“Rippling refers to the fact that each of us creates—often without our conscious intent or knowledge—concentric circles of influence that may affect others for years, even for generations. That is, the effect we have on other people is in turn passed on to others, much as the ripples in a pond go on and on until they’re no longer visible but continuing at a nano level. The idea that we can leave something of ourselves, even beyond our knowing, offers a potent answer to those who claim that meaningless inevitably flows from one’s finiteness and transciency.”  -Irvin Yalom. Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death (2009)

Twenty-two years ago, Mother’s Day was on May 9th, just like this year in 2021. That year, my daughter was three days old. I don’t know where the time has gone—an instant and forever at the same moment. 

Mother’s Day was joyous that first year—and many other years as well—but I’m mixed about the day. For so many, the day is a reminder of loss, words unspoken, loneliness. There have been a number of years where all I felt was a sense of failure, of not being a good mother or a grateful daughter. 

A writing mentor read the quote at the beginning of this post to me a few weeks back. I was sharing all the thoughts that have accompanied my question, “Does this story matter?” Irvin Yalom, an existential psychiatrist and author of many books, asks the question, “How should we live?” as an answer. Living with the awareness that our lives live on in others makes the act of creation profound. Each story, act, choice—lives on.

Create. There are ways to birth, many of which do not involve bringing off-spring into the world. Think of the ways a hand on someone’s shoulder can ripple into the world—kindness, compassion, forgiveness.

Tend. Practice living as though we are creating more of whatever we do. Stretch. 

Release. I’ve said that I’d know I’d done a decent job as a mother when I worked myself out of a job description, when my kids no longer needed me. That statement needs revision. If we think of rippling as a metaphor for mothering, our work in the world is never done. We will always matter beyond ourselves. Scary—and, a gift.

Waves and streams and ripples. On and on and on.