Like everyone, my heart has been torn in two the past few days. My mama mind and heart has been restless, feeling weak (and yet hopeful) that the most I can do right now is pray for everyone affected. These few links reflect that, and Sarah’s poem today makes me all the more grateful for my children.
- How do I talk to my kids about tragedy? 10 expert tips :: Babble
- Thinking the unthinkable :: The Anarchist Soccer Mom
- 26 moments that restored our faith in humanity this year :: BuzzFeed
- “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” -Mister Rogers
The winner of yesterday’s giveaway from Every Breath I Take is Jenn. Congratulations, Jenn! Be looking for an email in your inbox soon. Everyone else, don’t forget that Every Breath I Take is offering all Simple Mom readers 15% off any yoga package this month. Simply register here with the code SIMPLEMOM.
The Simple Mom Podcast
In case you missed the link on Facebook or Twitter, there’s a new Homefries podcast! In this episode I’m talking to my friend Kat of Inspired to Action. We’re talking about fizzy drinks, working out in the cold, music, and more. And just so you know, there will be a new Simple Mom Podcast ready for you (almost) every Thursday evening, to kick-start your weekend. Hope you enjoy!
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This month’s poem by Sarah Dunning Park is from her book, What It Is Is Beautiful. Enjoy!
Their Eyes All Aglow
will they remember
from their childhoods?
If everything experienced
is somehow stored—
stitched into the brain’s cortical folds
like a heap of colorful rags
carefully braided and coiled
to make the rug underfoot—
which bits and pieces of memory
will present face-up,
to be felt and seen
and trod upon daily?
to gently tuck out of reach the memories
of times I snapped at them in anger,
or to bring forward and shore up
their recollection of the days
when all was peaceful,
and love imbued every word.
But I can’t control their minds
—nor mine, tonight,
as I snuff out a stub of candle
on our table, and its smoking wick
and heady scent bring on a wave
of remembering I didn’t expect:
the feel of a Christmas Eve
when it’s late and I am little,
full to bursting with rich food
and my wild impatience
for the morning.
© Sarah Dunning Park, 2011. All rights reserved. Used with permission.