Last night, there we were, all squeezed into a little waiting room, working a crossword orally -- Say, does anyone know a 4 letter word for an African beast with the 3rd letter a U?
Kids were strewn around, making joyful noises as they played, adults reading and teasing one another with a childhood familiarity that was repeated on down the line. One strummed a guitar and before long everyone was humming and singing and remembering five different songs all at once.
It went on and on, this crecendo of life. No one came to scold us for being noisy in the middle of the maternity ward late on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the ritual, the celebration. And when he arrived, our littlest guest, we crowded around the window in awe of his weight and length, joyous to be the welcoming committee for the newest person on earth.
Four generations in the room but the circle didn't feel complete. My heart was sad for those I have come to know and love. As closely as I identified with the experience, remembering the first touch of my babies, learning their scent, wondering about the magic tucked inside, I knew I wasn't the right mom. Where was the matriarch?
What came to mind was a trip a decade ago to the Kilauea volcano where it was making land from sea. It was a fiercely beautiful sight to stand on the hard, black lava that stretched its wrinkles of new land in all directions. Last night, I again experienced the sensation of utter desolation that accompanies change, wherever it's found.
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