The Hearts in the Shadows

Dearest Children,

Rainbows have been splashed across windows. Have you seen it? Of course you have. How could you miss it. We saw them when we went on our walks.

"Look! Another rainbow!" You shout from your speeding scooters, eyes so distracted by the sight I worry you might not watch where you are going. 

You love rainbows. All of you. Well, Leo, you don’t really know what a rainbow is, but you like anything your brother and sister do.

What is it about the rainbow? 

Is it the colors? So bright, capturing every favorite hue, because really you SAY you have a favorite color but when you list them you somehow manage to list them all. Me too. It’s hard to pick a favorite.

Is it the arch? That smooth motion, not quite a line, not quite a circle. It feel so easy to make, like arms stretching in the morning, the way I remember you used to do when I would release you from your swaddle as tiny little things. They say that babies stretching stimulates muscle nerves and spinal development. That’s great and all but I just think it looks precious.

I would like to think maybe the rainbow reminds you of the promise of hope, the relief after the storm. But truthfully, you don’t seem to be concerned with the storm or the relief. You seem to have found happiness right where you are (now you are singing Moana!) Your rainbow is always here. For this I am grateful.

I had wanted to add one of those rainbows to our home too. I wanted to be a reminder to our neighbors of the hopeful promise, like a beacon sending our love from the inside of our home out. 

But I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t think you would appreciate it, I knew it would delight you entirely. And also not because you keep me so busy I don’t have time for cutting 100 tiny hearts, although you do, this is true. 

Here is the thing: my favorite time of day with you is the morning. As we snuggle together on the couch, freshly awakened and pondering our day, we watch through the wall to wall windows for the eastern sky to turn rosy from the sun just wakening too. It’s rays make the first peak through the evergreen tree and that’s when it streaks through the window, usually once we all gather at the breakfast table. By the time it scatters light across the floor, you have all made your way there too, meandering into play, sometimes together, sometimes alone. Usually fresh from a good sleep and comforting meal, you are at your best—patient, kind, imaginative, delighted. This is when I should be cleaning up, to not get behind in the mess that trails in your wake. But more often then not I find myself distracted watching you, jealous of the sun that is always available to wrap you in warmth and shine on you with love.

I’m not always there for you in this way. Sometimes the shadows hang too heavy over me. I don’t fill the room with light in the same way the sun can. This saddens me, especially now.

I say all this to explain to you why I didn’t want to put hearts in our window. I was afraid of the shadows it might make. I was afraid if we hung something in the window it would block the sun. And I need every inch of sunlight I can soak up these days. 

But on a particularly grumpy morning last week, I needed hearts and I needed rainbows and I needed them now. With Harry Potter playing over the bluetooth speakers, soothing us with his magic, we sat together in a pile of construction paper cutting hearts of every shape and size. Leo wandered around as he does, taking turns bugging each of us to read to him, while Caroline and Elliott, you carefully cut out the hearts I traced for you on stacks of paper. Then while you ate lunch, I taped each heart to the window, in the proper color order, of course, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Woah, Mama," you said in a collective grown when you saw my finished work. Leo repeated you as he does. "It’s beautiful."

It was beautiful. By the time I finished the sun was high overhead so there was no way to tell how much sunshine the hearts might block from the sky. But seeing your reaction, this was the last thing on my mind. The colors arching from one side to the other felt like a safe cocoon, wrapping us in warmth like the sun. 

I didn’t notice the shadows until the next morning. I walked into the dining room to gather up breakfast dishes, turning to check on your play as I like to do. That’s when I saw the shadows. But it wasn’t at all like I expected. 

Dappled across the floor, onto your backs and faces while you play, were streaks of hearts. They trailed the sunshine, stretching as the sun angled across the sky, the smooth round ones I cut, the more jagged edged hearts that came from your chubby hands, each one reminders of the love that went into the project to eventually spread out into the world. I was so worried about the shadows that the hearts might create in our room, I never stopped to think how those shadows might be shaped. 

The paper hearts did block the sun as I suspected they would. But in their shadows I didn’t see darkness. I saw love. I have spent much of my life afraid of the dark that comes with shadow. I hide from it, ignore it, chase desperately for sunshine and then feel like a failure when I can’t quite reach it. I wonder if I look a little closer at the darker days, the shadows that cross my mind and spirit, if behind the shadows there is love. 

As I sat staring at you in play, mesmerized by the hearts dancing around you, you didn't seem to notice. And I don’t think the obliviousness was in the same way you can’t find your shoes when they are sitting right in the middle of the floor where you left them. I think it’s because you are always good at finding the love and the light through any shadow.

I’ve noticed this before. But never more vibrantly than I do now. My heart is so heavy by so much of the world’s suffering during this pandemic. But never about you. You are okay. You are happy. You are my sunshine and my rainbows and my hearts. And this might be the cheesiest thing a mother could ever say but I don’t care. I mean every word. 

While I would love to think you will always be this way, I know how the world works. I know one day you will grow up and you too will find it harder to hide from the shadows. That is ok. As you can see, behind the shadows there is still love. 

I write this letter to you in hopes that when you are in those shadows, you will remember a time when you saw through it. I so desperately want to capture every memory, and let it sit available to me always, just like the sunshine. This is not possible. But what I can do is write. And so in the in between parts of our day, when a moment catches my heart, I have been jotting it down in my notes. I will list it here, so it will be preserved for always, while also knowing the list will keep growing. That’s okay too. I will just have to keep writing. 

What I want to remember:

falling down and shouting “I okay” before we even have to check on you.

rolling around together like little puppies and someone always gets hurt. 

climbing up to sit next to Caroline while she does school and she never pushes you away. 

wondering into Dad’s office unannounced and joining his zoom calls.

building endless pillow forts in the family room to hold your secret meetings.

sitting together at breakfast talking about our day.

going through printer paper faster than we  go through toilet paper for coloring sheet after coloring sheet. 

draining markers and construction paper from all the art, then scattering it all over the house. 

calling me Ms Mommy when we start school in the morning. 

playing rain explorers in the backyard.

all three of you gathering under the umbrella as the rain clouds open up. 

making your own movies.

smiling wide when you first spot the faces of your cousins and friends through video chats.

huddled together around a bowl to watch the science experiment and collectively saying “woah” at the wonder of it. 

writing letters to family and friends and discovering you know your letters better than I ever knew. 

shouting to me as I go out the door for grocery shopping “make sure you wear your mask!”

memorizing ever song from both Frozen soundtracks and listening to it on loop.

long family bike rides.

washing each other’s feet on Maundy Thursday services. 

passing communion to one another. 

baking bread with dad. 

working together to build a the island from Make Way for ducklings. 

creating worlds for your animals.

dreaming up where we can "go" on an adventure and then making it happen through your play.

bringing me notes just to say you love me. 

on and on and on and on…

Love, always, Mom 🌈