Last Saturday afternoon as we camped up along the Androscoggin River, I spent an hour reflecting on this past year while folding origami paper cranes (my form of meditation). I keep hearing about how mothers have borne the brunt of the pandemic. Some days I feel that myself, down to the core, despite my considerable privilege and relative ease this past year. And yet I have concluded that I’ve been blessed to be a mother through all of this.
I have witnessed the strength, resilience, and creativity of each one of my children. Each has coped and grown, and each in their own way. I’m eternally grateful for (and honestly, awed by) the community and connections fostered and maintained by the NEYM youth staff—and all those kids, too. I’ve been humbled by the racial justice work that our youth especially have dived into, getting us out to protests and really thinking down into the essence of issues.
Maybe I have become a better mother this year, more patient, less directive. With three teenagers who frankly don’t want to hear much from their mom, I learned to show my love quietly. I’ve let their sometimes stress and frustrations flow in the form of huffing, cussing, and oodles of eye-rolling, just holding it silently and letting it pass. I’ve made lots and lots of muffins (autocorrect just suggested “mistakes”—yes, of course, plenty of those, too).
I have made it through the disorientation and anxiety that many of us have experienced, some days more easily than others. I have stumbled along through my “work work,” knowing that it hasn’t always been my best. I’ve reminded myself just to breathe. One unexpected gift has been possible only through the miracles of a Zoom discussion room, where at the weekly parent tea and chat, I have gained several friends-for-life that I have yet to meet in person—and perhaps never would have encountered without the pandemic. I have bared myself with these new friends as we have shared our collective joys, sorrows, stories, tears, and laughter nearly every week. A true lifeline.
I sometimes wish that I had done more with this time, kicking myself for not being in touch with some friends, wishing I had been more supportive of others whom I know probably needed a connection. And then I remind myself that we have all been simply surviving some days, and that I’ve tried to do the best that I can in the moment and my primary responsibility right now is to my children.
The signs of new life are sharp and poignant these days, and stick with me long after the moment. Finding myself lunging to hug a fellow (vaccinated) mother at the start of our local “Love Your Meetinghouse Day” last week, clutching her tightly, then again before we left. Grinning at the squeals of pure joy that rang out when my daughter spied a dear friend after many months—masks on. We’re all finding our way back to each other and to ourselves. I’d venture to say that even the tulips are more vibrant this year. I’m also once again mindful that we are very fortunate, and that many lower-resource communities may not benefit from vaccines for a long time.
Although I still haven’t gotten back to my knitting, in the past month or so my hands have found their way back to origami, muscle memory kicking in. The paper we use for cranes is a mix of all sorts of colors and patterns. On Saturday, I delighted in squares with tiny cherry blossoms, just right for spring. Some of the paper is totally unconventional: tie-dye patterns, which I’ve always found to be kind of weird for this gentle Japanese tradition that represents healing, long life, love, peace, and hope. And yet you know what? In this time of bubbling renewal and outright, albeit bittersweet, joy, I sense that it’s going to be a tie-dye kind of summer—for children and parents alike.