Mother's Milk

I notice the tall thin rabbit most mornings. She has hopped around our gardens and yard for several years.  This morning I see her and then notice a small bounding creature coming toward the house. I think it hops strangely for a chipmunk, and then it turns to show me its bunny profile. It is tiny, smaller than my fist. Mother watches from a disinterested distance and the little one plops into the ivy.

At dusk I see Mother again as we clear the dinner table. I say, "I wish you could see the tiny bunny" at the same time that I see it in the grass! We ooh and ahh until it hops away. Mother nibbles grass on the path to the patio. I brush my teeth and am drawn to the window to the garden where I scan for any movement. Suddenly a bunny hops out from the opposite side of the path. I am confused because I saw the bunny go left and this is on the right. It hops under Mother who waits patiently, still.  So quickly that I almost miss it, the first bunny darts out and under her mother.  I call to my husband to come, "There are TWO bunnies!"  We watch from the dining room only seeing the mother but knowing the two are there under her. It hits us at the same moment. They are nursing! And then we see the smaller of the two, flipped on her back, white belly and underside of leg to the sky. The leg pumps and wiggles as she gets gets her evening meal, just like Thumper in Bambi. The whole scene is so peaceful and unreal. I know this happens all the time but right this moment it is in my view, in the cathedral of our trees and my heart soars with joy and gratitude.

In the Moment

April 17, 2011

Usually I arrive at the mountain house in the late afternoon, open the blinds and step onto the second story porch to survey the changes in the valley below. Typically it is only a few minutes before I notice myself breathing easier and sporting a ready smile for just about anything. Life here is relaxing, refreshing and spacious in all ways. 

But yesterday I arrived at noon. I had passed through driving rain of a huge system that spawned dozens of tornadoes in North Carolina and across the South. The wind was 55 mph, so I could not stand outside or pull open the porch doors. I was unsettled. I could not find the ease and release I am used to experiencing.  The internet and cable were still off from the winter, and the deluge overnight had left the fireplace wet and dripping, so I could not have a welcoming fire. I took Cheyenne for a walk along the raging Toe River, ate dinner and went to bed with a movie at 7:15 pm. I still was off my bearings.

When I woke this morning, something had shifted. I happily built a fire to heat the firebox and me, fixed hot cereal and tea, walked in the cold morning air and remaining blustery wind. I opened my collage basket to see what I might create. Creating a collage for my daughter-in-love made me smile. Throughout the morning, I gathered broken branches and twigs from our property to feed the fire and eliminate future disposal of them. I listened to podcasts of sermons from our church and drank more tea.

Later, when I move to the porch and speak with a friend, I realize that part of the reason it took me so long to settle is that here I have space and time to integrate what has been going on in my life.  And I just wasn’t quite ready. For the last two months I have lived more fully in the moment than I usually do. I have lived with others who needed my support. It has been a gift to be able to be present in the everyday lives of those I love who are facing big challenges.  What I realize is that when I live in the moment, I am able to be peaceful, calm and thoughtful about how and what I do and say. I can do that for weeks on end and it feels good. But at some point, I have to face and begin to integrate the totality of the situation.  Our daughter-in-love’s medical challenge is overwhelming and full of uncertainty. She has been courageous and strong through surgery and recovery, but the journey is not over and what lies ahead is daunting.

Yesterday I needed to let myself connect all the medical pieces of her situation and the emotional and psychological aspects for her, my son and for me.  It was not my brain doing this, it was my heart.  And my heart needs space. I could be physically in the moment, that comforting space usually so accessible to me here at the mountain house, but the rest of me needed to let it all sink in and come together however it could.  Today, I rest once again in the greening mountain and the dogwood blossoms dancing in the breeze. Although her life is changed, possibly forever, and the treatment is what everyone wants to avoid, although there is fear and uncertainty, a grim reality and suffering ahead, I am here, in this moment with the stone earth under my feet and the spring wind renewing my faith.

April 19, 2011

I lean into the soft cushion of my chair and consider the forty miles of mountain views beneath me. For most of the day, Cheyenne and my legs share the ottoman on the edge of the terrace where hundreds of iris leaves portend the indigo and white flowers to come.  A fat bronze lizard rustles through last year’s leaves. A small white butterfly and a black swallowtail join a bumblebee in the wild asters above the old stump on the slope.

I alternate reading Traveling with Pomegranates and writing in my journal. While I read, I stroke Cheyenne’s black back and head. I bathed her in the laundry sink this morning so she could air dry in the sun on the terrace floor. But we needed to be together, so I hoisted her onto the ottoman grateful for her presence.

Sue Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor fan my hopeful spirit. I love the book’s structure and the chance to consider two stages of women’s lives through such wise and honest hearts. I think about mothers and daughters as the mother of two sons. My heart holds my son’s wife. With five medical opinions, the news is grim. My son says they realize that the life they had and the one they were living into is no longer a possibility. When they try to return to work, it is evident that nothing is the same. They fear for her life and cannot comprehend how this is happening.  She is my daughter. While I learn to be a grandmother at the beginning of the last third of my life, she is just completing the first third of hers and cannot see much hope or joy ahead. I struggle to know how to support her. Like any mother, I want to make it better. I cannot.  All I can do is be present with her as she moves through this challenge and struggle.  All I can do is hold hope and faith when she cannot.