I sometimes fantasize about running away to a sanctuary somewhere far away to become a nun or priestess.
I would find a monk or guru willing to teach me the ancient ways of spiritual wisdom and enlightenment. I would live in a cave. Eat only plants. And I would know peace.
Inevitably, I wake from my daydream of dark and quiet caves to the noise and chaos of motherhood unfolding around me. This, I have come to realize, is a rich and potent ground for the most excruciating and transformational inner and spiritual journey.
As for a guru, I have found Lao Tzu’s quote to be quite true in my own life. “When the student is ready the teacher will appear.” What I didn’t realize, at first, is that the teacher doesn’t always appear as you might expect, like a short, bald man emerging from an ancient cave wearing a simple white robe. More often, the teacher is disguised as something else … like your charismatic, half-naked two-year-old son, for example.
My spiritual guru is a toddler.
It was time to come inside the house for lunch. My body was trembling, trying to get my attention to tell me that it needed food. I was hell-bent on getting both children to the bathroom to get cleaned up. They were tired, hungry, dirty, yelling and peeing on the floor. Desperately trying to get through the moment and ‘keep my cool,’ I told the two-year-old to come by me to get a new diaper on. It may shock you, but he refused.
I spoke a bit louder this time. “Milan, come here, you need a diaper.” Still nothing. As I stood up to get closer to him, the color left my face and I started to see black and white spots. “Malory, go eat a banana,” a wise voice from within whispered. I pushed the thought down, took a breath and angrily hissed through my pale, tightened lips, “Milan, you need a diaper.” He looked at me with a playful grin and stepped away.
My jaw clenched. The blood that was rushing out of my face pulsed loudly and echoed in my ears. Now, hot with anger, tears boiled behind my eyes, hissing and threatening to erupt. “Milan, please come here,” I said desperately in a voice I barely recognized. He looked away, unimpressed.
A rush of panic and heat washed over me. “Malory, go eat a banana!” my body yelled at me from somewhere inside. Ignoring myself again, I stepped forward, scooped him up and laid him on the ground in front of me. Shakily, I ripped open the fresh diaper, put it on his body and lifted him back up abruptly to his feet. His face, now directly in front of mine, was smiling a wide, forced and cheesy-like grin. He locked eyes with me, and said through a toothy smile, “Mommy … you happy?” I looked back at him sternly, said nothing, and looked back down to pull up his pants.
He placed his dirty palms on my cheeks, lifted my head up so that I was looking back up at him and said again, “Mommy … you happy?” I let out a sigh, and replied in exasperation, “Yes, Mommy is happy.”
Apparently, that wasn’t what he was looking for. As if he didn’t hear me, he said again, “Mommy, you happy?” He stood there, holding an even bigger and cheesier smile just inches away from my face. Before I could stop it, a single laugh slipped out. “HA!” I heard myself say. The muscles in my scrunched-up forehead softened, my eyes relaxed and a smile crept onto my face. I finally looked past the noise and overwhelm of the moment and saw him.
Time slowed for a few beats. In that moment, fully alive, awake and present, we were both held and seen by a force of love greater than either one of us.
On his face was the most beautifully relaxed and satisfied smile looking back at me. He wrapped his sweet arms around me for a quick hug, as if to say “welcome back Mommy,” and then ran off to the living room to find his toy car. I sat for a moment in silence. With my hand over my heart, I took a few deep breaths and let the tears come. Then I stood up slowly, and walked to the kitchen to get a banana.
I do not live in a cave or have a wise spiritual elder guiding me along the chaotic, overwhelming and sometimes terrifying journey of mothering two children with rare and complex needs.
I am learning, over and over again, how to be that leader for myself.
As the guru and the student of my own life, my perpetual practice is one of tender presence and grounding as I open to what is, welcoming the teachers and the lessons as they arrive … in all their forms.
Photo by Malory Ogrizovich.
Malory Ogrizovich is a writer, certified life coach, wife and mother of two boys. She lives in a farmhouse in Southeastern Wisconsin. Learn more about her work and her story at authenticlivingcommunity.com.