And there it is. A shoot. The first sign of spring. On January 21st. Some days I really do love Virginia.
We have actually had a winter this year. A cold and snowy one, though not a long one. And because I love my garden, I welcome the winter. I welcome the months of moisture and quiet that prepare my plants to rise again from the soil...stronger, prettier, fuller, more vibrant. Maybe even large enough to divide and transplant, giving life to another part of the yard or a neighbor's garden.
And this little shoot is proof of what has been going on under the surface. The bulb that leads to this daffodil has been soaking in water and nutrients for months. You couldn't see any of it happening, but the shoot is proof. Life goes on. One season ends and another begins in faithful cycles.
Last week we had a lot of snow days. The few mornings that I usually get to myself when all three boys are in school didn't happen. I felt completely full of what I could handle. Exhausted, really, but functioning. Cheerful, even, at times.
A month ago if that had happened, I would have retreated into full, collapsing survival mode. We would have hunkered down and never left the house. I would have said words of defeat over and over to myself. There would have been nothing in me that would risk a public fail.
But last Friday, something happened. What has been hard and dry and worn out and fearful produced a tiny shoot of green. I felt ready for something. I felt hopeful.
I piled my 2 and 4 year-olds into the van and drove over to the Y.
That alone, is a bit of a miracle. I haven't had the energy in months to head over there and we'd been stuck inside for days due to the snow and their particular disdain for all that is cold. (The oldest would happily live in Northern Canada and has to be practically bribed to come indoors in the winter but the middle child believes cold is a personal affront to his happiness.)
After my workout, though, after they had played happily and without incident (thank you, Jesus!) in the Child Watch, we went to the pool.
THE POOL.
Confession: I have never once been willing to take both of them to any pool by myself. Not one time.
When you have one nugget in the throes of the terrible twos and the other one who lives his life in the land of the imminent, show-stopping meltdown, you get used to public humiliation. You still venture out to Target because sometimes being a public spectacle is still preferable to losing your ever-loving mind stuck at home. But mostly you stay home. Or in the backyard. I fully believe every person in our neighborhood recognizes us because we are always outside. Making lots of noise.
But the pool?
The pool takes a lot of energy. Yes, physical energy, but that's not what I'm talking about.
I'm talking about the kind of oomph you need to pull your mind and heart around being in a public space where one or both your kids could go off the rails, where you could have to wrestle a wet screaming child and lose, where it's very possible that one could run away while the other refuses to get out of the water. And where you know there's the very real possibility that you'll have to rely on the kindness of strangers to keep someone from drowning.
I haven't had that oomph in awhile. I haven't wanted to risk the emotional chaos of failure.
But we went. And they played and smiled and laughed and jumped in a hundred times and made the older women who were doing their water aerobics smile. They spread joy.
JOY.
And yes, it could have gone badly and I would still have had to process that. It didn't this time, for which I am grateful. I needed that win.
Because here's the thing. I've been learning something new about myself.
This fall was incredibly challenging - and it didn't come after any kind of easy season. We were going through some really hard stuff with our middle child. Things that were beyond our control. Nothing I did was making it better. Not my advocacy. Not my research. Not calling a billion different people. Not lost sleep. Nothing.
I was powerless.
And what I am coming to see is that powerlessness is my own version of personal hell. I am a doer. I make lists, I check them off, I get things done. Everything I've ever tried to do or really wanted to do, I've pretty much done. I am an ISTJ on the Meyers-Briggs and a 1 on the Enneagram. I DO. I FINISH.
But I couldn't do anything to make it better and had to watch my son suffer.
That led to me feeling like a big, raging failure in my life. It didn't matter that someone might tell me I am a good mom and doing my best. To me, it wasn't my best because nothing was changing. And the inability to accomplish anything took me down, friends. I felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. Useless. Sad. Depressed. Confused. Alone. Angry.
Somehow, somewhere and with the encouragement of some dear friends, I dug deep and realized I needed counseling. Needed help. I wanted my boys to see their mom smiling again.
It's funny what happens in counseling. Someone asks you a question. You answer. They tell you what they hear you saying. You clarify. They clarify. And things begin to emerge. (Well, at least after that first session during which you just sob uncontrollably because apparently when you feel all the aforementioned things but don't let it out, your brain and heart explode when someone says "tell me about it.")
And just being able to see something about yourself, to learn why you feel so out of control, to say it out loud. Well, that's a huge part of the healing.
And then to finally, after months of effort that you've made, to see things start to happen for your son. To see what comes of the prayers and the phone calls and the appointments and the asking of questions.
That's the shoot, friends. This little spot of green that says something is happening. Something is changing. God is at work. Your work alongside him is not in vain.
The shoot is not a daffodil yet. There is still much to be done. There needs to be more water and sunshine and fertilizer and time. For me, there needs to be more counseling, more prayer, more risk-taking, more phone calls, more letting friends in on the process.
But slowly, sometimes uncertainly, the oomph is coming back, will come back. And knowing what takes me down frees me up to fight it. To look the feeling of failure in the face and say "Not today, Satan." Just because I feel powerless doesn't mean I am a failure and that is the darn truth.
Friends, all we can really do is the work in front of us. The next phone call, the next meeting, the next mountain of paperwork, the next prayer, the next counseling session, the next moment with friends or family who are loving us through it - even when we don't see that shoot yet, we water, we till, we fertilize and we pray for sunshine.
We stay in the fight and wait for the shoot.
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