Joy comes with the morning

And also with the dawn chorus

When I first stirred early this morning, roused out of sleep by the dawn chorus of wrens, robins, wood thrush, and morning doves, I noted not only the avian song, but an absence. It was too early to determine if the sun would shine rosy gold over the horizon as she filled the day with warmth, too soon to know if clouds would mute the brilliant blue of the spring sky. But what struck me most was the absence of rain plink plink plinking on the aluminum of the gutters, tap tap tapping on the bricks in the back patio, the pitter pattering on the rocky soil. We have had a rainy stretch—three days of cold, constant rain with a quick 36-hour or so break, followed by another sudden drop into late winter/early spring temperatures and constant rain. We needed it—the gardens and critters and ponds and lakes were thirsty for moisture, given how little snowfall we had this past winter. But when it comes all at once, it is rough.

It was too early to get up on a Sunday, sleep too precious to abandon at this hour, but falling back asleep, knowing that we had a reprieve from the rain felt that much more luxurious. I closed my eyes, hopeful that the sun, too, would make return and the hike we had planned for Friday, then postponed to Saturday, could finally happen today.

Today, of course, is Mother’s Day, which began in 1858, when Ann Jarvis organized Mother’s Work Days to bring greater awareness to public health issues such as sanitation and clean water. Twenty or so years later, in 1870, Julia Ward Howe called for mothers across the world to unite for peace. After the death of her mother, Ann Jarvis, Anna Jarvis organized a mother’s day to honor all mothers. Even early on after its national acceptance in 1914, Anna became critical of the day as it became increasingly commercialized.

I was born three days before Mother’s Day, which means that every seven years, my birthday and Mother’s Day fall on the same day. Coincidental it may be, but it certainly feels apt that I would have come into the world so close to a day honoring mothers, a day set aside to acknowledge and appreciate the work of parenting, nurturing, raising up little ones to be the person they most want to be. The work of becoming.

Every year, I pause and consider what it has meant to be a mother over the past year. I recall the questioning, the quiet joy, the sparkling laughter, the glimpses of the child who once cuddled right up against me with love, the pride when they overcome a barrier or succeed when they weren’t sure they would, the gentle and sometimes abrupt pulling away as they get closer and closer to forging a path away from me, the tears, the slammed doors, the evasion, the frustration that I don’t always remember what they said and ask again, watching them create, perform, achieve, fall, stumble, feel. The insistence that this was not something they would enjoy and the way their eyes light up in interest, then enthusiasm, then unabashed excitement when it is, in fact, something they are glad to partake in. When I feel disappointed or worried, the private interrogation of myself—why do I feel this way? What is my goal? How do I get there? And always, prioritizing our connection, our ability to talk over punishment or control.

I Live for This Moment,

when my daughter stumbles
sleepy-eyed from her room
and no matter what I’m doing,
I stop and move to the corner
of the couch so she can settle
her whole weight on me.
Maybe we speak of dreams.
Maybe we converse with the cat.
Maybe we plan the day.
Maybe we say nothing at all.
All that matters is that
she is close and I nuzzle my face
into her hair and wrap an arm
around her chest and know
this is the beginning of everything,
the seed, the cosmic swirl,
the headline that’s never written.
To foster one moment of trust
and love is to belong
to a crucial revolution.
So vital, how we hold each other.
What happens everywhere
starts right here.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from The Unfolding (Wildhouse Poetry, 2024)

The world I brought my children into is not the world we are currently occupying. I have felt such tremendous heaviness the past six months about the erosion of so many foundational institutions and values. Things I never questioned, never thought wouldn’t be there for me, for my children. I already feel tired of outlining the ways we are failing each other, failing our children, failing the world. Attempts—and too many successes—to weaken free speech, to muzzle universities, lawyers, the press. To dismantle our public institutions, the first to go was US AID, which provided medicines, vaccines, food, and clean water to some of the world’s most vulnerable citizens. Gutting civil rights offices and diversity initiatives across federal agencies to hurl us back into a time when not all citizens could engage in life equally and fully. Dramatically cutting the size and programs of the Department of Education and installing as its head a woman who can’t even write a professional letter and who mistakes the acronym for artificial intelligence with a popular steak sauce. Leaving low-income children, those who live in rural areas, and students with disabilities even more vulnerable and ultimately, without vital supports to help them access an education. The weight of these and so many other disastrous decisions—termed Operation Whirlwind by the current administration—is heavy and burdensome and hard to withstand.

