Right about this time of year, I start planting seeds indoors. Winter in Alberta is long, and with no signs of growing things outside, I feel the need to nurture some inside. I drop tiny seeds, zinnias and cosmos—maybe some sweet peas—into miniature pots, cover them in plastic and return every day to check for any hints of green poking through the soil. My kitchen becomes a nursery for tiny seedlings waiting for the day they can be planted outdoors.
When winter finally loosens its grip on the landscape and spring comes, I love to be out in the garden. The perennials which have been dormant all winter come back to life with the arrival of warm weather and longer days. I will plant my fledgling zinnias and cosmos, along with some stock and snapdragons from the garden center to fill the space between the garden regulars. I find great satisfaction in seeing the things I have tended flourish in the soil of my garden. I step outside most mornings telling my husband that I will be out “surveying my kingdom”—this realm where I have some control.
In this kingdom of mine, I decide when to dig up the soil, when an overhaul is needed. I don’t have to worry that the ground will shift on its own and leave me stumbling. I get to move the plants when and where I want. There are no plants with wings.
Today Lake Ontario is a deep slate grey—cold and unyielding. I catch glimpses of it through the forest of high-rises from the Uber’s window. I am on the way to the airport, on my way home. The clouds have fallen from the sky to meet the lake. I wonder if they will soon plunge into the icy waters.
I am in the backseat of a grey Mitsubishi driven by Yigit. The radio is tuned to a station whose language I do not recognize. I relax and settle in for a quiet ride knowing there is no expectation for me to be social.
Nature Mirrors my Interiority
I feel a kinship with the clouds. I carry a weight of my own. Something feels right when nature mirrors my interiority. I am heartened when storm clouds match my anger, or when the sun shines brilliantly on graduation day. It seems wrong when nature doesn’t line up with how I feel. When the sun blazes in an impossibly blue sky the day you walk out of the hospital after the miscarriage, or on the heels of a hard phone call, I feel betrayed by nature. How could the natural world not know that yours has been shaken? Why aren’t there heavy clouds and drizzle to match our mood?
And why don’t the birds burst into song, and buds open on the day you fall in love?
Even seasons can mirror or feel at odds with where the heart is. As I write this it is the beginning of February and winter feels right for me. The barrenness, the waiting, the chill, and the longing for spring accompanied by the fear it will not come.
That day, in the Uber, I felt the solidarity of the landscape in my grief.
I was speeding away from my daughter in Unit 311 in an apartment building on Bathurst Street where part of my heart remained. I realize there is no way to stop the rending. In love, when presence is not possible, the heart cannot help but tear. Grief is the shadow side of love. Maggie O’Farrell writes about mothers in Hamnet and Judith,
“She, like all mothers, constantly casts out her thoughts, like fishing lines, towards her children, reminding herself of where they are, what they are doing, how they fare.”
No matter how old they get or how far away, we mothers long to know how our kids are. Are they eating enough? Are they lonely? I wonder if I focussed too much on getting good grades and not enough on caring for others. Do they know to separate the whites from the brights? Was I silent when I should have spoken up about their sleep/eating/spending habits? Do they have someone they can turn to when they get that hard phone call? I remember when my children still lived at home and we shared experiences daily. Part of me wants that day-by-day interaction while the other part of me celebrates how independent and adult they have become.
My two daughters are grown now. One, thousands of miles away, the other a few hundred and I am constantly casting out lines. The acute ache of separation happens multiple times a year and never gets easier. With each Uber ride that takes me away, I long for more time even as my heart calls me home. I am stretched between my two loves like an elastic. Poet Andrea Gibson recently wrote on Instagram “In the end, I want my heart to be covered in stretch marks.” I can’t say I want this but it has happened. If you could see my heart, it would be covered with those tell-tale sunken lines— some still tender and red, while others have turned silvery with time. I have come and gone enough times to know that during the time between visits the ache becomes chronic— less intense but always present. Maybe longing is a feature of motherhood that comes as surely as contractions, sleepless nights, and the joy of watching them learn and grow.
It hasn’t always been this hard. My girls’ independence and ability to make a life for themselves in another city has been a source of motherly pride. Their leaving was a welcome relief after the turbulent teen years. But the months and years apart have accumulated and with it the longing to be together. Now illness intensifies the longing.
