“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”

Henri Matisse

Squint. Can you see it?

I didn’t, but Toddler did. We were walking home. Predictably, I was in a bit of a daze. That’s pretty par for the course these days. Toddler? She skipped along, ahead of me, looking around. And she stopped, bent forward, peered through that rusting fence. And pointed.

Mommy, look! she said. Look at the little purple flower!

I did as told. I looked. And there it was. The little purple flower. I would never have seen it if not for this little girl. My little girl.

What’s interesting, and maybe disconcerting, is that I did notice the fence. I also noticed the speckled patch of soil. I also saw the trash strewn about. But my eyes did not focus on that lone pop of purple, that regal spurt of life. That little flower, alone and lovely? I missed it entirely.

But I didn’t miss it. Because she was there with me. Eager. Alive. Aware. Vision keen. Mind open. Joy profound. With this creature by my side, I saw it. And captured it.

There is a lesson here, isn’t there? That if we look hard enough, if we allow ourselves to, if we come at the world with child-like eyes, we might see them. The bursts of beauty in our days. The tiny flowers in our soils and souls.

Thank you, sweet girl, for seeing.

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Are there things you do not see? Are there people in your life who help you notice things you’d otherwise miss?

“I dread success. To have succeeded is to have finished one’s business on earth, like the male spider, who is killed by the female the moment he has succeeded in his courtship. I like a state of continual becoming, with a goal in front and one behind.”

George Bernard Shaw

What is success? I don’t know, but I think about it. Whatever it is. Don’t we all want to taste success in our lives? Don’t we all want to be able to look back over the years and conclude that we led a successful, good life? I think so. Maybe. Hmm.

Ultimately, it depends on how we define success, doesn’t it? Is success about reaching financial goals or personal milestones or existential posts? Is success remotely objective or does it mean different things for each of us? Again, I don’t know. I am a mistress of not knowing, it seems.

What I do know is that I like George Bernard Shaw’s sentiment above. Success, to the extent that it connotes some kind of sparkling peak of finality, is something I do not want. Rather, I prize evolution, growth, progress, a constant sense of becoming, of getting somewhere. Maybe success is not a destination at all, but rooted firmly in these things, in these wonderful albeit less shiny things?

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How do you define success? Do you too dread the kind of success Shaw describes? How often do you think about success? Do you think success is something singular and objective or rather something elusive that comes in many flavors?

Last night. Circa 8pm. A dark room. Two little girls tucked messily under orange quilts. Heads burrowing into purple pillows. The sound of rain pouring from a small machine made of white plastic. Two parents, exhausted and happy, bending over, planting kisses. On cheeks. On foreheads. Eyebrows. Lips. Ears.

The bigger girl says something, her sweet voice swirling up. Guess what I am going to dream about tonight?

What’s that? The mother asks.

A strawberry with wheels!

The littler girl follows suit. Two can play at this game. Guess what I’m going to dweam about tonight?

What?

Elephants! she croons.

Smiles, big and little, all around. Unseen in the darkness. But felt.

More kisses. Quiet goodbyes. The rain keeps rumbling.

A night winding down. Pillows growing warm. Tiny feet kicking under pumpkin covers.

Dreams incubating. A day rolling over.

Lives happening. Love expanding. Always expanding.

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Do you allow yourself to dream like you did when you were a kid? How often do you remember your dreams? If you could decide ahead of time what you’d dream about, what would it be?

It’s been three weeks since the littlest Rowley arrived and I am feeling more and more like myself again. This is good. Very good. My energy is returning, my ideas are gaining momentum once more, and I am seeing things more clearly.

Thank goodness.

Over the weekend, when I was not feeding or chasing or changing teensy diapers, I was thinking. About many things, but about one thing in particular: blogging. And because this is my blog, this is obviously an appropriate place to examine said thoughts.

Should I be blogging?

Not an easy question. Part of me thinks that even though I am emerging from the twilight zone that is the first weeks of motherhood, I should refrain from regular posting. Why?

Because. Every moment I spend here tapping away on the keyboard is a moment that I am not spending staring at that tiny chest rise and fall under the little bow and polka-dots of that onesie that will only fit for so long, a moment when I am not playing games and drawing pictures with my big girls, a moment when I am not hacking away at my second novel, a moment I am not talking with Husband about life and Life, a moment I am not snagging the rest I so desperately need. Every moment I spend here is one I will not get back. This dilemma? It’s nothing new. I have long fretted about the manner in which I spend my time, about striking some breed of balance between my family self and my self self.

