The Lotus and The Mud

Yesterday I was on a webinar for new parents at the university my daughter is preparing to go to in a few short months. I took pages of notes about what needs to happen, when, and how. “It’s going to suck telling her all this stuff,” I thought to myself. My daughter has always been fiercely independent (not unlike me), but now more than ever she’s determined to make her own way.

My role has been relegated to stagehand. I set the scene so the actor can act. Once I’ve done my bit, I retreat into the darkness and make myself scarce until I am needed again. My daughter, like most eighteen-year-old young women I know, is the star of her life right now. She’s busy living the life of a celebrity and has lost sight of the little people who helped her get where she is today.

Yesterday, when I was wallowing in nostalgia, wishing I had more than a fleeting to-do list to connect me with my daughter, I let myself feel the heaviness of my sadness. And as I settled into the darkness, the image of a lotus came into my mind. 

“That’s it,” I thought to myself, “she is the lotus blossom and I am the roots.” I am in the dark, her dark, right now. I am under the surface, rooted in the mud and she is above the water, basking in the light of the day.

I was comforted by this image. I remember when I was the center of the universe, when I couldn’t give my mother any credit for anything she did. To do so would be to deny my own glorious presence. I too rose above my mother. I left her in the murky waters below so I could unfurl my petals in the sun. Now it’s my turn to be the roots.

Like my daughter, I was always connected to my mother. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I needed her. I needed her to remind me of deadlines, to provide me with a trunk to pack for college, to feed me dinner every night. But during most hours of the day, I revelled in my independence, dismissing the hard work that helped get me where I was. 

The lotus, while it rises from the mud without stains, as if to deny the very earth from which it came, receives a steady flow of nourishment from the roots below. And how beautiful a sight the lotus flower is.

As I sat in the webinar yesterday thinking about packing up my daughter to send her 1200 miles away, I filled myself with worry about all the things that could go wrong — missing housing deadlines, not getting the right classes, getting a shitty roommate. My worry compounded as I anticipated my daughter’s resistance to accepting help from me. 

The lotus, often referred to as a living fossil, dates back 145 million years. The lotus is hardy and resilient; it is strongly rooted and survives in even the most destructive conditions. 

Being in the dark, under the water is thankless, and it’s also a little bit scary. Down under, you can’t see clearly what’s happening above the surface. It’s an act of trust and faith to believe that everything will be okay up there. 

At night, the lotus petals close up, settling down for the night. The splendid exhibit of beauty shutters itself into the darkness along with the roots below. It’s a lot of work to be so magnificent and the lotus needs time to get rest and nourishment. Down under, the roots are always connected, a slow steady flow of energy that supports the lotus flower to open up into the light each day. 

I know my daughter will be okay next year because even if she’s not okay, I’ll be here, soggy, muddy roots reminding her that she’s got support and love and back up. It’s hard right now; parenting is all work and no fun. But this isn’t the full story. 

Every morning when the lotus reemerges, opening herself up to the sun, she is basking in her glory, but she is also gathering energy to feed her roots. This is motherhood. I’ve survived this long under water because I’ve received a steady supply of sunlight for eighteen years. 

I’ve had it all wrong. Right now my daughter’s independence is the sunlight. This is what is actually feeding my roots. She’s where she is supposed to be because she’s taken the nourishment I’ve offered and she’s strong and vibrant, looking towards the sun. 

Next year when my she goes to college and takes care of her business and lives her life and hopefully finds great fulfillment and joy, she’ll be the long-distance lotus. And I’ll be here, rooted if she needs me.