~Seasons and Soggy Sneakers~
(dedicated with love to Mom, who has walked with me in every season and prayed me through every storm)
“It had been a dour and ugly
winter, prolonging its intemperance almost until this hour, and giving way to
spring with a sullen reluctance. The
days had been cold and leaden and the wet winds of March had smacked of the
charnel house. Now they were past. I stood on the doorstep and felt the
remembered sun, heard the gibbering of the freshet, watched little deltas of yellow
mud form along the gutters, and smelled the sensual essence rising from the
warm soil” (Mowat, The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be).
Mark Twain quipped, “If you don’t like the weather in New
England now, just wait a few minutes.” For
a person whose sense of wellbeing is inextricably linked to predictability,
this can be a struggle. This April Mother
Nature has been especially malevolent. I
imagine that she watched me with a sneer as I cheerfully matched mittens and
packed away half a dozen pairs of snow pants.
This morning she shook up my neighborhood like a snow globe, burying my
hopes along with the tender grass and April crocuses. With stubborn determination, I shoved my
kids’ sandals to the back of their cubbies. If Mother Nature could play dirty, so could I. Another
month of sodden sneakers? Okay. The boots would stay in storage.
With the first beam of sun, the ice began to drip from the imprisoned
trees and every fibre of shrub and tree to quiver with aspiration, as though a
clod should suddenly find a soul. In the
watcher's heart, too, had come another Spring, for once in time and tune with
the outer world. The heart's seasons seldom coincide with the calendar. Who
among us has not been made desolate beyond all words upon some golden day when
the little creatures of the air and meadow were life incarnate, from sheer joy
of living? Who among us has not come home, singing, when the streets were
almost impassable with snow, or met a friend with a happy, smiling face, in the
midst of a pouring rain? The soul, too,
has its own hours of Winter and Spring. (Myrtle Reed McCullough, Old Rose and
Silver), "Chapter VIII: The Year's at the Spring," 1909
I’ve always appreciated the rhythm of seasons -- the orderly
progression of snow boots to mud boots to flip-flops to sneakers. After decades of living in New Hampshire,
I’ve been forced to accept the fact that seasons don’t always follow the
rules. Now I’m learning that the same
is true for the seasons of motherhood. Last
year I simultaneously experienced the vernal wonders of my June twins, the dog
days of summer monotony with my four middle children, and the autumnal
adjustments of teens who are making preparations to leave their nest. Enduring these clashes of spring, summer, and
autumn has nearly broken me. I have been
humbled by my inadequacies and frustrated by my failures. In the frenzy of supervising everything from
Finger Paints to Phonics to Physics, I think wistfully about the early, simpler
days of motherhood. I miss when my
toddlers were small enough to keep contained while I cleaned my house and
laminated my checklists. Back then meals
were served on time, laundry was folded, and the kids’ were bathed. In my spare time I wondered why some of my friends found it so
challenging to maintain rigor in their own schedules. Then the twins arrived, and I read a
startling insight concerning this rigor
in which I prided myself. “What I didn’t
realize a the time was that the word ‘rigor’ comes from the Latin rigor,
rigoris, which means ‘ numbness, stiffness, hardness, firmness, roughness,
rudeness.’ Rigor mortis literally means
the stiffness of death” (Mackenzie, Teaching
from Rest). Had this relentless
pursuit of excellence remained unchecked, my homemaking and mothering might have
squeezed the life out of my family. Slowly, painfully, my death grip of
control was loosened. Standards of
perfection were exchanged for a mediocre status quo. I borrowed my new mantra from Chesterton,
assuring myself that, “anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” I wonder what kind of a mother I’d be if I
didn’t live in a crowded house with too many kids who make messes and break my favorite
things. Who would I be without the
ravages of these harsh seasons, without the bitter disappointments and
frustrations and daily reminders of my desperate need of grace?
Another unexpected benefit of this challenging season was
discovering the value of my children’s contributions to this family. As I learned to delegate tasks, even my
little ones began to realize their previously-stifled potential. My six year
old felt empowered, knowing that her little brother wouldn’t be potty trained
without her assistance. When I spent an
entire summer nursing the twins, my daughter became proficient in the kitchen. My teenage son took over the elementary
science labs, dissecting owl pellets and making impressive models of the cell
out of Jello. As we weathered the storms
and redefined our roles, each member of our family grew in confidence and
capability.
My cluttered shoe rack serves as a humorous reminder of this
monumental task and the many shoes that are filled in this home. So many seasons of mothering are represented
in that mountain of dirty footwear.