Lester B. Pearson airport is notorious for long lineups and even longer treks to the gate. With each step through Terminal 3, I get further and further away from my girl and closer to my love at home. When I finally arrive at my gate, I see someone I recognize from home. She wants to talk. We quickly reveal to each other that we have both travelled with more weight in our hearts than in our suitcases. After a few minutes of conversation, I realize I am seated in a chair reserved for those with mobility challenges. I excuse myself and find another seat at the gate. With relief I put in my headphones and shut out the world.
When I finally board the airplane, get settled in seat 32D, a lump forms in my throat and my eyes begin to burn. Thankfully I am surrounded by empty seats and I feel again the relief of not having to be social. The other passengers and I sit through the safety demonstration which none of us listen to anymore and finally take off toward home. I look out my tiny window and notice how different the clouds are from this vantage point. High over Lake Ontario, they are light and airy. In my little corner of the plane, the tears come. No one at 35,000 feet needs me to remain strong.
The words of a song play in my mind —of course, in the hauntingly beautiful voice of Kate Bush.
“If I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I’d get him to swap our places.”
This will be my refrain as my loved one suffers. God does not bend to our desire for deals. Heaven knows we have all tried though. What other option is there when all is not right with our world?
I first heard the song, ‘Running up That Hill,” in the days of scouring yard sales for our first comfy chair and antique bookcase as husband and wife. Our dreams were plenty. Our youthful optimism could not imagine love shadowed by suffering.
To me, this song was an offer to trade places with someone who had something stolen from them—some injustice that caused them to suffer in ways I had not experienced. It spoke of a love that was willing to take on that pain, if only our places could be swapped.
It is a motherly instinct to give oneself up for her child. To carry a baby means we consent to give our nutrients to another. We still need to be reminded on airplanes to put our oxygen mask on first, because our tendency is the opposite. Sometimes we mothers take it too far, denying ourselves in ways that are unhealthy. Yet the impetus is love and a desire to spare our children the pain and heartaches of life —it is natural to want to trade places when hardship comes. I wonder if underneath that love is a hidden desire for control also.
When so much of what we have counted on has been stripped away— our health, stability in the world, our children with us— the tendency is to reach for sovereignty over something. I think of the garden prayer of Jesus, “not my will, but thine be done” and realize how difficult those words are for me to pray. I’m still trying to make the deal with God.
I sit at home and gaze out my window. I watch the birds as they come to feast at the feeder. New varieties arrive as they return from their winter in warmer climates. The chickadees have switched over to their mating call. Compared to yesterday, there are three extra minutes of sunlight today as spring slowly makes her way to this part of the world. The moon continues to wax and wane as it should. The perennials in the garden will soon send shouts upward. Everywhere there are signs that this winter season is coming to a close. There is solace here. There are some rhythms that can be depended upon.
The songs of Kate Bush no longer spin on the turntable, but one song from my Apple music library gets played on repeat. It goes like this…“The seasons still are turning if only we will wait” and “so watch the fields with patience, and love the fallen seeds, the God who hears us praying will give us all we need, it won't be what we planted or what we understood; it won't be what we wanted, but oh, it will be good.”[i]
May it be so.
Thank you for being here! This essay was a departure from what I usually write here, but I hope there was some nugget of beauty or truth that spoke to you, and if you are also a midlife mom, I hope you feel less alone on this journey.
If you find these reflections helpful or encouraging, I would so appreciate it if you would consider:
Clicking the little heart at the bottom; this helps other readers find me.
Leaving a comment; this too increases visibility and is a great encouragement to me. (it reminds me that these words are not just getting lost in the ether!)
Forward this letter to a friend or invite them to sign up to get their own.
[i] The Porter’s Gate and Paul Zach, “It Will Be Good”. Sanctuary Songs. The Porter’s Gate, 2023
This was such a beautiful description of what it means to walk around with pieces of your heart in other places. I loved that line from Hamnet too, I'm sure I underlined it with stars and exclamation points in the margins. To be a mother is a special sort of gift that keeps giving. Love this essay. XO
Sue, I'm simply sitting with all you've written. Absorbing all the truth and grace you've shared. I feel honored to be in your company this afternoon ...