Yoga Writer

The other day I clicked on a FB post about a woman that has multiple personalities, a result of severe childhood trauma. Many of her personalities are artists, each having a very distinctive style. The main personality does not remember the trauma, but one of the personalities does, and she processes it in her artwork. Just the few pictures I saw of that particular personality’s art, haunted me.

So many children suffer in this world and I don’t know why.

Children are suffering in Iraq. In Syria. Human trafficking worldwide, even right here under our noses in the USA. Kids with disabilities, autism, epilepsy, life threatening allergies… poisoning of their water supply, gun violence, so many disabilities. Children are suffering. Children living with domestic abuse, sexual abuse. Unspeakable suffering.

After reading about the artist(s) mentioned above, I woke up in the night sick with the suffering of children. Physically sick. It was too much. What could I do?

Certainly nothing physically tangible at 3AM from my bathroom.

What do I know?

I know love is real.

Back in my bed, hands on my heart, I begin to lengthen my breath.

Breathing in, I breathe in the suffering of our world’s children.

I am a mother.

Breathing out, I breathe out mother’s love to all children suffering in this world.

Breathing in, I take it in. I don’t look away. I breathe in the suffering.

Breathing out I stretch out my mother arms across the universe, hoping wherever they are somehow those who need it feel the only thing I have to give in this moment. My love.

Breathing in, their suffering.

Breathing out, mama.

This breath in. 

This breath out. 

This breath in. 

This breath out. 

At 3AM, I believe,

I have to believe,

it’s not nothing.