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fly.
Be sure to hit the play bar above to hear this blogcast.
Today’s message is a tribute to all the mama birds out there and our little birdies who are about to fly.
fly.
In this journey called parenthood, some seasons seem to crawl. Quite literally. The crawling season is filled with sleepless nights and bleary-eyed mornings. But then you blink and your child is talking and walking and reading and writing and working and driving, and contemplating colleges, and considering callings. And you realize that the seasons aren’t crawling anymore. Huh-uh. They are flying by in a hurried haze of ballgames and birthdays, proms and graduations.
Yes, the seasons have indeed flown by, and that sweet little life that
you nursed and nurtured is poised to fly to another nest. A nest of their own.
It is that time of the year when seasons shift in nature and in life. Little adults gather in dark robes and funny hats with tassels that will fly high on a fleeting day.
An ode to our graduates is in order, whether you have one yet or not.
I have a dear friend named Paula who sent me just such an ode that she
wrote for her college senior, who remains in the nest for just a short time
still. I bawled like a baby when I read it. I’m a few years off from that
milestone myself, but I know in the flitter of an eye, my
little bird will be poised to fly.
In her poem, Paula touches on a significant theme that strikes a resounding chord in me, in every mom. She says that as mothers, we create a “forgettable history,” forgettable in the sense that the history books are silent about the work we mothers do. Our work is too simple to be noted. Unadorned with the accolades that others achieve. To slay dragons may be the calling of some, it may be the calling of our little swallows, but the silent work of the mother bird goes unsung. It is a forgettable history.
But not today.
As Paula so boldly declares, we women are powerful, writing
our history on the hearts and minds of the generation that is to come, a
generation conceived in our womb and nurtured in our nest. They will not forget
our history. No, they become a living and breathing history of our lives.
In this season of seniors and on this eve of Mother’s Day, I will sing the mothers song. I will praise her history by sharing this poem with you . . .
After the Awards
by Paula Kittle
Behold,
a younger version of me
in a dress that fit me thirty
pounds ago.
Here you stand,
twenty-one a hiccup away,
your surprised delight from the day
and awards in hand.
A quarter
of a century, the span between us
and where your story becomes
much larger
than mine.
With each recognition of talent,
you step closer to purpose and
the divine.
And also
uncertainty, while my calling
two decades strong is becoming
unfocused.
At my side,
ten weary years between you
stands the baby boy who,
despite my
pleas and prayers,
nursed fitfully at the breast
and is now level with it. Less
than ten years
are left.
Enough time to live out dreams
and stumble into what seems
a gift
most strange.
That takes as much as it gives us.
Thirty pounds from now, how much
will change
for you?
I will hand down to you more
than dresses I hope. And for
the years to
come, I pray
they will fit you better than
they ever did me. And when
the day
turns to
evening and I find myself near
rest, forgive my flaws dear,
and do
yourself
a favor by not permitting regret
to linger as you too beget
and test
the way
that opens up ahead of you.
Take from me what is true
and stay
far from
my mistakes. I am but human.
I never claimed perfection
as some
imply.
The sirens that call to you will
differ from my own. Still,
to fly
upon
the backs of dragons is in your
blood. This maternal pride for
the dawn
of your
rising sun, apart from this
nest we've grown in together, is
so far
as sweet
as the early days of these last two
decades. The innocence that was you
complete
with curls
and precocious baby talk at three
is within you yet. Your life I see
unfurls
ever
farther from me, as it should.
But in another fashion could
forever
circle
around much nearer than we
may ever know. What will we
work? Full
of mystery
and doubt, we are powerful
we women, making forgettable
history
as we nurture and mother and grow.
I, once your whole story, know
you will
write stories
of your own. Some with pen,
others with your life when
more is
expected of
you than you now know how to give.
You are just starting to know how to live
and love.
How well
I remember being twenty-one.
Only now does that seem so young.
I fell
into my
future. Into yours. And here
you are at that same precipice.
Dear child,
fly.
by Paula Kittle
Behold,
a younger version of me
in a dress that fit me thirty
pounds ago.
Here you stand,
twenty-one a hiccup away,
your surprised delight from the day
and awards in hand.
A quarter
of a century, the span between us
and where your story becomes
much larger
than mine.
With each recognition of talent,
you step closer to purpose and
the divine.
And also
uncertainty, while my calling
two decades strong is becoming
unfocused.
At my side,
ten weary years between you
stands the baby boy who,
despite my
pleas and prayers,
nursed fitfully at the breast
and is now level with it. Less
than ten years
are left.
