Sometimes I fight change.
I clench my fists and have an internal temper tantrum.
The world doesn't know, but my heart does.
So when it came time to repair the white picket fence that bordered this shade garden overlooking our yard, I had a bit of an internal struggle.
You see, almost 18 years ago, my husband lovingly cut each picket, painting each one white. He constructed the quaintest of fences to prevent our little ones from walking off this steep drop.
So when the seventeen year old not so little one suggested seeing what it looked like without it,(drill in hand), we may have had a tear or two. Not sadness really, but a bit of mourning for that strange speed tunnel of childhood that whooshed by us, making our hair stand on end and our nerves prickle up.
As the panels came down, we paused and looked at the view. Unobstructed views of the hill and garden and woods beckoned.
Irises and daffodils became visible from the street and house. I may have smiled at this, thinking of the view I would now have pulling into the driveway or peeking out the living room window.
And suddenly my mourning, my sadness, my hesitation became a celebration of tiny bodies running under sprinklers on hot summer days….of well worn quilts spread with snacks and toys and dirty feet.
Taking down the fence became a rite of passage, a ritual transition of childhood morphing into young adulthood, of parents handing over well worn reigns of promise and hope and trust.
We'll be recycling the worn, but loved fence around my lavender garden.
And somehow I think I will hear whispers of time floating by on the summer wind.