readying the soil for another season

story by | roxane b. salonen

On the first day of school this year, after sweeping through freshly-shined school halls with my children and helping them find their teachers, desks and lockers, I’ll do as I have done for the last decade.

The annual tradition includes a stop by a local coffee shop, where I’ll join a chattering flock of fellow motherfriends. At some point in the morning, more than a few will begin dabbing their tender eyes with scratchy napkins, a combination of sadness, joy and relief mixing with mocha-saturated air.

But the difference between those other years and this one, for me, is that I won’t be balancing an extra child—“the one left behind”—on my lap. There will be no purse filled with Hot Wheels cars, My Little Pony horses or crayons, and no requests for lukewarm cocoa with whipped cream and sprinkles [and a pumpkin cookie too, if you please].

After ten years of moving through this yearly rite of motherly passage of coffee commiseration and celebration, all five of my children will be in school come fall for the first time ever. And on that day, when the chairs start to empty, when all that’s left on the tables are biscotti crumbs and empty paper cups, I’ll head home to a quiet house.

As I turn the handle of my front doorknob, will I be flooded with a sense of loss or gain?

A little of both is my best guess, though I can’t know for certain until it happens. I’ve tried in the past but have never been able to accurately predict my exact emotions before traversing a new phase in my life.

But of this, I am certain. Over the past 14 years, I’ve immersed myself in the season of little ones. I’ve saturated my soul with a life of diaper-changing, hand-holding and smooch-making from the tender lips of toddlers. I’ve not just dipped but bathed in the mothering of my young brood, helped heal a thousand “owies” both on top of and below the surface, and boiled more cups of macaroni than I care to count.

Having plunged in as deeply as I have when the chance was before me, regrets are few. I feel more excited than anything for what’s to come. Yes, it will take some getting used to this new life, this altered pace, a house that, by day, is suddenly quiet as a leaf that falls from an autumn tree after a summer filled with a steady stream of wind storms and thunderheads.

During school hours there will be no requests for second helpings, hand-washing or clothes-picking. I will miss that. But neither will there be an inordinate amount of energy-whipping from daily doses of unpredictable temper tantrums.

Though I can’t be absolutely sure until I’m there for real, I feel confident these past years have prepared me well for what’s next.

In the season that came before this one, I was busy planting seeds, laying down roots in my garden filled with five unique flower varieties. Now it’s time to take a step back from the intensity of the planting to allow for growth; growth that I could not have pushed through the earth entirely on my own.

The sun will come from caring teachers and other mentors who will enter the lives of my children when I cannot, and where I should not. These beams of light will nurture the soil of their lives, warm their hearts, give them hope.

The rain will arrive, too, perhaps in the form of frustrated friendships, broken hearts, even grief. But they also are needed, these hard-earned lessons and suffering, in order for the sturdy formation of a child to be complete. And I will continue to be nearby, ready to turn toward the garden when needed, even hop over the fence at a moment’s notice if necessary. I will remain on hand for routine pruning and the pulling of weeds, especially those particularly hostile to tender, new growth.

I’ll also continue to talk to the blossoms of life in my garden as firmly but gently as possible, knowing how well growing things respond to such attention, even when appearing still and unresponsive.

As for me, I refuse to go into hiding or mourning. My presence as gardener remains vital. My focus will be on doing my best to use this time of pulling-back wisely, of knowing when to intercede as well as when to let go and let grow. In a few years, if I have done my job well, the beginning of the harvest will commence.

And if I’m as blessed then as now, if I’ve fertilized my soil to satisfaction (if not perfection), my garden will continue to flourish beyond my imagining, and new assortments of flowers will enter the fold.

But I’m not there yet. My garden is still young and green. My 5-year-old still requests bedtime stories and plenty of hugs. My 7-year-old still needs my daily, motherly touch. My 10-year-old requires time sitting in the sun with those who helped bring her into being. The other two, the teenagers, are just beginning to stretch out and discover what hues they’re to take on, what their unique scent is to be. They still need my guidance to help position themselves toward the place of replanting, in the field on the horizon beyond our garden gate.

To everything there is a season, Ecclesiastes proclaims. I sense the season upcoming will be one of deep satisfaction as I step back, wipe my brow, and take time to admire the oftentimes muddy but nearly always satisfying garden that comprises my life as a mother.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2: “ To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”