Author: Pamela Thacher

The first time I had laryngitis as a mother, of course I knew that talking would be off the table: I’d had laryngitis a a few times as a younger woman, and what I remember from those times was that it was kind of fun: trying to talk, failing. Trying to talk a few minutes later, failing. Realizing that I honestly couldn’t talk It was a bit of a hoot, really. But when I was a mother of three children, 1, 2 and 4, it wasn’t such a hoot to have talking off the table.

Because no talking also meant (I’m embarrassed but determined to be honest) no yelling. In my defense, my most frequent thing to yell was “hey!” in order to get someone’s attention over the long distance of our one-acre lot. Getting their attention, in order to ask/warn/order, was always Job One. If I couldn’t yell, what could I do?

Over my few days of utter silence around my children, I realized you don’t need to yell to communicate. I also realized that I was a yell-er. Both very humbling realizations.

On a more positive note, I found that after three days of not speaking above a faint whisper, that I could parent – mother – function – just fine, without my voice. In three days I discovered my boys were more attentive to me than I’d given them credit for, and they didn’t need those Heys. Without the yelling, no disaster ensued: my boys were okay without my guard rails of shouting, of cautions, of warnings. And in terms of staying connected to them, I was forced to find other ways. In whispers. In shared activities. In gestures. In my face, my fingertips, my smile. We did just fine.

I doubt they remember those three days. But I do. Two thing I learned: first, listening is more useful — more important — than warning. Knowing I was listening when they spoke made a much bigger impact on their behavior than knowing I was watching. And the second thing I learned was how peaceful our time together could be when I was unable to speak, and had to — could only — listen. I began to understand the power of being receptive, attentive, and silent, all at the same time. The connection, in silence, grew much faster than it had in talking. Like a little pepper plant, it grew and grew and flourished.

The other thing I remember is that for a short while after I got my voice back, I treasured it: it seemed strangely powerful — like a super-power, whereas before I know I threw it around thoughtlessly. . And the thing I remember best is that I treasured my voice when it came back, against the realization of the gift a voice can be. When my voice came back I can’t say that I never yelled “hey!” again. But I can attest that my awareness of how complex communication is, how it can flourish in silence, is still echoing in my psyche.

Outside my window is a mountain laurel — not an extraordinary plant in any way but one: it’s not supposed to flourish in this neck of the world. I live in a place where it gets very cold, very often — and mountain laurels are a (smallish tree? largish bush?) plant that generally thrives down south — Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania. In those somewhat balmy states, mountain laurels grow happily into lush understory stalwarts. Smaller branches on a mountain laurel typically sport a handful of rich green leaves, a few inches long, an inch or two wide, ever-green in the winter, almond-shaped, a bit shiny (but not too shiny), a bit leathery (but not too leathery). Late in the spring, exquisite little wedding-cake white blossoms make tiny fragrant bursts of beauty every spring.

But this mountain laurel is up here where there are long stretches of sub-zero weather, and something about this winter was, in so many ways, brutal. The tale is told on the laurel: three or even four of every five-fingered leaf group is a dull, dark brown. The green leaves look much the same as always, but the effect on the overall plant is one of impending disaster.

In past winters, the plant seemed to tolerate these patches of sub-zero weather. But now, twenty years after we moved here, the laurel is clearly a bit tired, the way I sometimes feel now. It’s persisting, clearly: the green of the spared leaves is no different than in past springs we’ve seen together. It’s struggled, for sure. But I’m a bit concerned.

We’ll keep watching. The green tells me there’s life in it still, and where there’s life, as they say, there’s hope. It may be about to slip away from us in the next few years. My sense of cherishing it has grown with every spring and this spring I feel almost a sense of panic: so many brown leaves! What could it mean? Nothing good.

I just want one more spring with the laurel. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few years is the value of letting go of things and accepting that my role is often more to witness than to shape. That acceptance, often, is the place where peace lives.

So while I’m hopeful for this tree and its future, I’m going to use my gaze on the tree as a cue — my cue to remind myself of the nature of witnessing. To witness is to simply live in this moment, with the brown and the green together, and admire the tree’s yielding persistence to the vagaries of the weather. Just abiding, one more spring.

Soon – within a week – we’ll be re-claiming morning light, and paying for it with evening light. We all appreciate the extra hour of sleep this little trick with our time-pieces brings us. We look forward to “Fall back” as much as we dread “Spring ahead.” This post is just a reminder that sleep pressure (the pressure that builds when we’ve been awake for some time) generally – eventually! — leads to a good night, as surely as sunrise follows sunset. Trying to keep your bedtime and wake time firm – regardless of how well or poorly you’ve slept – is one of the most important rules established for those with insomnia.

So if you’ve been suffering from insomnia, go ahead and take that extra hour if it naturally fills in with sleep. But then be aware of the usual pendulum like nature of sleep. Sleep will, like the seasons, like the moon, like the tide, both wax and wane. Yielding is the sweet spot: take the extra sleep if it comes, and if not, use the extra time awake to live your life. Like a traffic-round-a-bout, you may need to speed up or to slow down, depending on the other cars in the road… life is about being flexible enough and present enough to respond, in the moment, with what is needed (speed or deliberation).