Adventures in Parenting
They look like a bowl of dried bones,
cold and lifeless–
a tragic ode to time lost
and utterly incapable of change–
but look more closely!
Within their crinkled-shut hearts,
clenched in the knuckles of their bony hands,
are tiny gems
bursting with possibility!
When the sun’s warm gaze melts
the unfeeling snow
into lovely spring water,
blooms will unfurl
from these dusty bones.
After winter’s grimness,
we’ll see the world in colour again,
and the flowers will laugh
that we thought them dead.
The trees are so stable,
their moods have such endurance.
They hold on for months
to the bare bitterness of winter,
the silence,
the absence of even a rustling leaf.
Then the trees embrace the sweet joyfulness of spring
in a long coquettish smile,
a blossom-blush lasting months.
Afterwards, the trees sail into the smooth serenity of summer,
wearing their regal wreaths with proud satisfaction.
Even the flaming, flickering colours of fall flash across their faces for months,
the trees, with their moods more stable than mine,
for I am but a tiny body of water
wrapped in skin.
My thinly guarded surface subject to tremors of wind,
the harassment of a sudden hailstorm
or the steady pounding of rain.
I’ve been know to get icicles in my eyelashes
tears of pain frozen before fully released.
Some things are better to let go of quickly.
In all this variable moodiness,
this passionate intensity and depth of feeling,
I am not alone,
for are we not all but small bodies of water
(97% H2O)
wrapped in skin,
the tides in our hearts tugged about by not just the moon,
but by the moods of all the other bodies of water
bumping around us
in this space
that is earth.
Spring is finally here.
The toddler and I are equally happy
digging in the garden
with dirt under our fingernails
and warm sunshine in our hair.
Out in the garden,
I can almost forget my messy house
–rooms cluttered with kids’ clothes and toys–
out here where dirt means not disorder,
but openness to growth
and getting messy is a necessary step
on the path to beauty.
The flower is wise.
She is neither insecure nor proud,
because she knows that she is loved
not because she is lovely,
but because she was created by Love.
Her loveliness stems
from the love of her Creator
whom she glorifies
simply by being herself.
Dry corn stalks stick up–
the skeleton of summer
revealing past warmth.
The bulbs we planted last year for Josephine’s birthday are bravely peeking up their tiny heads to kiss the spring sunshine!
There are certain things in spring
that make my heart sing
and certain things
that tear at strings
like a silver birch
or a solitary snowdrop
and the memories they bring
Cups of light shine bright
openfaced, overflowing–
sunshine popsicles!
The faith of a flower bulb,
allowing itself to be entombed
in the earth,
awaiting spring.
Believing that from nothing
could spring something,
from the darkness,
new life.
Give me that faith
in Your ability
to bring forth greatness
from a tiny seed,
buried in the darkness
of weakness and failure,
of unkept resolutions
and missed opportunities.
Help me begin again–
a new spring–
and as the sunlight
pours down upon me,
give me the courage to grow!
