Planting

I keep a book of haiku around because I like to open it at random and read an 18 syllable poem.  Oftentimes, I am amazed by how much richness there can be in such a short poem, and translated from Japanese, too.  Yesterday I read this one by Kobayashi Issa:

Her row veering off,
the peasant woman plants
toward her crying child.

Those few sparse lines have given me enough to think about for two days, in regards to motherhood.  No matter where a mother is, her body and soul are pulled toward her child.  As I sit alone in my kitchen, I am cognizant of each of mine;  Ptolemy asleep on my bed, the older girls chatting in the cool basement, Xanthe and Freestone gone, playing with cousins.  There is a radar on which each child registers, six red dots on a map.  But there is also a less physical sphere of awareness, one in which my mind is constantly working.  In the poem, the peasant mother is doing her work, perhaps unaware of her body's instinct toward her child.  Likewise, my mind is relentlessly engaged in evaluation of each child's needs, especially if there is a pressing concern.  In the physical world, the results of a mother's intuition manifest in countless ways that keep the child safe and well.  Food, shelter, a hug, comfort, a decision, a guiding hand, a listening moment, a timely suggestion.  With my new favorite haiku in mind, my hope is to turn my maternal instinct into action that gives each of our little ones just what they need to be healthy.