Sitting here, taking a small break from the garden, looking at the cobweb under one of the chairs in my keeping room. I see this, not as you might think, but as a testament to not having little ones anymore. It seems just a short time ago, I routinely moved this 9 foot harvest table across the room, stacked the chairs on it and scrubbed the floor underneath and while the chairs were upside down, I wiped away the dust and whatever else might have been hanging there. I did this because some tiny person would most assuredly be crawling through this wooden maze of legs in search of a missing Cheerio or renegade grape. Who would have thought those days would have ever ended?
I, of course, still sweep this floor but I must confess, it is without much concern, nothing is dropped and nothing is squished and nothing rolls under here anymore. It has become the perfect place for a little cobweb to manifest. I suppose that is how life is, we use a space, we interact with certain people, we spend that time “there” and then we move on. And when we do, there is something or someone, waiting to take that spot.
We move on, we let go. Again, I reference my mother – she would comfort me in those “big” moments, the moments when my children started school, figured out the tooth fairy fable, and left home – she shared with me how she always looked ahead to the next chapter of our lives with excitement and anticipation. I draw from that optimism as I sit in the mottled rays of the setting sun that are shining through the keeping room window and “artistically” capturing the natural miracle that is a cobweb .
I'm there, too, Pam. A little lonely today because spring break is over and daughter number 3 went back to school. I admit, though, I love having adult children.
ReplyDeleteI love the poetic image of the cobweb.