President John F. Kennedy once described the eagle to the Audubon Society this way, "The fierce beauty and proud independence of this great bird aptly symbolizes... strength and freedom." And with that description, we might envision the bird perched with meticulous feathers, carrying that characteristic air of confidence. We visualize the fully extended wings of this magnificent creation, graceful in its movements, and soaring where little birds can't go.
The above description is different splendor than what we see in the eagle cam. But, I have to tell you that this nest filled with snow, and this bird, up to her neck in seeming discomfort, is still "fierce beauty." She is keeping those little eggs warm. She is loyally protecting and nurturing what is in her charge. Even in these conditions, I see this bird just as President Kennedy described. Yet, it is a significant challenge of the day to really believe that a mother's work with home and children is as emancipating as looking stately and flying free; to consider mothering to be the mark of a woman who is independent and strong, even when it looks like sitting in a nest, stuck a great deal of snow.
When I was a little girl, my mom regularly read me Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Suess. In this cute story, the bird begs Horton the Elephant to grant her reprieve from the "boring" job of sitting on her egg. Then while Mayzie flies off to Palm Beach, Horton spends day after day, on the egg, in the tree, enduring all things unpleasant. Just like our friend, the eagle. But Horton never faltered because "an elephant is faithful 100%." My young spirit was a bit repelled by Mayzie Bird's casual attitude, but I loved trusty Horton. I understood exactly why he couldn't leave the nest-- he had a job and that little bird needed him.
And so it goes with a whole myriad of uncomfortable circumstances that we encounter in mothering. There is that overtired toddler who cries down every aisle of Target, and you stroke their head and talk sweet words. Or the teen who is not yet in love with curfews, but you stay up and wait so that you can have that precious, bedtime conversation. The young adult whose ideas and world-view may not match your own and they want to talk about it-- so you listen long and try to guide. Or there is that baby with a fever, a stuffy nose, or a croupy cough that wants to be held all through the night. And you hold your breath a little bit during the development of obedience and character from the sneaky little people hiding in the clothing racks at Kohls. Or the one who is learning volume by dumping cups and cups of water in your kitchen sink.
Mothering through uneasiness can look like the savory breakfasts you prepare in the pitch-dark, hoping that the waft of culinary goodness makes getting up for school and early morning seminary easier and worth it. It is bravely getting into the passenger seat for one-hundred hours of practice time with a student driver. It is nine months and beyond of giving your entire person, body and soul, to the miraculous creation of another little body. And then doing it again, and again. It looks like the radio dial on long trips set to the music of the modern day. The persistent teaching of values and life skills despite resistance and opposition-- ie the pep talk on the merits of practicing the piano. And mothering means even a decided, willful forgetting of words that hurt and actions that disappoint and sting.
Whether our children know it or not, we are Horton. We are Pennsylvania's eagle. We are honorary Boy Scouts-- trustworthy and loyal. The infinity sign is written on our hearts. And it doesn't matter whether children can articulate what we do, or whether they are even conscious of it. Through it all, mothers are a safe place. A soft place. A protective wing. A reliable landing strip. A formidable ally.
Joe Mitchell Chapple penned a poem called "The Bravest Battle" that speaks to a mother's dogged stamina and her commission as though it is heavenly combat. I'll be honest, when you put what mothers do to verse, it sounds pretty uncomfortable. But also important. Listen, the poem goes like this:
The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
’Twas fought by the mothers of men.
Nay, not with cannon or battle-shot,
With a sword or noble pen;
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
From mouths of wonderful men!
But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart—
Of a woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently bore her part—
Lo, there is that battlefield!
No marshalling troops, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam and wave;
But oh! these battles, they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave.
Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then, silent, unseen, goes down.
Oh, ye with banners and battle-shot,
And soldiers to shout and praise!
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Were fought in those silent ways.
O spotless woman in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came—
The kingliest warrior born!
(Taken from Heart Throbs, Joe Mitchell Chapple, ed., New York, 1947, pp. 229–30.)
Now that is a rallying cry that I understand. Even though it sounds exhausting to "fight on and on in endless wars," I'm learning that that is the text-book, maternal, job description. I have come to expect the unexpected and am hard to shock these days. Regardless, I am forever here. And I know that there is no more important moment in life or death than to be able to "go back to God" and report, without regret, on the tiring and untiring efforts in my nest. I long to tell Him that in my lifetime, I "would not yield." That in my little home, or "walled-up town," and with His help, I was as faithful and predictable as the "a bridge of stars" in the sky.
I know that you, my mothering-friend, want that, too. So, let us soldier on, despite unease. Let's be there, resolute and devoted, despite uncomfortable storms.
I love you.
-Valerie
