We as mothers, are weaving a dense nest. Some layers are liquid -- shimmering, stretching, light. And some are ragged - thin as wings. But each day, no matter the beauty of the layer, the nest grows. Whether we want it to or not. Layers stream from our arms and legs, wild and long. A whirling, mad circle. Often I want to go back and pull the ugly pieces from yesterday. Smoke them into sky. But they are stuck, burrowed in with soft, oozing glue. In their nest, the place they'll lie their heads for the rest of their lives. A mottled place of memories. Mistakes. Deep love. Ultimate safety. Softness. Regrets.
This nest, their childhood.
When they look back, they will find us there. In the center. Quiet. Never perfect but trying. Like a wren, we mothers are eternally busy, taking the memories, the moments, and tuck, tuck, tucking them into place. Rearranging. And stringing them together with songs. Some days, layers of pure gold. Others, nothing but scraps. But all the while -- there we were -- singing into the light. And building their nest. A beautiful childhood nest. On layer at a time.