Enough time to live out dreams
and stumble into what seems
a gift
most strange.
That takes as much as it gives us.
Thirty pounds from now, how much
will change
for you?
I will hand down to you more
than dresses I hope. And for
the years to
come, I pray
they will fit you better than
they ever did me. And when
the day
turns to
evening and I find myself near
rest, forgive my flaws dear,
and do
yourself
a favor by not permitting regret
to linger as you too beget
and test
the way
that opens up ahead of you.
Take from me what is true
and stay
far from
my mistakes. I am but human.
I never claimed perfection
as some
imply.
The sirens that call to you will
differ from my own. Still,
to fly
upon
the backs of dragons is in your
blood. This maternal pride for
the dawn
of your
rising sun, apart from this
nest we've grown in together, is
so far
as sweet
as the early days of these last two
decades. The innocence that was you
complete
with curls
and precocious baby talk at three
is within you yet. Your life I see
unfurls
ever
farther from me, as it should.
But in another fashion could
forever
circle
around much nearer than we
may ever know. What will we
work? Full
of mystery
and doubt, we are powerful
we women, making forgettable
history
as we nurture and mother and grow.
I, once your whole story, know
you will
write stories
of your own. Some with pen,
others with your life when
more is
expected of
you than you now know how to give.
You are just starting to know how to live
and love.
How well
I remember being twenty-one.
Only now does that seem so young.
I fell
into my
future. Into yours. And here
you are at that same precipice.
Dear child,
fly.
A special thanks to my very dear and talented
friend, Paula Kittle, for allowing me to share her heart with all of you. I
have found my own heart in her words. I pray that you have too.
A final thought: If your baby birds, like mine, still remain close requiring your daily nurture and care, savor these moments. For you won’t find another season like this one.
I’m so glad that you multi-tasked some motivation with The Mere Mother Blogcast today. I’d appreciate it if you’d hit that little share button, and why not tell a friend. If you haven’t already, be sure to subscribe. I’ll let you know about upcoming blogcasts and send you a copy of the provocative new ebook, “Five Myths About Motherhood That Make You Feel Mere, and Why They’re Wrong.” See you next time!
The post fly. appeared first on Catherine Segars.
View all episodes
By The Mere Mother Blogcast with Catherine Segars
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Be sure to hit the play bar above to hear this blogcast.
Today’s message is a tribute to all the mama birds out there and our little birdies who are about to fly.
fly.
In this journey called parenthood, some seasons seem to crawl. Quite literally. The crawling season is filled with sleepless nights and bleary-eyed mornings. But then you blink and your child is talking and walking and reading and writing and working and driving, and contemplating colleges, and considering callings. And you realize that the seasons aren’t crawling anymore. Huh-uh. They are flying by in a hurried haze of ballgames and birthdays, proms and graduations.
Yes, the seasons have indeed flown by, and that sweet little life that
you nursed and nurtured is poised to fly to another nest. A nest of their own.
It is that time of the year when seasons shift in nature and in life. Little adults gather in dark robes and funny hats with tassels that will fly high on a fleeting day.
An ode to our graduates is in order, whether you have one yet or not.
I have a dear friend named Paula who sent me just such an ode that she
wrote for her college senior, who remains in the nest for just a short time
still. I bawled like a baby when I read it. I’m a few years off from that
milestone myself, but I know in the flitter of an eye, my
little bird will be poised to fly.
In her poem, Paula touches on a significant theme that strikes a resounding chord in me, in every mom. She says that as mothers, we create a “forgettable history,” forgettable in the sense that the history books are silent about the work we mothers do. Our work is too simple to be noted. Unadorned with the accolades that others achieve. To slay dragons may be the calling of some, it may be the calling of our little swallows, but the silent work of the mother bird goes unsung. It is a forgettable history.
But not today.
As Paula so boldly declares, we women are powerful, writing
our history on the hearts and minds of the generation that is to come, a
generation conceived in our womb and nurtured in our nest. They will not forget
our history. No, they become a living and breathing history of our lives.
In this season of seniors and on this eve of Mother’s Day, I will sing the mothers song. I will praise her history by sharing this poem with you . . .
After the Awards
by Paula Kittle
Behold,
a younger version of me
in a dress that fit me thirty
pounds ago.
Here you stand,
twenty-one a hiccup away,
your surprised delight from the day
and awards in hand.
A quarter
of a century, the span between us
and where your story becomes
much larger
than mine.
With each recognition of talent,
you step closer to purpose and
the divine.
