Sunday, May 15, 2016

Small Miracles

There's something I find awe-inspiring about watching plants bloom in Spring. Especially the hardy perennials, whose soft, green buds must push through the hard, seemingly dead wood of the remaining winter's branches. Every year, every day I notice, it gets me all over again. The tiny miracle of it all as sounds me.


I stop to show my girls the tulips that bloom along the route of our morning walk, and we watch our own garden's daily changes. This takes but a few moments from our day. A moment to stop and notice the web a spider built between branches of our blueberry bush. A moment to see that our rhubarb plant now has four sprouting stems. Seconds to stop and see, and share together. These moments are what I try to remember, when I settle my accounts at day's end.



I add up my expenses and my acquisitions. I tally up my day's memories and moments with the intent of seeing what matters. Or, at least, what I think matters. I'm very skilled at keeping tabs on my missteps and faults, which turn into guilt, which doesn't make matters better, hardly ever. So I ask myself what moments in the day hold the most value to me, what makes me feel rich. The time we noticed the first ladybug of the season because it flew into Hailey's hair. The time Summer brought me a book and I put down everything else to sit with her in my lap and read it, smelling her shampoo-scented hair right under my nose. 


 Those moments are small, and require little, and rarely interrupt anything important, but they are so qualitatively important. A day spent rushing, crossing off listed to-dos, overwhelmed or distracted may result in my getting a lot done, or helping other people, but they don't compare to the days I can happily drift off to sleep counting the moments that I connected with my girls, and with the beauty we have around us. Showing them the magnificent glory of the miracles all around us makes me feel so wealthy.


I get to spend my days with the little miracles that grew in me and I get to ask myself what I want to do that day. I get to plan and then adjust sail, bending to the temperaments and health of each little lady I get to mother. Sometimes, this is frustrating, because conditions change like a storm at sea and all of a sudden we find ourselves dealing with a toddler tantrum tempest at a most inconvenient moment. Sometimes I recognize that I am needed in a way that conflicts with what I want to do. This feeling is frustrating, but it is fleeting. Right around the corner is another real gem of a moment that will sustain my heart through the hard stuff.


I hope I will always notice. I hope being a mother will always enable me to ease up and take the long view while simultaneously seeing what tiny beautiful things lie before me. I hope my girls see these tiny things, too, and think about them when they are dreaming. I hope when things become really dark and difficult and challenging, (because of course they will), that a thin thread of hope is spun before them via a beautiful sunrise, or vibrant bloom, or some other small miracle they have learned to notice.



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