Practice Makes Practice.

It's practice.

All of this, not just some.

I go to yoga on Sunday mornings and hear the word practice again and again: When we come to our practice.  When we practice.  In this practice.

It's a word that shouldn't be left there until next week.

Because every single aspect of every single thing is just practice; there's not a whole lot we're ever going to master so completely that there isn't room for questioning or improvement.

And so we practice patience.  And cooking.  And driving.  And dancing and writing and sewing and talking.

We practice praying so we can start to believe we're not just talking to our bedroom ceilings.

We practice non-judgment so we can lose the ego.

We try to remember that our kids don't deserve the worst of us, just because they came from us.

And we try to remember that even though our husbands and wives agreed to stay with us forever, that forever doesn't need to be full of angst and unspoken grievances.

So we speak.  

We open our ears to difficult conversations and we listen.

We sit with the ick until it shifts.

We surrender.

We pray.

And then, after all of this hard work and practice, we get to sit back and realize that we're smiling.

And then we start again.

And it's a miracle.