Mornings II
October 2025
Last night, in the middle of the night, I heard a small boy call out to me. He yelled “come on.” He was asking me to catch up.
It’s now six in the morning and the world is still dark outside as I cradle this newborn baby in my hands. My son came out of the womb just a few weeks ago at a strong 9lb1oz, smaller than expected but bigger than most. In my hold, he feels both sturdy and exceptionally delicate. Fully formed and just starting to grow.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a morning routine to sit and read a book with a strong cup of coffee. It’s my alone time. The one predictable part in days that don’t rhyme. But now it’s my time with my baby—my child, my kid, my next of kin. Of course the timing is up to him. I’ll sleep as late as he lets me. It’s part of my practice in letting go.
I sit with him in the window, feeding. Or nestled up on the couch. I don’t read these days. Not yet. I’m not ready for someone else’s story as I try to soak in my own. Rather, I study my baby’s face. I notice that with each passing day his eyes open a bit more. Widen a bit more. Stare in wonder a bit more. And I imagine what it’s like to emerge here. To see in shades of grey. To see in shades of shapes. I know he doesn’t know my face yet even though this little boy knows my body in a way that no one else does. My soft shrinking figure is his comfort blanket in the strange newness of this all.
His hands grip his face as he eats, pausing for what seems like deep pondering of the world he’s inherited. Between each breast he stares up and feels the early morning sunlight coat our first floor apartment and touch his soft skin. I think to myself that it’s the softest skin I’ve ever felt as his little lips quiver into the sweetest smile as he looks around. I also think that maybe he’s transfixed by the shadows of the curtains on the wall, but I can only project what he sees through my limited lens. I’m trying to see the world through his bounty of innocence. This little baby, wise in his intuition and instinct and not yet burdened by intellect.
At this earliest stage of motherhood I’m moving slower. I’m savoring my hot showers in a way I never have before and sipping on my morning coffee like it’s a luxury. Each deep breath a blessing. I’m petting the dog and cat as if I haven’t seen them in years. I look at my husband in awe when he wakes and joins us in a new day. I’m so grateful for him. Completely in love with him. I see people walking by and witness life moving at an unprecedented gentle speed. It’s as if I’ve spent the last 36 years living urgently, rushing through the years just to steady myself here. This child has slowed everything down even though I know that watching him grow will speed up time. Progress simply feels less in a hurry now. More tender now. Less seismic now. We have time now.
Sincerely,
A New Mom
Congratulations! This line—“…wise in his intuition and instinct and not yet burdened by intellect”—is especially profound.
This beautiful reflection brought to mind these lines of Rilke, from the late Joana Macy’s translation of the Book of Hours:
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.