Finding Home

     There is a silent rhythm to which my son moves. I see it in the way he flicks his empty bottles of juice, nuts or his portable square JBL speaker. I see it in the way he chooses his clothes from the dresser drawer or the way he returns his plate to the kitchen sink. One might say it takes a long time for him to get his chores done because of this. He moves to a rhythm, in a kind of choreography where he bounces with every step.  I would say my son dances to this rhythm, his own beautiful rhythm.     So  this  Saturday morning, when I ask him to help me clean up the room and he does his usual bit of choreography reveling as always to the beat inside his head, I realized how I as well, fell into a daily rhythm of my own as I deliberately transitioned into another phase in my life. Falling back into motherhood, housekeeping being a huge part of it and teaching Yoga on select days. While the circumstances that led to this were less than ideal, I would like to think that what is more i

"The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome,"   As I wake earlier than the boys to prepare for the day's necessities, I find myself introspecting on Derek Walcott's words whose meaning have changed over the years in the various seasons that have come to pass in my life.  I prepare the rice and set it on the stove. Then I sit at the kitchen table with my cup of black relishing so much the silence and stillness in our home. It allows my body, mind and heart to ease into the various comings and goings of the day. Thoughts appear though not necessarily interconnected or perhaps they are: I am a mother first. Always. I chose this life. Every departure was, is a choice. Every coming home too. Letting go and forgiveness is a process I have to do many, many times. How do I imbue love, kindness and compassion in all the choices in my life when self-judgment is ever p