The Young Wise Man
Dec 15 '00
It has been six years since that first snow fell, thick and soft, the flakes swirling like so many ballerinas under the dim glow of streetlights. Six years since I lost my Mom and took to walking the empty streets on a cold December night, grieving for my Mother, watching the sky for a sign of her arrival. Six years. It feels like a lifetime...It feels like but a heart beat.
Time Will Heal
Now time does help to heal all wounds, but those wounds never leave us entirely. They become a part of who we are, as much a part of us as the color of our eyes and the beating of our hearts. So it is not at all surprising that those of us who have lost someone special feel the tug at our soul at every special event; at every birthday, at every Mother’s Day, at every Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Those thoughts tugging at my heart have preoccupied me this year. And I have let myself become too overwhelmed with self-pity while making the motions of shopping and decorating the house with tiny white lights. Then flu season hit with a vengeance and the last two weeks have been spent nursing sick children, a sick husband, and finally, yet bitterly, myself. Somewhere along the line, in the juggling of so many duties, my normal love of the season had evaporated. I had no Christmas spirit. And I must say that saddened me more than anything.
Jo in the Snow
Then Wednesday, December 13th happened. Finally the house was back to normal, the kids were in school fully recovered, the husband at work, and it was just my two year old son, Jo, and I at home. I had fully intended on spending the day catching up on all the household chores that had fallen by the wayside. The laundry room floor was piled with mountains of clothes, the floors needed washing, and the bathrooms were utterly screaming for attention. I was on full germ alert and determined to wage the good war. My son had other ideas.
The first winter storm had descended and the lawns were filling with snow, blowing and drifting into great marshmallow heaps. It was beautiful stuff to look at, and I glanced out as often as I could, scrambling around the house, picking up here, washing a window there. Wash, wipe and sweep. Sort, wash and fold. I was definitely making progress until JoJo decided he had been neglected long enough. For some reason he couldn’t appreciate that I was doing this all for him. “Outside, go outside”, it was a statement more than a question. “It’s cold out there Jo, do you want to watch a movie, Mommy is almost done cleaning.”. “No, go outside”. “Do you want to play with your trucks?”, I pleaded, trying to find something that would occupy his attention.
“Outside”, said Jo. And we bantered back and forth, my poor son trailing me around the house, dressed in nothing but training pants and his winter boots which he had stuck on his feet in pure defiance.
I can’t say for certain what exactly changed my mind. It may have been my two year old standing there looking rather comical and so much like a tiny Chippendale dancer. It may have been the wise and determined look on his face, and the batting of those big, blue eyes. It may have been the change in weather, the angry blowing snow tapering off to a gentle cadence. But something did change my mind and I found myself bundling us up in snowsuits and hats and heading outside. Dreams of a clean house and a lavish supper would have to wait.
Under a gray sky filled with thick, heavy clouds, we plunged headlong into the quiet world of the backyard. Beyond the brown of fence and half buried garden, the field behind our yard lay like an ochre colored sea, brittle summer grasses poking through the creamy snow; whispering, whispering in the breeze. We were playing in a duotone world, sublimely suspended in a sepia tinged photograph.
We took our shovels and piled the snow high into the walls of a fort. We made angels. I plunked him on the toboggan and raced around the yard in circles. My son could not have been happier. He didn’t care that it was cold. He didn’t care that play meant no housework. His laughter and sheer delight grabbed hold of my heart and I couldn’t help but join in his fun, and feel the giddiness of a child. It was wonderful. Then Jo tackled me and gave me one his best bear hugs. “I love you” he said and gave me a sloppy kiss.
Within that embrace I rediscovered the true spirit of Christmas. My heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. The thoughts flowed through my mind, and I chided myself for being so blind. I could decorate and buy presents, put up a tree and hang stockings. But I couldn’t expect to find the Christmas spirit through these *things* alone. That flutter in the heart, that electric feeling that can charge through the body and force a smile comes from giving. Giving our time and love to children, to family, to friends, to a stranger. For the purest gift is not something that can be bought, or wrapped, or hung by the chimney with care. It is love. Pure, simple and unconditional. And we have to look no further than within ourselves to find it for it is always there. I was very guilty of focusing on what I didn’t have instead of the riches that were all around me.
I turned my face upwards and smiled, “Hi Mom” I said to myself “I wonder if you had something to do with this.” And I sat there in the snow, my child in my arms, while the flakes came down, swirling around us like so many ballerinas in the dim glow of the fading afternoon. I kissed him back. “Let’s go make some hot chocolate, babe”.
And hand in hand we went indoors. A mother reborn and a very wise son.
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Epinions.com ID:
Caleo
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Member: Brenda C
Location: Ontario, Canada
Reviews written: 49
Trusted by: 121 members
About Me:
Searching for inspiration...
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