On Being A Root Giver

I’ve deeply wrestled lately with identity and purpose. 

I believe I’m prepared for the road. I’ve diligently studied the map. But then, BAM, there is an unexpected turn or I encounter brambles that pull and tear at my clothing. Here, in the unknown, I turn into a frazzled, frustrated mess questioning each inch of the cartography. 

“Why am I doing this?”

“Is it even worth it to continue?”

“Why is no one here to help me?”

“Where am I actually headed?”

I’ve long sought to teach the chickadees that there is a great difference between desire and purpose and that is normal and acceptable to question. Doing what we want to do is incredibly different than doing what we are called to do. For small humans, it is remarkably easy to redirect the want for the should. It might have taken some extra persuasion, but generally those beautiful, big, soulful eyes showed agreement and little hands slipped inside of mine and we fairly easily continued down a path. They grew, and heels dug in more firmly as want and purpose seemed a murkier combination. Then they both left the nest so early, staggered, but so very early, and I was left to wonder if I’d done enough to show them that they were enough, so much more than enough that purpose would outshine -or at least compete with- the wants of this big, wonderful, broken, glorious world. I made it my daily prayer that they’d each enter their next chapters as influencers for good. Old souls in young bodies that were light bearers and not flickering, sputtering flames. 

For more than two decades of motherhood I’ve worked diligently to follow the path. I am so grateful for where and how I was raised; I also hope not to pass it all along. As we humans age, we tend to wear those beautiful rose colored glasses that make everything glow in afternoon light. I’m an enneagram 1 who sees everything just as it is, not rosy or stark or in shadows…not how I want it or in the worst possible scenario…just as it is. Not bad, not good, but potentially ready to be tweaked and edited or expanded if necessary. 

Recently, I was introduced to beautiful image that we are the echoes of all of the voices which came before us. We are tasked to create new vocabulary and banish the harsh tones for the generations which follow. The sheet music I came from wasn’t straight melody, nor was it a totally cacophony. It was the blend that shaped me; some of which I keep and parts which should be left boxed, tabled, and shelved. The echos still make their voices heard in both the good (the sounds of crunching through the first fall leaves or the gentle flip of a bedtime story and Brahms’ lullaby) and in the not-as-admirable (the warning bells of a danger switch or the sound of steam releasing when push past limits). I am learning, slowing and surely, how to grow and use the sounds and voices of my childhood to lead me down unfamiliar roads. I desperately desire the same for the humans sharing 50% of my DNA and all of my heart. 

Purpose. Identity.

My purpose. My identity.

For years the two have been inexorably intertwined with those sweet, tender humans I was given to nurture and grow. I worked the soil to create roots that would go deeper than the day is long. I tended, pulled overgrowth, removed pests, and watered. They grew; they bloomed, sprouted, and inched toward the sky. As it goes, the closer they came to the clouds the further they were from ground.

Mamas (& all who let go of those tender hearts that reside outside of their own physical bodies), I know you will understand. For decades, those curious beings were as much a part of me as any appendage. I, too, was a part of each of them. Much of my daily purpose lay in the in betweens of their rising up and lying down. 

and then….

They flew.

The wildly free, deeply open hearted, fiercely passionate, independent, brave, beautiful souls with deeply planted roots decided that it was time to soar. 

There is stillness.

It is glorious. It is terrifying.

So I start with a clean page and new lines, listening to the echoes and grateful both for garden and the sky. In all things, I am so very grateful for those glorious in between moments I was granted. 

Deeper than the seas that separates us. Higher than the skies over our heads. Wider than this great amazing terrible lovely perfectly imperfect world.

Someday, sweet chickadees, you’ll read this and realize just how much I love you.

Higher. Deeper. Wider. 

Always.