As Jessie gets older and matures and
creates her own life, she doesn’t quite need us as much (or, some days, THINKS
she doesn’t quite need us as much) as she used to. She gets to classes and
appointments and events on her own; she wakes up on her own; she makes
decisions about the courses she will take or the movies she will see on her
own.
She still, however, sometimes needs me
to drive her to performance or workshop commitments with Propeller Dance or the Down
Syndrome Association. And while I sometimes grumble about the time it takes
away from my work or the way she often just expects me to drive her, I am
learning to be graceful about the interruptions and to enjoy the
forced space they create in my life. Space for God and friendship and beauty to
break through, if I let them.
Yesterday, for example, Jessie had a gig
in Richmond, about half an hour outside Ottawa. As we turned down the back road
that crossed over the Jock River and ended at the school where she was giving a
workshop, I noticed a maroon and gold sign with an arrow. It read “St. John’s
Quiet Garden.”
An invitation. Which I accepted.
l left Jessie at the school, zipped up
my coat and stomped through the mud to the garden that was, indeed quiet in its
blanket of white—with not yet budding shrubs poking through the deep snow.
There was a sign indicating that there were two labyrinths buried somewhere
underneath. And while I fear I have become a bit of a loose woman around
labyrinths, I did not mind just wandering over the promise of a mindful way in
to the centre. And I did not mind walking slowly around imagined perimeters or
stepping gently on the untrammeled snow—there is not much call for outdoor
labyrinth walking in a Canadian winter.
And I remembered that I had a camera:
So I am thankful for what I saw, and
thankful too for these spaces between mothering that Jessie’s growing
independence is gifting me.
