As a spouse, as a mother, as myself

 Saddleback Butte, California

Sometimes I feel like I am at the top. The top, absolutely got it together.
I love my husband, he loves me. We are fluid and easy. Lots of laughs, good meals, and a streak of intimacy.

I love my child, he loves me. We are gentle and kind. Lots of bouquets, well-timed snacks, and a streak of mutually enjoyed activities.

And then, what the hell happened? The mountain summit, in fact, belongs to an active volcano. Good meals are burnt to cinders. The bouquets are filled with weevils churning out frass that stains all it touches. 

Queries begin with "Why do you always...?" Or "Why do you never...?" 

I can't recall a single technique of empathetic communication. The volcano blows, one of us or all of us. It happens. We forgive and repair. We make it better for next time.

I wrote the above last night, and this morning I woke to note:

Ha! Of course, I forgot myself. I often, so often do. The role of wife and mother have become bigger, much bigger than me. Much bigger than I can handle sometimes, but I couldn't move in those roles if there was no me. If I did not choose those roles, I'd not be those roles. So,

I love myself, I love me. I am fluid, easy, gentle, and kind. I laugh, listen inward and outward - because it is all the same. I pick flowers and give gifts. I enjoy my activities.

I love myself, I love me. I am a volcano, fiery, destructive, and malicious. A hot coal, I fly outward and inward from the fire. Behind me, the path is charred. Before me, the path is empty. Everyone has fled.

Both are me. I will take care of both of you, both of me. All.