I was looking through some old files and found an article I wrote last year just as I was getting some of myself back after Ty was born. Now with baby number two scheduled for arrival in just over four weeks, I'm starting to feel the ground heavy on the soles of my shoes again...
I'm starting to feel the itch again. I've
been back in Charleston almost a year now, and I'm starting to feel
itchy. I left home for the first time when I was eighteen. That was
eleven years and seven states ago. This last move brought me back around
to my hometown for the third time. My husband keeps telling me, “This
feels like home.” I completely agree, but I don't think that has anything
to do with where we should live. I've never listed “feels like home” in
the pro column when deciding where to go next. I want to live where my
soul feels life happening, not just where my heart feels safe and
familiar. But the timing is all wrong. My five month old, asleep
across the hall, is a reminder that my gypsy days may be over. All
conventional wisdom tells me he needs consistency and stability. Even so,
I can't deny this pulling, this need for change. There are still so many
places to be, and I get a feeling I can only describe as itchy. I know
I'll have time once life settles, but I feel as if the pause button has been
pushed. I want to start living in the way that feeds me.
When
I was a sixteen, I heard a story about a couple who spent their wedding night
and every night for the next 35 years in the same bed. Even though I've slept
in a higher than average number of beds, I don't understand how they could
enjoy that life. I don't understand how they are still married! I
know there are people who marvel at my life choices and feel the same way about
my own nomad lifestyle. I've been internally scolded lately by the old saying
that advises mothers to give her children roots and wings, but do they need
both? Can they even have both? The more I think about it, the more
it seems most people have one or the other. Are we born prewired for
roots or for wings? Is wishing for both roots and wings just that, a
wish? Will my children ultimately end up with one or the other no matter
how hard I try to steer them towards the sky or towards the ground? If he is
prewired for roots, how can I coax him to fly with us? I'm worried I may push
my little baby bird out of the nest and force his little wings to fly too
early. All I can do is believe that as I make the best choices I can, in the
end Ty will leave my nest with all he'll need to have a life that looks the way
he always imagined.
My
grandmama is buried nearby in the cemetery that contains more of my relative
than I can count. She is buried next to her great love. They are
resting under a grand oak tree whose roots have drawn life out of the same
ground that has safely held the dead. She had more wings than she had
roots. I don't think she ever tried to give me roots, but these restless
wings we share continue to connect me to linage that is deep.
Am I
defining roots and wings too literally? Am I too narrow in my view?
In some ways, my wings have given me roots, but not the deep, solid tap root I
first picture in my mind when I'm considering roots. Maybe my roots are
more like a network: large and sprawling. Shallow roots that spread wide
to connect to the roots of others. By soaring on my inherent wings, I
have developed a network that has brought me strength. I've had the
opportunity to weave my thin roots into a fabric that includes the roots of
many other women, most of whom have stronger and deeper roots than I could ever
imagine having on my own. I've developed a root system much like the
trees of the cemetery, large and sprawling and perfect for weathering storms.
I have been lucky enough to spread my roots as well as my wings.
Jason
came home from work one day last week and found me in the nursery changing a
diaper. “There's an opening down in West Palm.” He says nonchalantly,
“And I put in for a transfer.” There I stood, holding the baby's feet in
the air and suddenly full of possibility. “Did you really?” I tried to
make my tone match his, knowing all along he was probably teasing. “Na, but I
thought about it.” There it stood in the nursery with us: Hope. Hope
that my wings haven't really been clipped. Hope that his roots are still
shallow enough to uproot again without damage. Hope that the Play button
will soon be pushed and my feet will once again leave the ground. In
fact, I think I just saw him scratch. Maybe he's getting the itch,
too
I get those "itches" too, but the longer I've been a mom, the more I appreciate the seasons that ground us, as well as, the ones that give us wings. Each one teaches us things about life and about ourselves- and maybe, most of all, it teaches us what we're capable of. Great, honest post!
ReplyDeleteSo how did it go with the transfer? Any word back from Jason's company? I love those seasons of being grounded and I love the seasons of flying. Wishing you the best in both seasons :).
ReplyDeleteWell, with baby number two on the way, we decided to stay put...For now
ReplyDeleteThank you, Dani!
ReplyDelete