My Body, A Reminder

I move at lightening speed.  I run, dance, play,  Eyes glued, peeled wide.  Forward always. 

My body reminds me to stop. 

I still have this line on my belly.  Linea negra.   A fading badge of pregnancy.  A reminder that I am only eleven weeks postpartum.  That I have an ELEVEN week old baby.  

I am still deep in recovery.

Deep in transition.

I might fly ahead, but my body keeps signaling me to stop.

Look down, Hannah.

"Mama,"my three year old calls, tugging on my sleeve.  A glance from my husband, missing me.  The me, you know, that I was.  Well, parts of her at least.  The me that is still there, under this linea negra; on the other side of this transition.  This body, this life, this job, this moving.  


Again. And again.  And again.  

We rush forth and then intentionally s l o w.   My body signals me, in advance of disaster, slow down.  I look up from my soft belly, into the mirror, into my eyes.  Connect.  Slow down.  Savor and enjoy.  But most of all