The crocuses bloomed in our front flower bed, and Mark reports seeing red-winged blackbirds in the fields. These are the surest signs of spring I know of and, gah-lee, are they a gift. The purples, greens, and yellows — every shade of the oncoming season — is electric. Delicate and mighty; not unlike how I want to be. Crocuses are particularly enchanting, and if it weren’t such an ugly word, I might name our next child Crocus. (Cute nicknames, though, am I right? . . . little Croc-y, baby Cus Cus.) In Ohio we’ll soon be getting fragrance drunk on lilac, encouraging the peony ants, and cutting the Easter lilies. Mark and I have Big Plans including but not limited to two apple trees and a lilac bush. But first, the rain.
“If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose,
spring would lose its loveliness.”
— St. Thérèse of Lisieux
I stepped away from social media again, and if this last year of being back on Instagram after 2+ years away has shown me something, it is that I am not well suited to it. Our feed looks nice. I try to engage rather than scroll. I enjoy the visually pleasing content of others, and certainly the users we follow have helped to educate me. Yet, over and over and over, I am left with a hunger that Instagram will never sate. To be sure, it never claimed to, but there are those who seek to assign meaning to most things in life (hi!) for whom social media cannot live up to expectation. A connection chimera. Being removed from such a fast-paced, condensed world is like breathing new air. That, and the crocuses. In the brain and time space that has opened up since, I have become more familiar to myself. Like, hey girl, there you are. Certainly there remains a bit of agitation — part and parcel with any practice in detachment. When I cast aside my fear of stepping away (I will never be known! Our farm that we don’t have will never prosper! I will be forgotten!), I found that fear is nothing more than an invasive weed, stealing the sunlight from the tender, sprouting seeds below. But seeds are tenacious, and need only a bit of sunlight to begin to sprout. Sunlight, and the rain.
Oh, and another thing . . .
During the autumn of last year, Mark and I welcomed a new life into my womb. I hardly know why today, the first day of Spring, is when I feel ready to share the news. I have worn the knowledge of this baby quietly and close to my heart, like a warm base layer. My body was quick to make the adjustment, knowing just what to do (the way bodies do), while my heart and mind adapted much slower. No one asked me to hurry. I made no public internet announcements. I walked the streets of town pondering what it meant to be a mother to a second person. I rejoiced in giving my daughter a sibling. I grieved the loss of my life as I had known it. By day I would admire my sister’s dance of mothering five children. By night I would posit questions into my husband’s ear about how we would possibly survive. Every time I named a fear and gave it over to God, surrendering my false sense of control, it was quelled. I am continually amazed at how I can go from panic to peace in a matter of seconds — seconds! — when I let go of the vice grip I try to maintain on my circumstance. Mine was (is) a slow unfolding into mothering a second child. And sharing the news with you, dear readers, is a joy. Will you walk this journey with me once more? Will you share with me your experience with a second child, or your desire to have a first, or why you love being an uncle or aunt? Finally, has spring touched your corner of the globe?