My neighbor to the east has at least a dozen ancient fir trees on his property. They're taller than the house, though still not as tall as the willows along the fence line. While their quiet dark green blends in with the other trees in summer, they are conspicuous in winter, especially in the early morning, silhouetted black against the lightening sky.

I sip coffee and look out my kitchen window at their familiar, imposing outlines. How many years have I stood in this kitchen, sipping coffee early in the morning, looking out at those same trees? It feels comforting and yet it brings a certain restlessness. When does routine turn into rut?

My son, who it seems yesterday was the baby on my hip, folds his lanky frame into a chair to eat his breakfast. The view from my window is the same, but here in my house my children are changing before my eyes into teenagers. This keeps things interesting.

As they grow and change, I wonder—am I? Am I growing and shifting, learning enough to keep ...