What do the Holidays mean to me now? Not an easily answered question...

I'm not sure what the holidays actually mean anymore.
To me personally, to my family, to this country that I live in.

Is this sense of dissonance due to the current sociopolitical climate? Is it a shift within my own perspective as a parent who no longer has young children to feed the magic of the season to? Is it the rabid consumerism that has been ingrained into our cultural psyche that feels terrifying when seen against the latest tax bill?

Its a positive mix of answers that can be given to each of these questions; and yet, it is truly my response - or lack of response - that has me mulling this over as I write.

Years ago, I tried to filter out the religious Christmas carols from my usual December playlist. I am not a Christian - even though I was raised in a secular Christian household.  What do I mean by that? My family celebrated the high holy days of Christianity - Easter and Christmas - but we never attended church. Christmas was about Santa Clause and Easter was about egg hunts and chocolate. The rituals of the holidays were studded with family, food, and gifts. It was all a rising crescendo that culminated in what was under the tree Christmas morning.

When I was around twenty one, my parents had the audacity to grow tired of these rituals and it was The Year Without a Christmas Tree. I was horrified. How could they not want to immerse themselves in the glory of ornaments, stockings and outdoor lights?

I understand now.

I digress, let's go back to what I was saying about Christmas Carols. So I cut out the overtly religious carols (with the exception of Silent Night because I - gonna be honest - I love singing that carol in the shower. I change the words a bit, but its in my range). This year,  I've had my ear tuned to the myth of the perfect gift - the manic buy, buy buy that is the holiday season. Cyber-Monday. Black Friday flow charts. The news reporting about whether people are spending or not. The rich getting richer, cost of health insurance going up. Its a cacophony of frantic and hyped need - for more stuff. I guess I'm not feeling like "stuff" is going to fix any of the larger problems facing my local community let alone my country.

Listening to my streaming Christmas music I've had some wayward thoughts. Why is the Grinch such a horrible person? He's mean because he doesn't give gifts. I'm not talking about the cartoon where, sure, he steals all the gifts, decor, and food - and then gives them back when his heart opens up to the magic of community. No, listen to the song - he's a Horrible Person because he doesn't want anything to do with Christmas. The song has become an iconic holiday track. Talk about scapegoating. Baby It's Cold Outside - I don't need to say anything about that song, right? Santa Baby, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Its Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas, Silver Bells... the list goes on. As I listen, I wonder what marketing firm for which department store wrote these songs. They insidiously tie the season of peace and love to the buying of gifts. Its consumer programming at its best. Brilliant.

My playlist now is all instrumental holiday music.

I didn't think about all of this for so many years because I was busy crafting the most marvelous holiday experiences for my kids. I think I wanted them to believe in the magic - of something. I wanted them to have rituals that had them taking time to be with those that they love.

Actually, it was about fifteen years ago that I realized how hollow some of the holiday traditions were - for me. Most of that hollowness (and exhaustion) had to do with the purchasing of "the perfect gift"off of the lists that we were given by family members. It was woven into decorating Christmas trees, outdoor lighting displays and participating in multiple events that required hosting or participating in heavy food laden activities. Holiday recitals, class parties, concerts and, not to be forgotten, the foray into downtown Seattle to see Santa or the Nutcracker. I never did so many holiday oriented activities when I was a child - why were we doing all of these things with our kids?

I took a survey of my children - and Andy - and asked: What is the most meaningful parts of the holiday season to you? Trimming the tree - together. Opening stockings on Christmas morning - together. Spending time with family. That was eye-opening. We made changes to our family rituals - giving gifts that we made or experiences that we could do together. We stayed in our pajamas on Christmas day and ate leftovers. I kept trying to evolve our family holiday in a way that didn't give me this hollow feeling inside. Holidays continue to evolve - shifting, changing - but the five of us (and now the six of us) try our best to find time to simply be...together.

But what I'm realizing is that perhaps my holiday experiences have never been any more hollow than the lack of meaning which is at the heart of the American Holiday Extravaganza called Christmas. In actuality, my holiday experiences have probably been more relaxed and filled with love and meaning than a lot of people's. But its all still built on a mythic house of cards that is the high holy day that is Christmas - a day set aside to celebrate the birth of a savior that isn't mine. In fact, it seems to be a segment of his followers who spew the most spite and hate in this country at the moment - and this hypocrisy never fails to astonish and sadden me. There are some beautiful, kind, compassionate devout Christians out there - I just wish their voices were being heard. I'm digressing again...

Actually, no, that's relevant. It is all of this that has had me so very conflicted. The holidays have become the perfect storm of consumerism and experiences all geared to make us happy and joyous. And wow, we American's sure put on a good show.  Its a moving feast/play/recital/shopping frenzy - with a few lovely moments spent with people that we care about.

Now, with the kids pretty much out of the house between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I am wrestling with an ambivalence that is hard to shake. And maybe that's also perfectly acceptable because I've been hosting this Christmas performance for over thirty years. I'm ready to pass the baton to the next generation - just as my parents passed it on to me. I have a hunch that there is often a holiday renaissance when little children begin to sprout on the family tree. Regardless of that, my dearest hope is that my children will think long and hard about what they choose to celebrate - and how. My hope is that they are savvy enough to understand what is spooned fed to them by our current social meme. My hope is that they've had a chance to step out of the raging river that is the dominant mindset around the holidays - and will seek out those moments of love and giving.

And I hope to be there with them as we come together to celebrate the return of the light to our dark little corner of the world.

