The Bohemian dug the hole. Mary chose the tree (a hearty, up-and-coming mango). We all gather to move the soil and make our wishes.
Three boys (eight, seven and four and a half) jostle about to take turns with shovels, rakes and the hose. Bare feet dodge horse manure, our mango tree’s best friend.
Mary sprinkles Spirulina powder at the root base and the green dust catches the breeze to swirl in ritualistic smoke against the sunset sky.
This tree has been given everything it needs to thrive in the corner of the field. Once it is all tucked in and watered, the boys wander away from the sapling to some new point of interest near the garden. But the adults stay to gaze upon this green-leafed embodiment of potential. We offer hopes of big juicy fruit. Imagine thick branches holding children of the future.
I see the shade it will one day cast stretching out to shield a vast section of the pasture. Its roots holding the story of this planting. It is our family tree.
early
Monday
morning
I look back
to last days
blurred
in a juxtaposed
potpourri
weekend weeding
garden slugs
tossed to the turtle
poetry submission
“up to five”
Belgian abbey ale “it tastes like flowers!”
vehicle safety inspection
a dolphin pod
mid-day nap
and grocery shop
another wedding dress arrives
too big
and my favorite weekend moment:
island road
me
at the wheel
the Bohemian
hand on my knee
Jeb
in the back seat
we three
driving
quiet
no words
I see myself trying to uphold this fallacy in every reminder that trails in the dust behind my eight year old’s trotting flip-flops.
“Be careful with those sticks…”
“Be mindful of cars…”
“Did you put sunscreen on your face?”
I am everything in these moments. The responsible parent. The nagging mother. The hapless human in illusion that she can outwit fate through continual precautionary tips.
I get the feedback.
From my son, Jeb: “You’re being too much of a mom.”
From a family friend (his children grown): “You can’t live in fear. He’s having fun.”
From another mother (her children small): “You’re being a good mom. We all need to be more aware.”
I’d like to think I’m far from phobic. In fact, I think I’m a pretty laid back mom. My son kayaks the open ocean, climbs trees, surfs waves. He jumps and dangles, burrows and karate chops. He has even been away from me for days at a time. I swear, I am no smother. But I observe my grasping.
Not grasping for my son. Just grasping for control of all things ‘bad.’ I’ve made it clear, mishaps are not welcome here.
Ever since the recent news of a friend who lost her child in an accident – a swift and sudden turn of events, forever changing that family’s course – I’m finding my alert-meter turned to high.
Fear is watchful, ever-vigilant. But where am I?
Somewhere beneath the tensing muscles in my stomach and the strain of warning words moving from my throat, is a woman who wants no mistakes. A woman who would like to skirt suffering. A woman who loves deeply.
And present, too, distant in the shadows of circumspection, there is another Watcher, observing this whole scene.
This Watcher, she smiles a compassionate smile. To that eight year old child that wants to experience and be free, unwitting in beautiful innocence to all the darkness of the world. She smiles to the mother who wants nothing more than to see her child grow strong and full, safe and sound. This mother, who in sweet foolishness believes, that she can override destiny.
I believe this Watcher is my truest self (shed of all the fear and doubt) and this Watcher knows. Or knows that she does not know. Does not know the way of life and death. Does not know the place where choice and fate divide and collide. Does not even know what is truly ‘best’. But has a hunch it has something to do with surrender.
A friend told me when I gave birth to my son, “As soon as they’re born, give them back to God. They are not yours.”
At the time, I thought I understood what that meant and it seemed sage advice. Now I get to live it.
Yes, Jeb’s still going to wear his helmet. No, he’s not quite yet ready for the pocket knife. Yes, someone has to be watching when he swims in the ocean. And no, despite his pleas, we are not changing his iTouch settings to age 12.
On my watch, I want to know I’ve done my best to stay aware. Done what I could to keep Jeb safe. But who am I to think that I really have the power to keep all ‘bad’ at bay?
I’ll wholeheartedly welcome in the good. Try to remember that things don’t always go as planned. There are greater forces at work.
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