Timber

     Last night at a post-yoga event dinner of 20-some femmes, the woman across asked her acquaintance next to me, "How are the kids doing?"

        Between bites of pumpkin soup, Next-to-Me replied, "Tyler is in his last year at university, and has a job lined up in construction."  She paused, insecurity (or perhaps, simply indigestion) rippling across her taut visage.  "In logistics. At an eco-friendly firm," she added, clearing any mistaken notion of her youngest subjected to grubby hands of manual labor.  

    "Molly started school for PT, then changed to design, just like me. I never wanted to push her, but I always knew she had a knack for it!  One of her clients is even (notable CLE brewery)," Next-to-me gushed.  An unshared story involving her daughter's leap of faith sparkled in her eyes.  The oozing pride left no doubt as to who the favorite child was.  

    Especially when she continued, "And my oldest... Well, at 30 years old, he was living in our basement working at a local sandwich shop.  I suppose the least motivated of all of us," she chuckled ruefully. 

    The comment unleashed my Inner Critic, akin to allowing a child free reign of their Halloween candy.  A sugar-rush tyrade ensued--of how I too am unmotivated. How I'm even older than her son and not even in my parents' basement, but only my childhood bedroom.  How I should work harder, move out, do more, be better because as I am is most certainly not enough.  

    A familiar tune. 

    I thanked the Critic for her feedback, taking from it the silver lining of encouragement, and resumed noshing on a quinoa salad and discussing yoga retreats.    

     Today, on my bike ride, a flaming maple demanded my attention, ablaze against blue sky.  It was next to a honey locust that had lost all but a handful of its teeny, banana-like leaves.  An oak shrouded both, stubbornly green save for a stroke of ochre at the loftiest branches.  Would we deem this late leafer 'less motivated' than the others?  Is the honey locust then most motivated, shivering in the wind?  What about the evergreens, destined so differently than their decicious neighbors?

    I thought about how Next-to-Me answered the inquiry of her children's wellbeing with a litany of their current or prospective employment.  But how are they, really?  What do they care about?  Who do they love?  How do they sleep?  Are they happy and healthy, or in a throe of early-onset, seasonal affective disorder?  Not that these would be deemed appropriate chitchat for a Midwestern dinner party of mostly middle aged, suburban moms.  

    How have we come to equating how we are with how we earn income?  Perhaps it comes from a past of immigrants, refugees, and slaves; flying, fleeing, or ripped from ancestral homes to strike at rich, or seek safety, or subjected to atrocities.  Either way, our forefathers and mothers faced grueling toil, just to survive in this New World.  Are we still carrying their burden now?  Are we forever mistaking productivity for our personal fulfillment in a society focused more on consumerism than community and connection?  

    I don't have the answers.  But perhaps the first step is writing the questions to life and, one day, they'll make an appearance at the dinner table. 

    As a postscript, Next-to-Me added that, in a sudden spurt of (supposed) motivation, No Name bought the sandwich shop.  "Got a great deal on it, thanks to COVID.  Now he works 80 hours a week and is constantly busy, but he loves it." 

    Who's to say?  I'm no sandwich shop owner or mother or immigrant; they're not my journeys; I can't judge.  But do I extend that same courtesy to myself?  Do I allow my leaves to change and fall on their own time, or perhaps not even at all, without concern of neighboring beech and birch?  

    I listen for answers in the rustle of beloved cottonwoods, echoing faraway tides, bringing me out of critique and into my senses.  

    In this space, I see what I am seeing; hear what I am hearing; smell what I am smelling; taste what I am tasting; feel what I am feeling.  And it is enough.