The leaves have almost completely covered the backyard, and there are leaves to fall. The wind whistles through its thin teeth and no one seems to mind. For weeks we have watched from windows, seen colors changing, but not talked about it. One night, when we went to gather another load of wood, we heard the dead leaves crunch beneath our feet. Now a light snow has begun to touch the trees and the woodpile, first fingerprinting them, then blurring, blending everything in. Someday, I may get around to saying what I've been thinking for months. (Leaves by William Virgil Davis)
A new season has quickly arrived. The days are shorter and the nights come too soon. Evidence of my fall garden is starting to emerge from the ground. Greenery gives way to gold and crimson. A welcomed cool wind arrives each evening at sunset. And I'm counting the days until I hold my daughter in my arms.
I thought I would speak, share my thoughts and experiences more throughout this pregnancy. But I've found rest in the quiet, the stillness. A silent nurturance. This time last year motherhood was a dream, a fragile hope. A gift I wondered if I would ever receive. It still feels surreal. After many moments of loss and disappointment, discussing infertility and holding onto a shaky hope, I still find myself weeping over this child I have been given.
Week by week I have watched my belly grow. I've felt the small flutters turn to kicks and jabs. I often lie awake at night and talk to her. Pray over her. I imagine every sweet moment beginning with our first moment together.
They say motherhood changes you. As I reflect on the past nine months I know I am already forever changed. My soul has been on a journey of letting go, relinquishing, giving generously, acquiring balance, finding rest and solace. This little life inside me has already taught me so much about freedom and bravery.
A new season of harvest and abundance, of discovery and change is welcomed.