When I was young, my mom would have us save the green plastic containers that strawberries came in. At the end of April, she would help my sister and I entwine colorful ribbon in between the plastic weave to make the container prettier. On April 30, we would line the now-decorated container with wax paper, add some soil and pansies. On May 1, my sister and I would run around the neighborhood with our flower baskets, hanging them carefully on a doorknob when available or placing as near the door as possible. We would then ring the doorbell and run away. We would try to find somewhere to hide, close enough that we could see the recipient’s face when they found the basket of flowers, but not anywhere they could see us. My mom had not come up with this tradition, though it had long since fallen out of practice.
I was eight years old and my sister, six, when we started this. My young mom was almost two years younger than I was when Z was born when she helped us guide that ribbon through the weave of the plastic; carefully trace and then cut the wax paper to fit inside the plastic containers; take shovelfuls of dirt and pat it down; and then carefully pinch the pansy plant out of the black, flimsy plastic containers and plant them in the wet, damp soil. My mom was often creating projects for us—felt boards with blue or tan felt pulled over a thick cardboard rectangle and held in place by thick staples on the back of the cardboard. She would cut out human shapes, animals, plants, trees, houses or stables to create Bible stories on the felt board. We spent hours playing the exquisite corpse drawing game, (though we had no idea that’s what it was called), in which each person drew a head with two lines coming down for the neck. You then folded your paper so only the lines were showing and passed the paper to the next person, who drew the torso, leaving lines for the legs. This continued until the whole body had been drawn. You then opened up the paper to reveal a generally hilarious person who may have some animal parts or outlandish shoes or crazy pants or wild hair. My mom made homemade play dough that was grainy and contained cream of tartar (why do I remember this detail?). She would add food coloring so we had a variety of colors from which to choose. We would mold the colored dough into small people or animals and then craft chairs and tables and food for these tiny people to eat. Sometimes, she would cook it so it would harden and other times, we just left it out to air dry. She read to us most nights from chapter books like the Wizard of Oz, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, The Secret Garden, The Little Princess, and of course, the Little House on the Prairie books. She would sing us to sleep with lullabies such as You Are My Sunshine, Mockingbird, You Can Close Your Eyes, and All the Pretty Little Horses. We would ask for Peter, Paul, and Mary songs: Lemon Tree, 500 Miles, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, and Blowin’ in the Wind. We had religious songs we loved as well. Songs by Lori and John Odhner can bring me right back to the innocence and simplicity of childhood, an absolute trust that my parents were attending to all I needed.
My young life was full of music, art, creativity, and so much love.
My stunning, young mom with me, pacifier and all.
This year, along with my favorite spring bulbs, lilacs, phlox, columbine, early iris, and bleeding hearts, May will bring my birthday. It always does, but this year, it’s kind of a milestone one. I can’t quite relate to the number that equates to the number of times my birthday has come and gone on the calendar since I was born. This year has certainly been a transitional one—one in which my firstborn left home for college; my second child, who is just a week or so away from getting his driver’s license, required me to look closely at what was driving my parenting decisions and choose what was best for him even when it was hard for me; and I have found myself realizing that all the time and energy and emotion I have put into raising these boys will need to find new outlets. So I have started taking hold of my life and where and how I expend my energy in a different way.
Several years ago, when I started working on the elementary school musical, I shared with the director that I wanted to ensure that we were paying more attention to the music. I felt as if there had been a few gaps in the show the previous year. He told me that his philosophy was that we should focus on the process, helping kids to learn to love theater. He was centered on the effort and courage of each and every kid that decided to show up and perform. The joy was in the process and supporting kids in their journey to have confidence in their stage presence and ability to sing and dance and become someone else in another time, another place. I was very skeptical about this approach. I was someone who would outline the flaws in performances, including the community children’s theater my older son had done. I thought it showed my knowledge of theater, my experience, my expertise.
But he was so right. And I was so very wrong. By opening night, every kid on that stage was my kid. Watching an actor who had had trouble staying focused on his part, who maybe had some doubt about whether a cool kid like himself could really take theater seriously, take the stage and become his role, it brought tears to my eyes. Seeing a young actor who was shy and nervous and whose voice shook every time she sang perform her solo in the most sweet, heartfelt, quietly confident way filled my heart with such emotion. Seeing my own child with a chimney sweep in hand belt out the familiar refrain “Chim chiminy, chim chiminy, chim chim cheree” made me clap loudly and enthusiastically. I was applauding their journey to this moment, I was enthralled with their growth, I was hearing the beauty of their work together, as a community. And I bristled when I heard any criticism. How could you not see the production as anything but a celebration of all that children are capable of? How could you not be delighted by their bright faces, their divine voices, their joy?
When I think back on my childhood, I see my mom fostering a similar appreciation for the journey, the delight in the small things. The laughter over a silly character created by two young sisters and their mama, learning to create harmony and beauty with our little voices, taking dough and turning it into people and their world, moving felt characters across a board to tell a story. Marking the beginning of spring with a basket of flowers left anonymously.
I have cried a lot in my life, felt a lot of heartache and pain and disappointment. Stayed in jobs and relationships and situations that were hurtful and hard when they didn’t need to be. I have questioned myself so much I forgot the plot. I have blamed myself for not being enough, being too much, not letting things roll off my back, not noticing too much was being asked of me, not saying more, sharing too much….you get the picture.
As my life turns over into this second half (or perhaps it’s more like last third? I don’t really want to live for another several decades do I?), I want to focus more on the showing up, the creativity, the process of cultivating and noticing joy. To feel more secure in creating the life that I want and letting go of the things that unnecessarily cause spin and turmoil and dis-ease. Life has enough pain and heartache. It will continue to come. I will continue to face it. But when I can choose, I want to be the person who puts flowers on a doorknob, who delights in the face of a child or young adult or adult who has taken a risk and done splendidly, who listens deeply and well, who loves fully and is loved, who adores my young adults as much as I adored those tiny babies who first made me a mom.
Weave me the sunshine out of the falling rain.
Weave me the hope of the new tomorrow and fill my cup again.
~Peter Yarrow
All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.
Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!
Beautifully insightul, as always.
I love this. And the picture of your mom looks just like you!