Upside-Down Life

I sit on an icy bench amid a cathedral of white- frosted evergreens. Leaning into God, into the practice of solitude, I steel my will to be still, to silence my jabbering thoughts. My phone shouts at me with texts from my kids and friends and with notifications of new emails. I reach into my pocket and silence the little pest.

Earlier this morning I cross-country skied on five miles of trails through Hartman’s Creek State Park in Waupaca, Wisconsin. I shared the trails with no other company but a few birds and a couple of squirrels. I felt warmed by creation, as a playful breeze blew snow from a nearby pine and covered my cheek with a cold, snowy kiss.

Now I sit on a chilly bench and stare out at the white landscape, a snow-covered lake in the foreground, a bridge crossing a dam, and a simple playground feature equipped with two toddler swings, turned upside down. 

As I continue to quiet my thoughts, my attention settles on the two swings.  I stare for a while, and in the quietness of my spirit I muse, “Those upside-down swings in a sea of snow perfectly reflect my life right now- upside down and wintry."  I feel turned upside-down at times with the loss of my childrens' youth, the impending loss of my own youth, and the cold, barren loneliness I feel at times. 

I thought of my children as squealing toddlers, with me pushing them high and higher on swings in parks.  I couldn't help but squeeze their chubby legs as I navigated them through the openings in the swings. I could hear their squeals of delight as I pushed them high and higher, sensing their trust as they reveled in the thrill.  I recalled endless games of “Gonna get your toes, gonna get your belly, gonna get your chin” as they swung towards me, my hands reaching out to carefully tickle them as they swung through the air, their screams of wild delight making me grin.

I sat on the numbing bench and I cried. Life feels upside-down and wintry in my soul. My toddlers are teenagers with messy rooms.  I miss nuzzling their necks and singing silly songs and reading Dr. Seuss.  I miss a time when they found me hysterically funny.   I miss my three-year-old daughter Lily turning my predictable lunch of a peanut-butter sandwich with a side of sliced pears into a pear and peanut butter sandwich and devouring it.  I miss the peculiar dance my daughter Emma used to do around the house, bopping her fists together.  I miss rocking Asher and singing him made-up blues songs.   And I miss parks,  high swinging, impossibly blue skies, the smell of sunscreen, and the tickling of all available toddler parts.  

As I was feeling perfectly sorry for myself, my phone buzzed again on vibrate, and my middle child, Lily, a sophomore in high school, asked me to bring her a fast food burger for her lunch break. I chuckled to myself as I texted back, “I’m 90 minutes away, in Waupaca, skiing.” I also had to laugh when, my nineteen-year-old daughter, Emma,  announced she was simply “starving”  and my son, Asher, begged me to make more homemade ham and potato soup after we finished it off tonight. 

These days of my mid-forties feel barren and wintry at times.  The house is quiet and empty for much of the day, the girls do their own laundry, and the kids are beholden to their own social schedules.  It seems the landscape of my heart is wintry lately with a dying of sorts taking place.  Yet I know the memory seeds  are resting in this season under the blanket of our hearts.  I know they haven’t died, and though the memories we make are different now, and parks and training wheels and bandaids on boo-boos are mostly things of the past, I wait for new life and growth to spring from those seeds. And I know that they will, for spring, like winter, always comes.