Front and center are the enormous sneakers that belong to my oldest son
– the young man who is taller than my husband yet still kid enough to enjoy
Nerf battles and Ninja stars with an army of younger brothers. He is the one who rocks the babies to sleep
every night and invites me to all of the coolest reptile shows…
Propped against his sneakers are the stylish pumps that
belong to my oldest daughter. I vividly
remember when her soft baby feet took their first steps and when she learned to
tie her first pair of sneakers. What ever
happened to her favorite strawberry shortcake sandals – the ones with magic
lights that burned out from too much jumping?
This fall our vivacious girl will
leave for college, and I will desperately miss picking up her shoes.
Following closely in her sister’s footsteps are my little
girl’s hot pink converse. Our spunky
“Fairy Princess” provides us with perennial sunshine. She wholeheartedly enters into any activity,
whether it’s painting her toenails with her sister or collecting rare insects
with her brothers.
Meticulously arranged next to her bright shoes are my 9 year
old’s white sneakers. His are the only play
shoes which might survive an entire season and become his brother’s hand me
downs. Although he’s unusually fastidious
about his footwear, this boy can always lighten my mood with his crazy sense of
humor. Each day he surprises me with an
encouraging note or knock-knock joke written on his school planner.
Next my eyes follow a trail of caked mud from my 11 year
old’s cleats, shoved conveniently under the shoe rack. Attention to footwear has never been his strong
suit. He’ll never live down the times he
wore rubber boots to Easter service and his boots to his basketball game. And I’ll never forget the grumpy librarian
who informed me that this kid of mine was hopping through the building wearing
only ONE shoe. Yet I’d gladly trade a neat
mudroom (and my dignity) for the privilege of walking through the seasons with
this tenderhearted and tenacious son of mine.
Curiously absent from the mix are my 3 year old’s
shoes. I start to wonder if I’ve actually
seen his shoes since last weekend. Indifferent
to whether he has grabbed his older brother’s dress shoes or his sister’s flowered
boots (or one of each), he contents himself with wearing whatever he can grab
on his own. I feel a twinge of guilt over
how independent this little guy has become since the babies’ arrival. He’d probably be lost in the shuffle if he
didn’t insist on cuddling up with a pile of library books and “doing school”
with me every day. There is nothing more
devastating for him than hearing that the weekend has arrived.
Last but not least are my twins’ shoes – adorable and
identical just like their owners. These
little boys were my earliest walkers.
They are inseparable partners in crime and can be followed by the trail of
destruction they leave behind them. They
are the ones who make my daily run a necessity.
I grab my own sneakers from the pile and stealthily escape for a half
hour of peace. Fat snowflakes melt in my
lashes, and the winds whisper promises of hope and renewal. My senses are invigorated by the warm sun on
my face, the cacophony of bird song, and the glistening of fresh fallen snow on
shy buds. There is something wild and
mesmerizing about this collision of the seasons, and I soaked up every gorgeous
detail.
This is the height of spring—or one of the heights, to be followed by
others. Yet it would be improvident to find only spring in springtime or fall
in autumn. There is no better time than winter to enjoy a summer day, no better
time than spring to savor the fall. If you observe the progress of the seasons
carefully, you will find them all present the year around. They are interwoven
themes in this continuing symphonic utterance, each becoming dominant in its
turn without ever wholly vanquishing the rest. Listen carefully and you will
hear on the cellos, throughout this first movement, the theme of fall;
subordinate, awaiting its eventual turn to be announced on the brasses and
taken up by the violins, but there nevertheless. Occasionally and for a moment
it emerges clearly, as if by accident, like a bird that sings out of season.
~Louis J. Halle, Jr. (1910–1998), Spring in Washington, 1947
By the third mile, the tension
leaves my body, and my frenetic thoughts are quieted. I notice my favorite apple tree, dubbed our
“Mother’s Day Tree” since it provides a backdrop of blossoms for our annual
family picture. So many branches were
lost in the last few storms. “Every
blade in the field, every leaf in the forest, lays down its life in its season,
as beautifully as it was taken up. It is the pastime of a full quarter of the
year. Dead trees, sere leaves, dried grass and herbs—are not these a good part
of our life?” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
I empathize with this tree. After a season of so much pruning, I’m
tempted to hide my sparse, blighted fruits.
Perhaps, someday, I will be transplanted to a warm place where the soil
is rich and the storms are less fierce, or maybe I’ll flourish right where I
am. Regardless, I will keep trusting
that the Gardener who ordains seasons of storms and drought has promised me a
future harvest. Many seasons from now I
will be nestled in the reflective, nostalgic wintertime of motherhood,
relishing the memory of so many muddy footprints and giving thanks for the
fruit of my labor.
[She] is like is like a tree
planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf
does not wither. In all that [she] does, [she] prospers. (Psalm 1:3)
