This summer, this year. They flew by, and not pleasantly. I felt as if I was being whisked along from one thing to another, an ever-growing to-do list looming. The more items completed, the more items were added. 3am wakings with a gasp of things forgotten during daylight hours. Hot, sticky weeks of short tempers and long days. I longed for Autumn.
It came. With it, the Equinox's gentle, unspoken reminder that balance was coming. It was possible to bring my roiling emotions to harmony. I willingly gave up hours of sleep to seek out the women of my village who had helped me carve my identity out of the battered stone I'd been given. I laughed, cried, complained, gossiped, worked, and loved with them. Hours outside under the stars while children played, drinking wine and choosing bites food from platters passed person to person. Nights whiled away while weaving fiber into garments for our children, for our husbands, for ourselves, while sipping wine by candlelight. I struggled to work with and for my child to find the same balance the Equinox had promised me. Lilah Rose was struggling with her identity as well. How to come under the authority of others while ensuring they understood that she wasn't able to breeze along effortlessly like other children. She gravitated toward some adults, scorning others, and still others she regarded with cautious optimism while forging slow but steady bonds of trust.
I allowed myself to be consumed with the escape that came from books. Sinking into words from times I would never live in. I tried to let go of the anxiety of August and September and embrace October. From Equinox to Samhain, from waning light into gentle darkness. October never brought a darkness I was afraid of. It was a darkness that was deep, and velvety. It meant hearth fires and spicy scents coming from my kitchen. Weekend mornings spent wrapped in wool with hot things to eat and drink and music to play against the cold. Today was such a morning.
I was wrapped in a new, forest green wool wrap. It fell in gentle lines around me, draping with my movement and folding around me with my stillness. It was one of those garments that you feel was created for you, like an extension of yourself. There were bowls of steaming oatmeal, hot cups of coffee in stoneware mugs, music, and reading. Our peace was interrupted by Lilah screaming. Somehow the morning had gone from peace to chaos in moments. She had asked what to do with a few bites she had left of an apple she was munching on, and her dad had told her to throw it outside into the garden. She dissolved into hysterics. No warning and apparently no provocation. These outbursts had become more common since school started. It took 30 minutes of confused shouting from her parents to get anything even resembling order reinstated. Her dad went outside, slamming the door, and she fled sobbing into my arms. I was angry, annoyed, and still had no idea what had brought this on. She took the corners of my emerald wrap and tucked it around herself, rubbing her face against the wool to smear the tears away. I rocked her and asked, without much hope of a coherent answer, what on earth the matter was.
She choked out between sobs, "I wasted food. Mrs. McNeil will be so disappointed and it's all my fault," before breaking down again. Light of understanding dawned on my face. Her former teacher had been in charge of the "Green School" at JFK. She trained her kinders well in caring for the earth, reusing, recycling, composting, supporting endangered animal species, and protecting the environment. Lilah had struggled this school year with forming a relationship with a new teacher, wishing frequently to be under the charge of the teacher she had adored, the woman who knew her in some ways better than I did. She understood the nuances of Lilah's academic brain without effort, while it took all the patience I had to grasp her some days. Lilah brushed her tears away as more flooded from her eyes. I didn't appreciate her screaming at us, but I finally understood it. I wrapped her tightly in the folds of green wool and laid my cheek on her head, closing my eyes. I'm not sure if it was the feel of the fabric, the scent of the mulled wine bubbling in other room, the spiciness wafting from the bowls of oatmeal we had been eating, but when I closed my eyes, I didn't feel like a 28 year old in my living room anymore. It could have been 1000 years ago, or 1000 years from now. I allowed my logical brain the rueful admission that I was probably heavily influenced by the books I'd been reading, but there was something timeless about comforting my child against sadness, cold, illness with warmth, love, understanding. Her sobs grew less frequent. My anger ebbed like a tide. She calmed and explained everything to her dad. He explained that there were many ways to recycle food, and feeding some squirrels, the soil, or more probably, the dog when she went out, wasn't wasting food. The moment passed; peace was restored. I stood over the stove, gently stirring the mulled wine and adding more honey and cloves. I wondered how long I would be able to give my child comfort with just the warmth of my body. I doubted very much that I had many years left of being able to fit her in my arms. I would give her all I had for as long as she needed it, like thousands of mothers before my time, and thousands still to come.
