Loss of Innocence

and the well grief it comes with.

and there he goes.

It happened the other night, in a blink of an eye, in a pause in-between breaths. As I was lying in my son’s room just before he fell asleep, he asked me if one day we were going to die. Such a big question, yet also such an easy answer. His eyes, I knew, were scanning my body and face for a response. I was being heavily watched. In that split second, it was as if I had to prepare an answer quickly.  My inhale filled with rambling thoughts, “I knew this day would come. This is normal. This is my chance to teach him. This is hard.” What poured out felt like enough of an answer to satisfy his four-year-old mind—my exhale that followed was full of grief.  

The grief I now know was how I have been beginning the mourning process of his innocence. This way of being in the world that I never knew existed before I saw it in my child. As I write this, I know what a privilege that is, and I feel that so much deeper these days. As I laid next to him while he was tucked warm in bed, I knew that my answer, “Yes, we all will die one day,” would begin to splinter his belief, his knowing that his world is full of only goodness. I saw this splinter in his eyes, and it broke me. Even though I know how healthy the conversation and curiosity were, and also how important it was for me to stay in it—it still hurt. 

He continued to ask, “Where do we go after we die?” I could tell that he wasn’t completely sold on my answer. And the truth is, either was  I—and goodness it is hard to mother from a place of I don’t know. 

Watching reality seep into my son’s consciousness was something I did not feel fully prepared for. In fact, I have been trying to write this piece for a while now—and it seems like the death question is the only thing that finally moved me forward. This brewing reality that I can no longer hide him away from the world is boiling up, and a part of me just wants us to disappear into the deep forest, as if, in some way, death or pain wouldn’t find us there. 

This feeling of wanting to protect him from the harshness of the world does not feel that absurd. This desire to want to keep wonder and awe alive as long as I can seems fitting but also not real. And it is in this last thought that I am reminded that wonder and awe also live alongside the tougher truths of our existence. As I begin this next journey of no longer being able to leave the outside world at our front door, I can’t help but think what else I might be pushing away. 

It became very apparent to me as we were watching the old Frosty the Snowman from the late 1960s that I might be coming up to one of my own growing edges. I hope I don’t spoil anything here, but there is a part in the movie where Frosty is taken into a hot greenhouse where he inevitably melts. As the scene ended, I quickly turned to my son with a frantic tongue and said, “Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay. Frosty is going to be okay.”  He looked at me oddly, seemingly fine, and I knew at that moment it was me who couldn’t handle the thought of his own possible reactions that might come up after seeing such a scene.  

It is so hard to confront that I can not protect him from the world, and in fact, trying to do so is beginning to seem like a disservice to him.  

Mother is a working title, and as I begin to learn about this next chapter alongside him, I am trying to really sit in the depths of how to swim in these new waters. Fear is not new to me. It is something I have carried with me since a young child. It lives in my bones, in my dreams, in the way I interact with the world. And although I have been digging at it and trying to make sense out of what it now means in connection to being a mother, I am still in process.  

With all that has been going on in the world, in my world, in the world of my ancestors, and what is being done in my name as a Jewish woman, I have been coming face to face with my own curtain being drawn open. And as the light pours into the room, it is bringing these very hard and painful truths into existence. A part of me has been unraveling. 

What I have learned to do in these times is to connect to others to move towards action by way of knowing I am not alone. Activism, for me, is a sacred mission. A mission towards understanding my own cells, undoing what is ready to be undone, and moving towards what my heart knows is true. 

During the holiday season, as I began to question my identity and my values, this pull toward needing to connect felt stronger than ever. I found myself planning to attend a family ceasefire protest. With this, I was coming face to face with the want to share with my son why this is so important and also why I have been sad lately. For weeks, I couldn’t wrap my mind around how to talk to him about what is going on in the world, and yet, felt the pull to do it so strongly.  

I was scared I would say the wrong thing. I was scared I would scare him. I was scared this long-lasting fear in my bones would want to take center stage, and somehow, I would just not be able to have the conversation at all. Yet, I knew that teaching about injustice and fighting for peace also has to do with being a mother. And to be honest, I almost feel like it has been strengthened by it.  

With my hand placed gently on my heart, I explained to him that we were going to go join a group of people who are using their voices and their bodies to take a stand against some people who are hurting others. I talked to him about what happens when we don’t tend to the hurt inside and how, sometimes, we can hurt other people, and how our voices and our signs are going to say, “That is not okay.” We continued to talk about peace and how everyone deserves it. A conversation that seemed to not be possible without also holding the very grim truth that some don’t have it. 

I have no idea if that was the right thing to say or even if there is a right thing to say.  But I knew it came from my heart and he felt it. 

After our conversation, he sat up straight, determined, as if he was about to go on a mission—a mission for peace. Together, we made a sign that read, “Nothing but Love.” A phrase borrowed by a brother who passed. 

It is fair to say that these conversations scare the hell out of me. Bringing in the harsh realities of the world and having to know that he is going to feel grief, fear, worry, sadness, and heartbreak—splinters me. And what I am learning in my bones is that it is my job to hold his hand through these experiences while the inevitable curtain opens. 

Last week, on our regular walk through the Farmers Market, I noticed that there was a man with a typewriter next to a sign that read something like, “Share what is on your heart and I will write you a poem.” So intrigued and touched by his offering, I dragged my family over. I shared what was on my heart, warmth (the sun was out that day), a desire for presence and slowness..  The poet then turned to my son and asked him what was on his heart today, and to my astonishment, he said, “peace on earth.”

As you might imagine, I was a well of tears with a raw heart. Even now, when I recall his answer, it creates the warmest expansion in my heart. 

And it also reminds me that hard conversations are hard. 

And that the harshness of the world will make its way in. 

And maybe I might not be ready for it. 

And maybe I will need to grieve.

And maybe I will need to protest.

But peace is not known without its absence. 

And innocence will fade, and awe and wonder will still be around.  

Thank you for being with me on this journey.

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Feburary Motherhood Somatic Writing Workshop:

I am so thrilled to share this workshop that has been cultivating in my heart for months.

The Birth of The Mother

Sunday Feburary 18th

10:00 am - 12:00 pm PST

Meeting on Zoom

Investment $40

Join me in coming together for the two-hour embodied writing workshop, 'The Birth of a Mother,' where we embark on an intimate passage into the profound journey of becoming a mother. More than just an exploration, this workshop invites you to connect with the intricacies of your maternal experience through your eyes and body—today.

Through gentle somatic exploration and the art of storyweaving, we will thread together the pieces of our individual stories while also co-creating the opportunity to shed light on our collective experience.

This offering is an opportunity to create a space for reflection, resonance, and the embrace of various layers of our maternal transformation. 'The Birth of a Mother' is an invitation to honor, deepen awareness, and celebrate the journey that has molded you, expanded you, and called in your innate wisdom.

Together, we will:

• Embrace the threads of your matrescence and give voice to your body's story of becoming.

• Connect with the unexplored layers of your story, waiting to be known and waiting for a voice.

• Weave together our voices as we shape a collective narrative of motherhood.

If this is something that you might be interested in or might know of someone who would be, we would love for you to join us. If you click on the button below, you will be taken to the registration page, which has more information and also a link to sign up. You can also follow this link to my website.