A Primal Rhythm of Motherhood

Things were going fine. I had done this before. I was patient and attentive. We all knew the routine. Then something changed. Most Moms have experienced that moment. It seems like there is calm before the storm, but in reality the energy is gathering. Something on the inside isn’t right—tension and discomfort are building. The crying begins…and doesn’t stop. Diapers are changed; food is offered. Rocking and walking and bouncing all in one continuous, gentle movement is the motion of motherhood. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. This particular time, it didn’t. As her distress continued, my inability to comfort her distressed me. Soon we were both crying. Walking, rocking, bouncing, crying—a primal rhythm of attachment and motherhood.

In our quest for Spring this week, we achieved a landmark—the green blush of new leaves on the stands of Aspen trees down by the River. The Oaks, Maples, and Ashes will soon obscure the Aspens, but for now, they allow us to see through them, past them, to the tender green beginners.

And then the rain came—the nourishment of new growth. It was exactly what we needed, what was expected.

Onion-like Chives shot up out of the ground while Creeping Thyme slowly greened behind them.

The stems on the Ostrich Ferns s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in spurts of growth, even as the fiddleheads continued to hold their curls.

That afternoon, the rain changed to snow. The wind picked up. What seemed like a calm Spring rain became an energetic throwback to Winter.

The wind seemed to be coming from all directions—the snow fell in swirls, the Hemlocks twirled. Spring hope was blurred out by the tension and cries of ‘Winter!’

Eventually the wind and snow subsided, but the snow stayed on the ground through the chilly night.

By noon, the snow was gone, the calm of hope and Spring had returned. Did we really have snow just hours before?! Were we distressed just yesterday?

I don’t remember how long my baby and I walked, rocked, bounced, and cried. Time isn’t a thing during such holy moments. As my tears fell and melded with hers, I didn’t know it as a holy moment—that realization only came with the third and last baby. I do know, however, that we did it together. We weathered the storm of distress together. We got through to the calm of rest and hope together. That’s what this love-like-no-other-love means to me. That’s what the holy moments of motherhood are to me.