I’m sitting on my back porch, listening to the buzz of bees and hummingbirds. It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous day, full of blue skies and lazy clouds and a soft breeze that occasionally lifts the snowball blossoms and the red rhododendron that has just started blooming. There are two dogs nearby, two dogs I’ve grown to love, panting in the sun. A red Solo cup with my child’s name markered on it is on the table next to me; inside are sunflowers that we hope to continue to nurture. Also on the table, which is blue and which we bought at a yard sale for $20: a puzzle we’re all working on together; a pink, plastic container of bubbles.
My child and my partner are cleaning up from an overnight camping trip, and have told me to come out here with my book and my coffee. I like waking up in a tent on Mother’s Day, and so because I’ve said that aloud and because I am very, very lucky, that is what happens.
There are other things in my life that I’ve wanted, that I want still: to live abroad, to speak French fluently, to write and publish books. But really, really, this is all I have ever dreamed of. A freshly-mown backyard that is full of color, the lazy May sounds of a neighbors I can’t currently see, ravens flying overhead. My child. My home. Safe and here.
To be in the club of motherhood: there are no words wide enough, large enough, beautiful enough, to hold my gratitude for that. There never will be, but they live inside me every single moment of my life. None of this was ever promised.
My dog sighs. The birds sing. The wind lifts the leaves. I know how lucky I am.
The Wandering Introvert 