The March wind blows through my still-damp hair, impeding my vision and tangling the curl beyond any possible repair. Impulsively I raise my hands to my face in yet another futile attempt to keep its tickling tendrils away from my mouth and nose, out of my irritated eyes, wishing I’d remembered something with which to tame its enthusiasm. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing window pane—myself and my taken-on-a-life-of-its-own head of hair, dancing its own wild dance of joy while I swat and swing and shove it away in fit of frustration.

My hair has gotten out of control.

The March wind blows through my well-ordered days, scattering my schedule like scraps of paper, carrying away my best-laid plans in its cold, ghastly gusts. Impulsively I reach to grab it all, to pull every moment tight to my chest in yet another futile attempt to keep the ticking of time away from the sacred sanctuary I long to create within this spiraling space that is our family. I regard my face in the mirror—I am losing the battle against Time, wearing my weariness across my forehead, under my eyes, around my mouth, while he laughs raucously at my frantic flailing in his general direction.

My life has gotten out of control.

I regard them both, my curls and my calendar, attempting to determine what more may be cut away—an inch or two here, an activity or so there—but I am unable to discern what will best flatter my face or fit my family. I have been here before—I have trimmed away and I have let grow, sometimes even drastically, and yet here I am again with my clarity obscured by my bangs hanging in my eyes.

Would that I could restrain time in the same manner I subdue my hair, placing it under my control with a simple twist of the wrist. To be able to braid together my work, my family, my talents and interests, and to not have them come immediately unraveled with the first innocent, carefree toss of my head. I do not desire to cut—I desire to tame. I don’t know if taming is possible. I will find out in time.

The March wind blows through my spirit, ushering in a new season in its typical blustery way.

Impulsively I brace myself for its changes with my usual mix of anxiety and anticipation—reminding myself that just as the blue skies eventually follow these months of gray, clarity usually comes after these times of confusion.

As for today, we are finally having one of those sunny and blue-skied days, and I decide I would be wise to take advantage of it. Pulling back my hair, I bundle up against the windy blasts and abandon my agenda to rustle around in the bottom of the coat closest in search of the kite.

Because when the wind is out of control, it’s time to let something fly.

family life motherhood overload reflection