So when I sat a coffee shop on Saturday morning with a dear friend, though the rain was heavy and constant, and sometimes the topics of our conversation pulled toward the current state of the world, the little boy in his buttoned-up, navy pea coat accented by a Glen Plaid scarf and his wide, beaming smile was contagious. I couldn’t stop myself from exclaiming with delight at his adorable little face, his confident stride, his clear joy at being here on this weekend morning with his dad. Dressed smartly as if he was heading to the office or perhaps a New England boarding school 50 years in the past, this boy couldn’t have been more than three. Or the little one that came in with a bright yellow rain coat, cherry red ladybug boots, and anticipation of the hot chocolate she was waiting in line to order. The mama, carefully navigating the double doors with her wide pram and the tiny infant tucked inside. My friend quickly popped up to help her with the door, sneaking a peak inside the pram to see the round cheeks and a smile spreading across her little face as my friend cooed at her.

All these delightful little ones, completely unaware of a crumbling world around them, their adults keeping the worries tucked safely away from their curious little minds. My friend and I turned our own conversation to how much we pined for those days when we were our children’s world. We could provide them with distraction, learning, activities, excitement, comfort, stories, and so very much love. They told us everything—because forming the words and testing out if they said them correctly, strung them together in a way that made sense, used the word in the right context, that was all part of what they wanted to try out with us.

And even in the midst of a world on fire, even as I worry about how hard it will be for my children to make their own lives in this same world, I find myself feeling more settled, more peaceful, more content than perhaps I ever have been. The conversation with Z has we drove home from college, his second year successfully completed. He had so much to say, I had to keep interrupting him to get in a word. I could have cried with joy for this moment, this gift of my boy, the one who changed my name, who changed my life, now an adult with so much he wants to do, so much he wants to share. The simple pleasure of sitting in a dark movie theater on a weekday and shrieking at the jump scare, squeezing a hand I first held just over 33 years ago on a walk around the Washington Monument at night. The quiet contentment in having all four of my boys and their big sister together with me, eating sushi—a food I had only sampled once or twice before November and now love—to celebrate my next turn around the sun. Conversation with a friend with whom I have raised my children, a woman who has heard me crying and despairing over how best to protect and nurture these little people who chose me to shepherd them through childhood. A friend who delights as much as I do in seeing other little ones with their own parents. Spending two and a half hours on the phone catching up with my cousin, as if we were transported back to 1985 and knowing that we could have easily spent another two or three hours and still have not covered all we had to share with each other. Z spending more than an hour teaching me, M, and another dear friend how to play a new board game and then spending another two hours actually playing. Seeing the subtle interactions between my oldest and youngest boys, watching the way they communicate, the quietness of their connection. Sharing our struggles and escapes with two other dear friends as we shared a meal together. Laughing and loving each other so dearly. And then waking, this morning, with the birds in their dawn chorus gleefully proclaiming that the rain had stopped, the sun was bringing in the warmth.

I wake in joy, I wake in joy
Every day, in every way
I wake in joy

We know something about the stars now
Every leaf on earth already knows
Every beast that flies, or stays or goes
We're from a universe of branches

I wake in love, I wake in love
Every day, in every way
I wake in love

Take the time you need
Take your time
You'll know when

I wake in joy, I wake in joy
Every day, in every way
I wake in joy

Awaken me, awaken me
Every day, in every way
Awaken me

-Deborah Talen

When I was a child, growing up in a religious community, one of my favorite Bible quotes was weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh with the morning, Psalm 30:5.

These past few months have held a lot of weeping. If I look back over my life, I easily come to the sorrow, to the pain, the hurt, loss, and grief.

And yet, in the midst of all the weeping and despair, the bright brilliance of the sun, the bird song, the greening of the trees in spring, the way an infant mirrors your utter delight in their existence with her voice and quickly moving hands and feet—busy with excitement that love could be so complete and all-encompassing—is always there. Your toddler rushing into your arms at the end of the day, their glee in seeing you. Your teenager leaving you a paper bouquet of flowers they have carefully crafted, complete with paper dirt and a note wishing you Happy Mother’s Day. The tightness of your newly turned 20-year-old son’s embrace when you drop him back off at college. The way your almost an adult but still so very much a teen concedes that perhaps you are looking out for his best interest. The way your friend knows exactly what you mean with so few words (though I will always have too many words, tell too detailed of a story). The connection that picks right up whether you haven’t talked in a week or a year or even ten years because the bond is so much deeper than time. The way a life has been built and forged and solidified over fifty years. The connections that have been carefully braided and weaved together to form a chosen family that stretches across time and space. The love that has seen you through your young adulthood into the last third of your life.

The absence of rain after five days of its constant drumming.

The rainbow arching widely across the sky.

The reminder that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

There are forces more evil than I would have imagined trying to bend that arc back toward injustice.

But I know that love burns brighter, hotter, and deeper.

Joy comes with the morning.

And that joy is all around us, if we are only willing to look.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL WHO MOTHER.

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!