Amy in the Garden

I’ve been doing a lot of waiting lately. I have waited for seedlings to emerge, which happened quickly, and I have waited for fruit to ripen, which happens slowly and is still on-going. I have waited for the end of the work day, certain I will come home filled with energy to work for hours, harvesting, pickling, canning — and I go to bed unaccomplished of all of those tasks. I manage to make dinner and clean-up, sit for a few minutes, go to the computer to write, research, or think, and suddenly it is past 10 p.m. and I know that work is waiting for me, again, in only a few hours.

I have waited for the return of children. All three teenagers left this summer, for adventure in the beautiful American wilderness. All three worked. I waited for letters that never arrived in the mailbox. Instead, there were a few scattered emails, and a phone call or two. I will wait forever, it seems, for the fine art of letter writing to return.

Perhaps waiting is the wrong word? Perhaps anticipation is a better description of what I have experienced over the last several months. I can’t ever remember feeling, as a parent, like I was standing on a precipice for so long.

When the children were young, the adage of “Your child is going through a stage? Wait three weeks. Your child will be completely different,” proved true over and over again. Whether we were in a golden stage together (daily peaceful reading), or weathering some growth storm (eating, going to bed, sharing, who controls whom), the weather shifted completely every three weeks.

Now my children are young adults. They are launching. Every milestone in the year feels filled with import. They are going to college. They are returning for their first re-entry vacation into the house. They are embarking on their first jobs. And I wait with anticipation to be included, to be asked for advice, or to provide material support which often guarantees me contact. And the wait lasts a lot longer than three weeks.

I am realizing very slowly that the waters will never be as still as they were when I cared for my first child. The quiet of nursing, or gazing into the crib while she slept, or reading slowly through the stack of books presented to me during the day. It was low tide all the time.

I do not want to tread water (to continue the metaphor), while the kids dive deep.

I wait for myself to catch up to their exciting worlds that change daily, and I anticipate that someday I will feel like I figured everything out pretty well.

WORDS FROM OTHERS

“There is always a moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.”

–Graham Green