Impossible Things Before Breakfast
by Jen Lemen
“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
– Lewis Carroll (Author, Alice in Wonderland)
A friend sent me a card the other day, with this printed neatly on the front, the last line highlighted. I have trouble with possible things, let alone impossible things, so it made me laugh to see how often I am in need of a “queen of hearts” to set my own unruly one in order.
What is it, really, that makes it so hard to sink into ordinary things? To believe that living in the in between spaces will not render me invisible, without a voice, without a hope in this crazy world? Give me a project, something mindless, something to be conquered with sheer will and enthusiasm, please, but do not ask the impossible things of me. I will disappear into a sea of sadness.
Snuggle Me
The other day I went about my day distracted, trying to multitask on housewifery types of things, putting off Carter at least ten times without even thinking. Finally, he brought a book to my makeshift office on the bed, and smiled. “Would you like to read this book to me?” he asked, pure goodness billowing in invisible waves from his tiny frame. I looked back into the ocean of those blue eyes, and said, “Yes, of course.”
He climbs up on the bed. “I know,” he says, “I think you can snuggle me.” I pull him close. Holding the book, my arms make a lazy circle, his body tucked neatly inside. We read, or I read, rather. He listens politely. I have no idea what words I am saying. I can do this on automatic. I can do it without thinking, even after such a nice request, but I have the feeling that all is just fine. We finish and he sighs.
“Now do you feel better?” he asks, cheerful, sweet. I am with him now completely in this question. It is so familiar to me, this way Carter has, though so quickly I forget. “Yes, buddy. I do.”
He Never Forgot Me
After Carter was born, I was so distraught, the circumstances of his birth so painful to me, that I had a very hard time taking care of him. I could go through the motions, but my heart was so far away, floating on some faraway shore. I could forget about him completely, but he never forgot about me. Months later, working through those dark feelings, I had the stark realization that while I struggled to love Carter in that connected whole way, he had long ago taken me straight to his heart. I was under his skin, and he was content to wait longer than any child should wait for me to rescue my shipwrecked heart.
It was the most impossible thing ever, that someone so small, so precious, would leave his heart that long exposed in the elements, while I floundered, lost at sea. I could hardly believe it. My tears, at this new understanding, poured over my soul like tiny streams of sorrow and hope.
Now years later, Carter is still this way. The long looks of infancy are passed, direct invitations taking their place. He still smiles at me first. He sees himself a great find, and believes with his whole heart if I uncover such precious forgotten treasure, that my heart will race with joy. And he is right.
I wish to reverse this flow of love. I wish to be the one to offer first, the one to smile, the one to care. I worry about Carter and this long patience. I wish to believe the most impossible thing of all, that I can weather a storm of disappointment and not lose sight of shore. Or better yet, that I can row through dark glassy seas with my heart at the helm. He started out ahead of me, and now it seems I can’t catch up. I want to overtake him with surprise and joy.
Carter slides off the bed, calm and contented. I sit holding the book in my hands, remembering his breath rising and falling as he sat beside me. I am floating now, the kindness of the cord of love that connects us anchoring me to all that is good and real.
The Queen of Hearts stands beside, laughing at me and all this talk of not trying. All I can do is agree. “Is it so impossible,” she says, “to believe that you are not drowning at all, that this sea is an ocean of love, waiting to envelope you in all the ordinary things that will set your heart free?”
Jen Lemen is a writer, labor doula and artist. She writes about children and spirituality from her home in Silver Spring, Maryland.
