It rained on Earth Day, and all morning Summer wanted to go outside and splash in the puddles, as any two-year-old would. My first, second, and, if I’m being totally honest, third thoughts were, “Ohhhhhh noooooooooo. It’s raining, and we’ll be soaked and covered in mud. And then all the cleanup. And the laundry. And does that mean I have to go outside too?!” Ugh. My overwhelm had taken over.
But then she looked up at me with her big, dark-brown, pleading eyes, and at that moment something deep and forgotten inside of me broke through. I saw a little girl that just wanted to go outside and experience the joy of Mother Nature, and I didn’t even recognize myself.
When had I become the gatekeeper to curiosity and exploration? When had I become the one who favored organization and schedules over connection? When had I become the unfun one?
There’s something magical about a child’s ability to be completely present in the moment.
I didn’t realize how far I’d strayed from that until I became a mom for the first time in my 40s.
I’d never struggled to live spontaneously. In fact, I’d built my life on it. I was the one who had traded the safe, conventional route for the proverbial yellow brick road to New York City to sing, determined to forge my own path without being weighed down by societal pressure and expectations. I had been the creative dreamer who could get lost in her own ideas and fancies for hours, with no thoughts of anything but the present moment and the best of all possible futures.
So why was I having such a tough time seeing, appreciating, and allowing the same for my little love? Why was my new instinct to rush through play for the sake of “clean up” or to move on from silly for “lunchtime” or to skip an adventure because we weren’t wearing the right shoes?
I read an article in the Atlantic that resonated with me. Adrienne LaFrance writes, “The artist Sarah Walker once told me that becoming a mother is like discovering the existence of a strange new room in the house where you already live. I always liked Walker’s description because it’s more precise than the shorthand most people use for life with a newborn: Everything changes.”
So many fascinating and freaky things happen to a woman’s body and brain after she has a child, like milk-dripping boobs at the sound of her own (or anyone’s) baby crying, overwhelming emotions of love and protectiveness, and an awareness antenna that Never. Retracts. All these things are biologically and neurologically placed to keep our young alive, but I had no idea how drastically they’d rewired my brain, and how my new brain was designed to shut down my free-flow. There’s so much more to do as a parent. So much more at stake. So much more that matters.
But was I really going to be the reason my daughter wouldn’t have memories of playing in the rain today because my overwhelm got in the way?
My mind quickly spooled through the many favorite memories I have of enjoying simple gifts from our earth.
I thought to my childhood: wandering through our small side woods singing songs and playing make-believe; riding my bike with the wind in my face, daring to get as close to the Grover’s lilac bush as possible to inhale a deep whiff as I whizzed by; and running across the lawn with fresh-cut grass between my toes. I thought to my teens: walking through a rainstorm in flip flops while holding hands with my best friends; running and twirling in fields; and swimming and splashing in cold blue oceans. I thought to my twenties in the city and how I loved to watch the sunlight dip in and out between skyscrapers while I walked crowded sidewalks, marveling at the way the sights and sounds of nature merged with those of the urban jungle to create fascinating backdrops for the characters. There were so many days and nights I’d just get lost in the wonder of it all. I knew I needed to let go of All. The. Things to create space for Summer to partake in such riches, as well.
True, she’s only two, and as with so many things with motherhood, I’m learning to give myself grace as I navigate the ever-changing landscape of raising a young life. Every wise person will offer a new mom the following gem of wisdom, though you’ll have no idea what it means until you’re in the thick of it: While some days feel like they’ll last forever, in hindsight, even near hindsight, these seasons are flying by.
I can try to squeeze a lifetime of experiences into her first few chapters, or I can take a deep breath, release the guilt, and know that I don’t have to squeeze a lifetime of experiences into her first few chapters. I just need to love her, and guide her, and see her. But if she’s aware enough to ask for an experience, shouldn’t I consider it my maternal responsibility, and privilege, to find the balance and open the door for her?
So out we went in our jammies and rain boots. (Okay, okay—practical mama brain did come into play when I strategized that we might as well just keep our jammies on to get wet and dirty.) And for the first time I could remember, I didn’t say a word, as we descended the stairs, about how our adventure needed to play out—I spouted no rules, no instructions, no agenda, and I carried no camera. I just silently let Summer lead the way and happily followed her little heart and big curiosity. It was the most wonderful surrender. I felt like a kid again—and I loved watching Summer be one.
Then, to my heart’s further delight, V, who had been getting ready for a mid-shift at work, called to me from the back door and waved me over. “La, I know it pains you not to have this,” he winked and handed me my camera.
I had passed the “be present” test! I’d soaked up the blissful moments, and now I could capture some of them forever.
After every last puddle, rock, and fleck of mud and moss had been explored (even barefoot, which I, surprisingly, remained calm and actually enchanted through considering I have a little reputation for my intolerance of dirty feet), he met us at the door with an old towel and carried a giggling Summer straight into a warm bath.
It turns out that Summer’s soul knew something mine had forgotten: our Earth is a giving mother.
Even when we’re not so nice to her, she provides everything we need to live, from air and water to food, medicine, and shelter. And, in perfect, nurturing form, she invites us in, offering peace and well-being to calm, center, and recharge our frayed minds and tired bodies, as only a direct source of our spirituality can do. She welcomes the child to explore, and the child within the weary human mama to discover doors to rooms she’d forgotten were there. She holds us in her stillness and lets us dream, dance, scream, or cry until we feel familiar again, until we can feel her love freely flowing back through ourselves. In return, we promise to protect, respect, and uphold the creation that cares for us.
Thank you, Mother Earth, for your delights.
“Respect Mother Nature,
treat her children well
and honour the bounty
she has given us, for the
greatness we think to be
our reward in the hereafter,
is the joy we are blessed with
each and every day here on earth.”
—Ramblings of the Claury
Don’t grow up too fast, sweet Summer; forever doesn’t seem long enough.
I’m listening to: