and the same. She has always known this: she has tried to be a teacher, a lover, a friend from this place of trying to hold all of the truths in the soul across from her. But she had it wrong. You do not start with the Other. You start with the Self, carrying your own weight with integrity.
So. She holds the entirety of creation with her own being at its center while her son’s breath evens out beside her.
(And this? Can you feel this, too?)
(Can you be this big?)
(Yes. The answer is yes.)
And then she (the cosmos) exhales.
Inhales again.
Her eyes have adjusted to the dark.
Her son is asleep.
She stands up, tiptoes to the door, and softly steals outside.
There is laundry waiting. She does not reach for it. After all, this is her quiet pause between being needed. Her moment. How will she use it?
How would you?
When do you feel both cosmic and ordinary?
Share your reflections in the comments or in the subscriber chat.
Reading chronologically? Click for the previous post or the next one.
Curious about all the witch’s stories, spells, and recipes? You’ll find them in her grimoire.
Wow, my favorite so far. (You can probably guess why)