When the Wind is Blowing in the Wrong Direction

Every day is a new day

The wind is blowing the wrong direction down our one-way street. The wind never pays attention to the traffic signals. Today, the wind is sweeping hundreds of brown leaves from the old oak trees along with her. Come this way, she says, and the leaves leap from their branches, spiraling into the yard or rattling up the street.

I am sitting on my front porch, watching those leaves tumble across the sky, while my daughter collects the leaves landing in our front yard. I am shocked how many leaves have fallen in just the last 48 hours. I am surprised, I suppose, by the fury and pace at which the trees are losing their color. I am surprised the view from my porch is changing so quickly. 

Seven years ago, when my son was a baby—when I was delirious with exhaustion and just wanted my body to feel like my own again, I would regularly wake up (or stay up) each morning and report the events of the night to my mom.

“He slept five hours!” I cheered. Or, more often, I lamented how poorly things seemed to be going. “He was up every two hours again,” I said, shuffling around the kitchen in a nursing tank with my lukewarm mug of coffee. My life had changed so quickly, and I didn’t have a predictable baby (as though any babies are predictable). Our days felt like a swirl, and I was never sure if we were headed in the right direction.

No matter the morning report, my mom’s response was always the same. “Every day is a new day,” she gently said.

Her words frustrated me, then. I wanted something, anything, to feel predictable. I wanted to know if I would be able to sleep for a solid stretch that night, if I would ever feel clear-headed and rested the next day. I wanted to know if l would ever feel normal again.

Two days ago, the oak trees were still mostly holding onto their leaves. Today, they are tumbling across the gray sky like paper kites. Two weeks ago, we were settling in for a winter of all-virtual school; last week, my first grader walked into school, wearing a mask and carrying his entire desk in his backpack, while I wondered if we were doing the right thing by trying out this new hybrid model. I wasn’t expecting school to stay closed for eight months and finally reopen in November.

Every day since March, heavy and sad text messages, in all shapes and sizes, have landed on my phone. Every day, I wonder, yet again, how to navigate a year in which so many things have been upended. Still, every day since March, the trees on the street have been budding in the spring, sheltering birds in the summer, releasing leaves in the fall. 

In the middle of another season in which I am learning how little I can control, I find myself returning to the wisdom I needed in those earliest days of motherhood. I find myself working to savor the simple beauty of each day more deeply, and watching more closely for the new mercies available. 

Every day is a new day, I hear my mom saying.

Earlier this morning, my neighbor was watching the street from his porch, too. As the wind swept another dozen leaves into the air and pushed them towards the oncoming traffic, he looked over at me.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. 

“It really is,” I responded, and the leaves chattered their agreement, riding off in the direction of the wind. 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Savor."