But there’s something else.  A new concern. One that’s a bit harder to articulate. But I will try. I am worried that blogging does not only pull me from my life as far as time is concerned, but that it actually affects my life, how I live it, and see it. Last week is a good example. I posted twice about Dad’s birthday, about my sadness and sorrow and ache. I did this because it was relevant and real and I try to be both of those things here: relevant and real.

But then? Then I worried about appearances, how I might seem, or come across, to all of you. I worried, yet again, about what you think. I worried that I might have conveyed too much grayness for one week, that people might be concerned that I am not okay, that I am really struggling and down. And the truth? The truth is that I am fine, better than fine. Yes, life is busy and full and complicated at the moment. But I am doing well, feeling good and lucky for the bounty that is my Now.

The important thing is that I am okay and feeling good, right? It shouldn’t matter what my blog readers deduce from a blog post or two, right? Right.

But.

It’s never this simple. I hadn’t planned to post last Friday morning. I planned to have a lazy morning with my girls and Sister N who was visiting from Chicago with her daughter Cousin C. But suddenly I felt compelled to blog. To whip up a post about the Rowley rainbow, the happiness and humility I feel now, the joy of being immersed in a wonderful world of little girls. I love that post. It’s maybe one of my favorites.

But.

Why did I write it, that Friday post? Did I write it because I was simply moved to do so, because I wanted to remember this fleeting moment of fierce family love? Maybe. Or did I write it to convince you – and maybe myself – that despite some gloomy moments over the past week or so, I am indeed alright, far better than alright? Hmmm…

So. I am here. Today. Wondering about something. Something important, I think. Does blogging detract from being? By concerning ourselves with communicating how we are doing, are we not allowing ourselves to simply live, to simply be?

I ask this, these questions, because if ever there is a time for me to just be, to soak up the moments, to ride life as it ripples, this is it.

So. I am here. Today. Wondering about something. Something important, I know. Does blogging perhaps enhance being? By concerning ourselves with communicating how we are doing, and the magic and muddiness of our moments, are we in fact more deeply revering these moments and inking them more indelibly in our minds?

I ask this, these questions, because if ever there is a time for me to celebrate and consecrate and memorize my moments, my magic, my muddiness, it is now, during this passing and priceless time, this time that will soon grow blurry and vague. I want to remember this.

Alas. Instead of pondering these questions, these big questions, in my own head and in my own world, here I am blogging about them. Am I lost cause?

Once we become bloggers, can we ever go back to just being?

Maybe not.

(Is this alarming? Or is this perhaps amazing?)

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Do you think that recording moments for the masses detracts from those moments? Do you think bloggers – consciously or unconsciously – write certain things so as to portray their lives in certain ways, to convince readers of certain things? Do you think that blogging detracts from, or enhances, being? Once a blogger, can we ever go back to being just a be-er?

Once upon a time, there were three Rowley girls. A mother and two little ones. Then, one day in the month of March in the year of 2011, another Rowley girl arrived. And when she did, with her in the world, the view changed.

Of course it did.

And so. These two little girls, the originals, were suddenly big sisters. Big sisters together. A team. And they had an idea. A brilliant one. They would do an art project. Not just any old art project though. They would decorate birthday hats. They would go all out with magic markers and stickers and glitter glue. And when they were finished, and their hats were dry, they popped them atop their heads. They pulled on their tutus – over their matching heart PJs – and they danced around. They celebrated.

And she? The littlest Rowley girl? The birthday babe? She was witness to it all, snug somewhere between utter oblivion and complete awareness, flitting between wakefulness and slumber, bright eyes and big yawns. She? The littlest Rowley girl? A lucky thing. To be here. To be welcomed, and wrapped up, so wonderfully.

And the biggest Rowley girl? That little yawn says it all. The mother is tired. But she is so happy. She has been a bit more serious in her recent musings. She knows this. But, really, that’s just because she find grays to be more interesting than rainbows and that’s what she tends to write about given the choice.

But today? On this Friday, two and a half weeks after a very big day in their lives, the mother, the biggest Rowley girl, is intent on recording the rainbows. For she is surrounded by little girls, glorious little girls. And they are hers. And she is theirs. Together, they wade through another morning, all of them still in pajamas, all of them snug in this good moment, somewhere between utter oblivion and complete awareness, bright eyes and big yawns.

Today. Today this biggest Rowley girl, this mother, is thankful, impossibly thankful, for this, for her real life.

Today. Today this biggest Rowley girl, this mother, is thankful, impossibly thankful, to be among them, to be one of the Rowley girls.

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As a person or a parent, are you more interested in exploring the grays or the rainbows of life? Do you think it is important that we do both? Are you ever just bowled over by the majesty of the everyday? Do you ever just look around – at the clutter, at the chaos, at the creatures in your midst – and realize how profoundly lucky you are?