Guest Post by Laura @ The Wellspring

she writes of life in pure poetry, beauty in every word... below, Laura's heart, unfolded


We walk.

It’s not something I planned, or thought out very well, but I remember my mother doing the same with me. And ever since their legs could carry small frames upright, this is what we’ve done.

Sometimes it’s just me, needing to get out from under the thumb of this house…needing to breath deep. But as I squeeze through the small crack in the door—shrug off the bindings of the day—I give the invitation. And they usually follow.

We stand on the threshold of the world together, look into each others’ faces, and step out.

With each step, I feel the trappings of busy-ness unfurl like fingers—that lingering ribbon of time begins to unwind. They feel it too; I see it in the free way they step.

We slow.

When they were small four tiny fingers would curl around my one. A boy on each side. That’s how we would go. The smallest delight would catch their eyes back then…a tiny insect, puddle of water, a smooth stone. They were, after all, closer to this crust we walk around on. I learned that chubby legs can traverse infinite ground.

Now, when we walk, their shoulders brush against mine. And though my young one still stands in my shadow, too often I find myself looking up into eyes the same blue as my own.

Most days we go down to the creek—stare through light playing on water. Minnows and crawfish scurry away under our shadows, find refuge under the smooth flat rocks on the streambed. After a storm, the water rushes heady, churning mud and debris along its path. We throw leaves and small sticks over the bridge and run to the other side to see whose craft travels through the fastest.

Other days we head to the meadow, or cross the highway to stroll between the loping farmlands.

We talk easy as we move. It’s a habit now. Lately, we bring a tennis ball. Toss it back and forth and up and over to each other. I try to catch it with my nondominant hand. It’s good exercise for my brain, I tell them. So they try it too.

Mostly, we just be together. And it feels good.

I knew it wouldn’t always be easy. They no longer are fascinated by ladybugs. The smooth, cool stones by the creek bank hold no particular allure.

My husband, who has one brother, once told me that when he entered adolescence, his mother stopped hugging him.

I know I didn’t want her to, he said. She was just doing what I asked.

I watched them a few years ago when she was preparing to leave for a trip to Spain. We went to say goodbye the night before her departure. When the time came for us to leave, they hovered about each other nervously.

Will you please hug your mother?

I gave him permission. And everyone giggled as he wrapped her in his arms.

Once, when he was in second or third grade, my firstborn said to me, Mom, you have to stop this hugging stuff.

I took his face in my two hands, looked him in the eye, and said, Never. I will never stop hugging you.

They no longer reach for my hand as we walk together. But they’ve grown used to my hand on their back, my arm wrapped in theirs.

There are a lot of things I do not do well. Dinner is not always homemade. Sometimes they watch too much TV. Laundry sits unfolded in the basket as the door closes behind us.

But this I do well—this being together. When we walk together, we are present—right there in that moment. We leave behind what is behind and be together. All it takes is time.

And putting one foot in front of the other.