Two months of being a parent -- the spiritual aspect

Yesterday, little vv turned 2 months old. She is lovely as ever, and growing by the minute. But here is not the place to gush about my baby. I really couldn't accurately express how I feel about her in a blog entry, so I might as well stay on task. What's on my mind, as far as this outlet is concerned, is something I'm only a little qualified to discuss. But I think it's important -- well, to me, it's of the utmost importance and personal validity. I'm staying home with this baby, and nursing her -- a very different experience than the one my husband is having, and a radically different experience than my previous life. I find a deeply spiritual aspect to this rhythm of life -- a rhythm in which my plans and expectations are fundamentally subservient to those of a greater life force -- in the form of a little baby. Her needs and rhythms, it goes without saying, are unrelated to conscious conditioning, priorities, axes to grind, ego, or any of the things, positive or negative but very "conscious," that drive us as adults. So for me the life, or the season of my life, in which I take care of her, is one of opening to that force.

I mention my husband because his point of view, it turns out, is pretty similar to a dichotomy that I thought existed, between the act of caring for a child (and the person who embraces that act) and the act of following one's own desires for a creative, fun life as an adult without that responsibility (and the person who embraces that). On the one hand, a person who's nurturing, selfless, and maybe, just maybe, a little bland; on the other, one who is dynamic, potent, and in a way, out of touch with something fundamentally earthy. My husband loves our daughter and treats her with kindness and tenderness; he is also profoundly responsible and wouldn't dream of flaking out on a life he was involved in creating. But he mourns what he sees as his loss of freedom and feels he's giving up something that's fundamental to his love of life: his self-directed ability to express himself creatively, and to take advantage of the wide variety of interesting experiences that life (especially in NYC) has to offer, and to share those with old and new friends. Of course, I find this disappointing, but it's also pretty common, and I believe that as time goes on he will find not only that caring for vv and seeing her grow is satisfying in itself, and allows him to express his values in society; but also that it does not actually keep him from having any fun :)
I point out to him that he's had 30-some years to pursue his interests unfettered and to have the admittedly more care-free, wide-ranging fun that comes with not being responsible for another being's every need. And that he will, barring some unforeseen circumstance, be in that position again. Because life does come in seasons.
But he still views it as a loss, and one that if not actually permanent, feels that way.

Back to my own view, I've come to view the parenting years as a season of: 1) the presence of an extremely cute little entity in close quarters; 2) the hardest work you've ever done; and 3) an opportunity for spiritual growth -- to cultivate non-self-centeredness, and to be annealed by a type of love you have never known before. (Note: "annealed" -- I have no idea if this is the right word -- but I mean being subjected to a force that changes every fiber of your being in a quasi-alchemistic way.) And getting into the rhythm of breastfeeding showed me that the opening to this force outside yourself had to be complete. I was surprised at the adjustment this took, and was not prepared for how fully I had to be attuned to my daughter and find a new rhythm of life. It really was/is like dancing with a radically different partner: if I keep trying to do the old dance steps, nothing but awkwardness and discomfort ensues; but if I truly give myself up to the rhythm, a beautiful dance takes shape, and I find grace and strength in entirely new ways.
I guess where the spiritual element of this comes in is in realizing that this "giving up to the dance" does NOT represent a loss to me. Some would say it represents the loss of "perfect freedom" -- but who wants that; to me "perfect freedom" can only mean total isolation from others. The "giving up" doesn't really represent a gain, either, because I think the concepts of personal loss or gain kind of miss the point here. It represents instead a more intense experience of life, MORE experience of life. There are other ways to do that, to be sure: the hangliding/bungee jumping/climbing Everest route; or devoting your life to prayer and service. But caring for your child is one of the ways. I know that domestic life, full of its mundane concerns, has often been contrasted to spiritual life. But to me, it *is* a spiritual life.

When I went traveling overseas recently, a friend gave me a copy of that book, "Eat, Pray, Love." This is not something I would have picked up myself, but I took it with me as a light, quick read on planes and trains, and because she's a good friend of mine. It was alternately entertaining and annoying, but the thing that jumped out at me was this: the author was going in search of emotional healing, and documenting her search in an obsessively self-aware, and self-centered way. The first time she feels some relief is when she is put in charge of greeting and taking care of new visitors at her ashram. That is, it's when she stops focussing on herself constantly, and gets out of her head to be a steward to others, that she begins to find the happiness she seeks: AND SHE DOESN'T EVEN REALIZE IT. At no point in the book does she acknowledge this fact. I found this really stunning.

I'm not saying that a spiritual life, or happiness, requires absolute selflessness. But it does require the ability to put the concerns of others ahead of your own; or, better put, to recognize them as one and the same.