It's everywhere, the reasons to be frustrated. The wasted water. The trucks parked on sidewalks. The traffic that won't stop for a child. The organic bananas (good) swimming in plastic (bad). The triclosan in yet more everyday products, unbeknownst to most consumers. There's only so much I can do, and frankly, the rest is symbolic. Change will come, little by little, in time. But as it does, my girls are growing up. Whether roads are safe for children to ride their bikes or products are safe for children to consume (or even touch) is starting not to matter any more in my house because I soon will no longer have children. I have done what I can do.
I took this picture as I sat on a bench and watched my older daughter pull away from the curb to take her driver's test. She was no longer wearing the chartreuse shoes. I was no longer gripping, praying, and quoting Woody Allen. We had done things together I didn't think possible a year ago. Driven on highways and in rain and in the dark. Laughed, talked, shared--like friends, not mother and daughter. Hint: ending up at a garden at the end of every driving session helped--and knowing that, now, in and around my city, there are at least a dozen from which to choose (where three years ago there were none), was really gratifying. The community garden I helped start has expanded. Food pantry gardens are flourishing. Gardens at places of worship and schools are heavy with peppers and tomatoes. Pictured below is the garden bed where student reporters (including my younger daughter) from the environmental blogger club named E-Witness News, which I helped start and run, planted sweet potatoes as a gift to the new students who will inherit that garden. It may not seem like much to you, but it is the only school garden bed in 16 years in which either of my daughters got to plant. It had been a long journey to that simple, cinderblock bed.
And yes, my older daughter passed the test (and, by the way, she is the only student from her driver's education class who learned to drive in a hybrid). I told her that that doesn't mean she's an expert and doesn't need to learn anymore. It means she is ready for the next stage of learning--alone, without me. Aren't we always simply ready for the next stage of learning?
When I came home, I saw sunflowers and zinnias, and some of Rashid and Eugene's eggplants, and butternut squashes growing where there had been nothing.
I saw the side of my house that had been lawn just two years ago, overflowing with onions and beans and squashes (many, many, many--my gosh, how many did I plant?), and a rose bush that grew at least eight times its size in just one year.
I saw a daily abundance in my back garden that makes up for the fact that I didn't join a CSA this year, for the first time in ten years.
And then my daughter left me again, this time with my husband, who brought her far away to a university where she is taking a course she chose on global social justice. Pictured is my younger daughter waving goodbye. I stood farther back, one of my favorite lines from a Billy Joel song resonating in my head. Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes; I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again.
But I'm not afraid of goodbyes. I'm excited. I'm ready for the next stage of learning. As a person. As a mother. Yesterday, I decided to step down on August 1 from leading Team Food Pantry, which I have done for two years now. I intend to stay very involved, but I somehow intrinsically know now when I am being called elsewhere, and when I am standing in the way of someone else's leadership opportunity.
Yesterday, I rearranged the furniture, turning a couch in the living room so it is facing the kitchen, so that people can hang out and talk while I'm cooking (which is always). My younger daughter asked what was going on, and I said, "Let's just change things a bit. It's good for the imagination." She had just played the role of Willy Wonka in a camp play and knew all about "a world of pure imagination."
Yesterday, I made candied mint leaves for the first time, and used them as a garnish on homemade brownies to bring to a gathering at the community garden last night. Old faces and new faces were there. My younger daughter fell in love with the sorrel pesto a woman named Karen brought. A man named Carl turned 71 and brought his own birthday cake. A woman named Nicole gave me a book about two New Yorkers (one of whom used to work for Martha Stewart) who ditch the city and move to a farm (I read the first chapter last night and it really almost had me crying laughing). We marveled around a blooming artichoke. We huddled under an umbrella while it rained. And then we stood there, mesmerized, as a rainbow stretched across the sky.
And even though it was evening, I knew, in my heart of hearts, that a new day had dawned in my life.
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