My Mother Understood Something I Didn’t
The hidden gift in ordinary moments—and the rhythm of joy we inherit
There are certain things you grow up believing are simply the way the world works.
One of those things, in our house, was that you made your bed before you left for the day.
That was not exactly presented as a philosophical concept. It was simply part of the natural order of things, like brushing your teeth or closing the door behind you. You got up in the morning, you got dressed, and before you walked out of your room, you made your bed.
Now, I will say this for my mother: she was not harsh about it. But she did believe that a home had a certain rhythm to it, and part of that rhythm was keeping things in order.
And boy howdy, if someone walked into your room and that bed was still unmade, well… that would definitely not reflect well on you.
So yes, I was taught to make my bed.
But something else was happening in our house that I did not understand until many years later.
My mother understood something about me long before I understood it myself.
Our mornings were lively.
We had one bathroom and three adults trying to get out the door and into the world at roughly the same time. Which meant the mornings carried a certain kind of energy. Someone brushing their teeth. Someone knocking lightly on the door. Someone calling down the hallway that they were almost done.
And always, in the background, the radio.
First thing in the morning, the radio was on.
It was simply part of the house waking up.
The voices of the announcers, a little music here and there, the low hum of sound that made the kitchen and hallway feel alive before the day had even properly begun.
Those mornings were not rushed in the frantic way people sometimes imagine now. They were busy, certainly, but they had a kind of natural rhythm to them.
And right in the middle of all that movement, there was often one small interruption that belonged entirely to me.
Sometimes, on my way out the door, I would suddenly stop.
I would walk over to the piano.
And I would play just a little tune.
Nothing elaborate. Nothing long. Just a few notes, sometimes a melody that had been running through my head. But I felt almost compelled to do it before leaving the house, as if something inside me needed that brief moment of music before stepping into the rest of the day.
Which meant, of course, that once in a while the bed did not get made.
I was busy getting ready, finding my books, navigating the bathroom schedule, and occasionally stopping to play the piano before I left.
And when that happened, my mother would quietly say something that I did not fully appreciate at the time.
She would say, almost casually, “Honey, if you don’t have time to make your bed this morning, that’s alright. I’ll do it after you leave.”
At the time, I assumed she was simply being helpful.
But now I realize she was doing something much deeper.
She was recognizing something about her daughter.
My mother had her own rhythm of joy.
And interestingly enough, it lived in something many people would consider rather ordinary: cleaning the house.
She loved having the house neat and orderly. Not in a rigid way, but in a way that made the space feel peaceful and alive.
First thing in the morning it was the radio.
Later in the afternoon, when the day had settled a bit, the music would change.
If she could persuade me to help her stack the records, sometimes she would put those on. But most often it was the music from her favorite gospel station.
And while she cleaned, she sang.
Not dramatically. Not as though she were performing for anyone.
She just sang along as she moved through the house.
Dusting.
Straightening.
Making beds.
Changing sheets.
As a child, I remember watching her and thinking something rather funny.
I assumed she was singing because cleaning house must be terribly boring.
So she was entertaining herself while she worked.
But now, looking back with the perspective of many years, I realize something entirely different was happening.
She was not singing in order to make the work bearable.
She was singing because she was happy.
That was where her rhythm lived.
There was a look she sometimes had on her face while she was moving through the house with the music playing. A kind of peaceful concentration, almost as if her thoughts were traveling somewhere lovely while her hands continued their work.
And I never understood that as a child.
But I understand it now.
The other day, something small happened that brought all of this rushing back to me.
I was changing the sheets on my bed.
Not first thing in the morning, the way I had been taught all those years ago.
Just later in the day when it needed to be done.
I lifted the sheet and let it fall gently across the mattress, and for just a moment it floated through the air before settling down.
And something inside me shifted.
I felt unexpectedly light.
It was the strangest sensation, because the moment felt so ordinary, and yet it carried with it the exact same feeling I used to experience when I was a teenager standing outside under an enormous blue sky.
That feeling of openness.
Of possibility.
Of life stretching out endlessly ahead of you.
For just a moment, I felt almost… exalted.
And suddenly I thought of my mother.
I thought about her singing while she cleaned.
I thought about the music in the house.
I thought about the mornings with the radio playing.
And I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.
I had stepped, without even noticing it, into my own rhythm of joy.
For years I believed the lesson was about making the bed.
About discipline.
About starting the day properly.
And those things certainly have their place.
But now I see that something much more beautiful was happening all along.
My mother was not just teaching me responsibility.
She was also making space for the way I moved through the world.
She could see that my mornings belonged to creativity.
That sometimes I needed to play a few notes on the piano before leaving the house.
That my rhythm did not always look exactly like hers.
And instead of forcing me into her rhythm, she quietly supported mine.
She still taught me how to care for a home.
She still expected me to be responsible.
But she understood that joy has a rhythm, and that each person finds it in slightly different ways.
Hers lived in the music playing while she cleaned.
Mine lived in a piano melody before stepping out into the day.
Now, when I think back on those mornings, the lesson about making the bed feels much smaller than the lesson she was actually teaching.
The real lesson was about recognizing where joy lives.
Sometimes it lives in the satisfaction of a tidy room.
Sometimes it lives in the quiet pleasure of music playing through the house.
And sometimes it lives in the simple moment when a sheet floats gently down onto a freshly made bed and, for reasons you cannot quite explain, your spirit lifts with it.
My mother understood that rhythm long before I did.
And like so many things our mothers quietly give us, it took many years before I realized what a gift that understanding truly was. ✨
If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join me here.
Deronda Aiken
Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be noticed.