The bags are packed. Correction–the bags are more or less packed.
So this is how I found myself, bikini clad, poolside, crying mommy tears into an extra fancy, floral garnished umbrella drink on Mother’s Day.
This morning my son asked me how long it takes to read a whole book. Now, this is a difficult thing to measure unless your timing it, which is impossible what with all the interruptions of reading like having to go to work, feed your family, personal hygiene and HBO Documentaries that need watching.
The half-cursive lettering just flows off of the page, like a quickly moving story through time. This was indeed a basic and beautiful time for me; a period of vital self-discovery while I focused solely on my humble home and young child. But what was also revealed to me is how truly lonely and ill-prepared in life I felt at the time. Financial woes, weight insecurities and constantly feeling upset with my husband and annoyed with my friends and sister. Persistent struggles with insomnia. And always the longing for a second child.
It was here that they molded together, with no age or pecking order, just a group of kids, in comfortable space, creating memories. They laughed in sync, leaned on each other and for a moment, were like one entity.
You can pry a flower open only to have its petals fall apart. Or you can plant, water, sing to, love on and shine upon a bud and just wait for that glorious bloom. That is true strength, after all, the patience in one’s breath, the willingness to nurture and permit, the allowance of time.
Over our crafting we talked about life, holiday plans, beloved family and friends, desires and struggles. Our words and laughter drifted out and fell upon our working hands like the drizzling rain outside the tent. And when we would go home to hang the wreath, all the love and fun would be there, hanging up with against the fragrant branches and decorative bows.