And also
uncertainty, while my calling
two decades strong is becoming
unfocused.
At my side,
ten weary years between you
stands the baby boy who,
despite my
pleas and prayers,
nursed fitfully at the breast
and is now level with it. Less
than ten years
are left.
Enough time to live out dreams
and stumble into what seems
a gift
most strange.
That takes as much as it gives us.
Thirty pounds from now, how much
will change
for you?
I will hand down to you more
than dresses I hope. And for
the years to
come, I pray
they will fit you better than
they ever did me. And when
the day
turns to
evening and I find myself near
rest, forgive my flaws dear,
and do
yourself
a favor by not permitting regret
to linger as you too beget
and test
the way
that opens up ahead of you.
Take from me what is true
and stay
far from
my mistakes. I am but human.
I never claimed perfection
as some
imply.
The sirens that call to you will
differ from my own. Still,
to fly
upon
the backs of dragons is in your
blood. This maternal pride for
the dawn
of your
rising sun, apart from this
nest we've grown in together, is
so far
as sweet
as the early days of these last two
decades. The innocence that was you
complete
with curls
and precocious baby talk at three
is within you yet. Your life I see
unfurls
ever
farther from me, as it should.
But in another fashion could
forever
circle
around much nearer than we
may ever know. What will we
work? Full
of mystery
and doubt, we are powerful
we women, making forgettable
history
as we nurture and mother and grow.
I, once your whole story, know
you will
write stories
of your own. Some with pen,
others with your life when
more is
expected of
you than you now know how to give.
You are just starting to know how to live
and love.
How well
I remember being twenty-one.
Only now does that seem so young.
I fell
into my
future. Into yours. And here
you are at that same precipice.
Dear child,
fly.
by Paula Kittle
Behold,
a younger version of me
in a dress that fit me thirty
pounds ago.
Here you stand,
twenty-one a hiccup away,
your surprised delight from the day
and awards in hand.
A quarter
of a century, the span between us
and where your story becomes
much larger
than mine.
With each recognition of talent,
you step closer to purpose and
the divine.
And also
uncertainty, while my calling
two decades strong is becoming
unfocused.
At my side,
ten weary years between you
stands the baby boy who,
despite my
pleas and prayers,
nursed fitfully at the breast
and is now level with it. Less
than ten years
are left.
Enough time to live out dreams
and stumble into what seems
a gift
most strange.
That takes as much as it gives us.
Thirty pounds from now, how much
will change
for you?
I will hand down to you more
than dresses I hope. And for
the years to
come, I pray
they will fit you better than
they ever did me. And when
the day
turns to
evening and I find myself near
rest, forgive my flaws dear,
and do
yourself
a favor by not permitting regret
to linger as you too beget
and test
the way
that opens up ahead of you.
Take from me what is true
and stay
far from
my mistakes. I am but human.
I never claimed perfection
as some
imply.
The sirens that call to you will
differ from my own. Still,
to fly
upon
the backs of dragons is in your
blood. This maternal pride for
the dawn
of your
rising sun, apart from this
nest we've grown in together, is
so far
as sweet
as the early days of these last two
decades. The innocence that was you
complete
with curls
and precocious baby talk at three
is within you yet. Your life I see
unfurls
ever
farther from me, as it should.
But in another fashion could
forever
circle
around much nearer than we
may ever know. What will we
work? Full
of mystery
and doubt, we are powerful
we women, making forgettable
history
as we nurture and mother and grow.
I, once your whole story, know
you will
write stories
of your own. Some with pen,
others with your life when
more is
expected of
you than you now know how to give.
You are just starting to know how to live
and love.
How well
I remember being twenty-one.
Only now does that seem so young.
I fell
into my
future. Into yours. And here
you are at that same precipice.
Dear child,
fly.
A special thanks to my very dear and talented
friend, Paula Kittle, for allowing me to share her heart with all of you. I
have found my own heart in her words. I pray that you have too.
A final thought: If your baby birds, like mine, still remain close requiring your daily nurture and care, savor these moments. For you won’t find another season like this one.
I’m so glad that you multi-tasked some motivation with The Mere Mother Blogcast today. I’d appreciate it if you’d hit that little share button, and why not tell a friend. If you haven’t already, be sure to subscribe. I’ll let you know about upcoming blogcasts and send you a copy of the provocative new ebook, “Five Myths About Motherhood That Make You Feel Mere, and Why They’re Wrong.” See you next time!
The post fly. appeared first on Catherine Segars.