Yesterday I held you as you slept. One hand on the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the other on my belly, feeling the (not so gentle) punches and kicks of the little being within. Your sibling, a mystery unfolding inside myself.
It was one of those rare moments that transport you, a moment that transcends our understanding of ourselves, of now, of our purpose, of what it means to be human. I was there, on that bed, with your soft snores keeping me company and yet I wasn’t. My gaze was fixed on a point in the distance that only I could see. It was both a reality and a promise - I’m holding outside myself a little boy that I made. A boy who, up until 3 years ago resided within me and whose place is now taken by another. It is awe that finally brings tears to my eyes. Awe at this thing called life, at my hands holding both the real and the promise. Have you ever been taken to that place, that loss of time and space that leaves you breathless? That is awe, my friends, in all its beauty.
Awe is simultaneously described as a feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder. Fear and wonder. Think about it - we live our lives with awe tucked somewhere deep inside our subconscious and it only takes these special moments to bring it to the fore. To make us realise we can find awe in the simplest of moments. In a flower opening up with the sun, in watching the sea batter cliffs, or in the gentle snores of your baby, while your hand caresses the one you’re giving your very life to help form.
I realised then, as my vision blurred and my eyes stung in the pale darkness of the room - I want more of this.
I want more moments that make me feel so alive it scares me.
I want to be swept away by the realisation that to be here, to experience this is a miracle, every single day.
I want to feel the fear and the wonder, the real and the promise as often as I possibly can.
Because it’s so easy to get stuck in the mire that bogs us down, the lists, the schedules, the appointments, the constant horrible news - there’s no end in sight. When these moments come, these rare but special moments of clarity, we need to be able to grasp them fully and bask in that awe. Or we risk living a life that’s a half-life. We risk losing what it means to be human; strong yet vulnerable. Forever suspended between fear and wonder.
For now sleep, little one. Let my hand rest on your little chest and the fluttering heart that was once my heart too. But I hope you’ll know someday how instrumental you’ve been in helping me realise that awe is not meant to be tucked away. It’s meant to be pulled out, turned inside out, worn, adroned and carried where we can see it every day.
And to you, who push against my hand in your first ever high-five of many, may you be borne on this feeling of awe, may it carry you through your first confusing days this side of the world.
Because I promise, beneath the stark, often cruel exterior, lies a world filled with small moments of wonder.