Gradually I’m becoming more willing.
To pick up or set down. To push through or let go. To be peeled back. I know how little I know, so I have to listen closely, be willing to let layers fall.
These kids with their messes and personalities, preferences and problems make some good noise when I listen, continually reminding me how much is out of my control and, too, how many important things lie smack dab within the choices I make.
I say I am willing to do whatever they need, and I will advocate, protect and love until the end, but if I think it’s about willing myself to be the mom who’s everything they need, I can almost predict the crash and burn around the corner.
Fascinating how “will” brings to mind two completely different pictures. The kind which is effort to make it be: like I willed myself to help her with homework even though I wanted to crawl in bed and then the willing that is a releasing — ready, eager and prepared for what comes.
Motherhood is filled with heaping portions of both. The will which chooses to love and give when everything internally yells what about me? and the willingness that prays less of me, ears to hear, eyes to see, a heart that pays attention to the deeper things.
This willing is the kind that lets go, receives gifts that are — all these invitations held out with open hand. And this morning it is daphne’s scent wafting through the living room, lilting lone birdsong and morning light rising over the swing set before they wake.