No matter how much the spring wind loves the peach blossoms, they still fall. Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood, page 78.
A couple of my blogging pals, Amanda and Rosaleen have written recently about the inspiration they have received from this book. Their words rekindled my interest in Buddhism and more specifically in one of my favorite parenting books, Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood. I read this one three years ago when Beatrix was just an infant. Last night, after intending to revisit this book for weeks now, I finally did. Once again, I was not disappointed.
You see, there's been some soul searching happening in this house lately. Perhaps my reflectiveness stems from the changing seasons. No doubt, Beatrix's upcoming birthday certainly plays a part in the words to follow as well.
Though I've mentioned recently of our plans to try to adopt again, I've had my share of reservations. No matter how much I've tried to work past these reservations, there's still hesitancy in my heart. It's so complicated to put into words. But, in our hallway, we have a photo wall that contains many photos of our family. Sometimes, I walk by these photos, stare at them, and feel that our family is already so beautiful, so blessed, and so complete. How could we want for more?
When we met Beatrix in the nursery three years ago, she was twelve hours old and she was the only baby there that was not crying. She was awake, and tightly swaddled. Our social worker pointed her out to us saying, "There she is." I couldn't believe she was the one for us. We held her just moments after. She looked at us. We looked at her. That moment, behind the glass wall of the nursery, when our eyes looked at each other's for that first and brief second, I felt in my bones that she was a force the world had not seen yet. In so many ways, this girl is a package deal.
From that point on, we were family. The three of us.
The other day, I was digging in the attic putting away a few straggling Christmas decorations. Trying to find the right box, I opened one that contained her baby bottles, her diapers, and my Moby wrap. An itty bitty piece of my heart broke. That time of my being a mother to a babe is gone. It was short and sweet, beyond imaginable. I yearned for it for so many years before Beatrix was born and now all that is left are my memories, 40 gigabytes (maybe more - eek) of photos, and a few remnants of those days and nights stored away in our attic. Nothing stays.
No matter how much the spring wind loves the peach blossoms, they still fall.
Several years ago when I learned that I couldn't conceive I realized that beyond pregnancy and genetic ties, I wanted to be a mother to somebody. That dream came true. I am a mother. I'm her mother. Yet, sometimes I think I still wonder if I am percieved as a mother by others (you know,... just having one child). One is so easy, right? Truth be told, am I still wrestling with the desire to be like other women? Am I still rejecting who I am and what my path is? Will having more children take away the bittersweetness of watching Beatrix grow up?
No matter what, all nests become empty. It is the nature of things. All birds fledge and all flowers die.
No matter how much the spring wind loves the peach blossoms, they still fall.
The lesson to myself in this quote that I've inserted throughout this text is that life isn't perfect. Things don't always turn out the way we invision. Sometimes they turn out much better, but in totally different ways. Each one of us is responsible for the well-being of ourselves. No one will heal my pain. Not Beatrix, not Byron, not my mama, not my friends, or another child. We all live with pain in one form or another. So much of this day to day existence is only a judgement influenced by perspective. What perspective do I choose to take? I don't want to spend my life longing for something that isn't in my cards. I want to accept and embrace this one incredible life that I have and the people that I get to share it with whether or not I'm their mother!
If my daughter grows up to be an only child, she will be fine. She will not be perfect. She will hurt at some point. She may have moments of loneliness and feel that she doesn't fit in. She may wish to know what it feels like to have a brother or a sister to share a room and her days with. She will have the additional identity complications that come with being adopted.
She will have her own soul journey.
The fact is, I grew up with five siblings, and I felt loneliness, at times. I felt forgotten, at times. I felt like an outsider for much of my life too. Having siblings did not protect me from the world.
There's no perfect way. Hardships strengthen. Hardships build character. One thing is for certain: she'll always have a least two people in this world who love her unconditionally, forever and always.
As for me, if I'm lucky, I'll get to grow old, and continue to learn more about this world and myself with each passing year. Perhaps, one day I'll finally develop proficient editing skills (ha!). Or better yet, perhaps I'll actually figure out how to be a successful gardener or a great cook. Maybe Bea, Byron and I will one day wonder the streets of Paris together. Ah. I can't wait. This life is a good one.