The Elasticity of Love

When I called my mother last week she sounded so relieved. I had interrupted the gauze-like melancholia that had begun to weigh her down. She spoke about gratitude, how lucky she is, and yet there lurked a lingering despair about growing old. What she can't do anymore, what she sees in the mirror, how she doesn't sleep well.

A year ago I lived a couple miles away from my mother. Like many seniors, she lives alone. She used to reside in a 55+ community where she organized football pools, bridge games, and an assortment of social gatherings. She hated watching the ambulances pull up to the door. She hated hearing about another friend heading out on their final ride to the hospital. The community kept raising the rent and her fixed income wasn't changing - and so she moved. My sister and husband, with a deep and loving generosity, invested in a single level, ground floor condo nearby - and that's now where my mom resides. Her bridge partners come over on Tuesdays and she joins her lady friends at the local Ixtapa restaurant for happy hour.

I am not trying to condense all the facets of my mother into the above paragraph - god, no. I'm pulling out small moments and noticing how they've painted a picture in my own mind - what I've ignored, what I have not been able to deny. Perhaps by moving farther away, my time with her has become more intentional. Perhaps I've witnessed for myself how hard it can be to confront an aging body and mind. I see within her the deep well of grief; how hard it is to be the last woman standing and witness for the passing of too many loved ones. I see her desire to be held and loved, to tend and nurture. I see the fierce independence, the intelligence, and the frustration with a ever-changing technical world that won't let her feel competent.

Thinking about my mother is juxtaposed with changing dynamics in my own life. Where once I was the one who married and moved away, now my son and his wife have done so as well. This is the first holiday season that he won't be here for at least some small part of our family gathering. As happy as I am for him and the choices that he's made for his life, I still miss him. The traditions and rituals that are indelibly written in my heart this time of year are only special in relationship to those I spend time with - my family and loved ones. So I feel his absence acutely with the full understanding that THIS is the future. This is the empty nest. Where he is for the holidays is not about how much he loves me - its about the fact that his heart has expanded and loves others. I love his extended family too. No, its not a lack of love or care - it simply is a reality of adult children doing exactly what you want them to do: find love, be happy, and live a wholehearted life.


How many times did I, as a young married woman, head to another part of the state for a holiday? I moved - and took two beloved grandchildren with me. And during all of those choices - while I knew that my folks were going to miss me and mine - my husband and I made choices for our immediate family, not our extended family and certainly not taking into account what our parents wanted. My attention was focused on my marriage, the well being of my children, health insurance, good schools, careers. Exactly what I would want my own children to put first before my desires.

It's sitting here on the other side of those life decisions with my kids that brings home to me how poignant those moments were for my parents. I can empathize now in a way that I never let myself then. I had to steel myself against their anguish when we left California for the job in Washington. I didn't have time for the long phone conversations or shared vacations of my younger self. I had to make choices that didn't take their emotional happiness into account.

And I'm ambivalent about that. I kind of wish I had been better able to see and listen - even when I wouldn't change the choices that I made. I wish that my knee jerk reaction to hearing how my parents were sad or missed me - hadn't been a defensive guilt that I had let them down. I used to think that my mother was the master of all martyrs and knew just what to say to make me feel guilty. I think she often just told me how she felt and I immediately felt she was telling me that I was intentionally hurting her. I didn't know how to hear her feelings of disappointment and simply acknowledge them without taking responsibility for those feelings. I didn't know how to hold the tension between what I chose as wife and mother with being a daughter, sister, and sometimes a friend.

It is a tension. A thread that pulls us all together into a large extended family. In-laws, children, marriages, grandparents, partners. Add in careers, friends, health, new life, death, illness, geographic locations. Sometimes that thread has no elasticity. I think our culture - especially as a woman of my generation - has taught me that I must be the one to manage all those tensions all the time. Guilt, remorse, saying "I should have, could have, ought to have" - make the familial ties tender and raw.

But that's changing now that I'm on the other side of raising my kids - and watching them head off into their adult lives. It's changing as I listen to my mom talk about her day. She takes me on a journey into the twilight - the wisdom, the pain, the astonished frustration of aging in today's world. I want to be there for her on that path. I also want to share with my own children how much I miss them - and walk them through to the knowing that they having nothing to feel guilty for - that love and caring for each other, missing each other - is never a bad thing.  I miss my son right now because I have such happy memories of all our wonderful times together. That's a delightful, precious truth.

Just as my mother and father missed me. I was a delightful, precious child to them too.

Being a bright light in someone else's life can feel like a burden - but what if I accept it and simply let it be a gift of love? If I can do that, maybe I can show my own kids how its done - so they never feel that love is an unwieldy burden or an uncomfortable responsibility.

Love stretches, it holds - even when it brings tears or loneliness or grief. Even when there is laughter and joy.

You are a bright light in someone else's heart. Let that settle in.

Books and New Skins...

I've been a hoarder of books since I first discovered the Nancy Drew series when I was about eight years old. Three years later I discovered the Lord of the Rings and after that - let's just say book shelves were required in any room I called mine.

One of the best parts of college was getting to go to the campus bookstore at the beginning of each semester. As an English major, I reveled in the sheer amount of books I got to read for each class. From Plato to Faulkner, poetry to memoir, I was happy when the books started to pile up. My friends thought I was a bit odd. I worked at the college library and then moved to retail book sales. I worked in bookstores until I was pregnant with my first kid.

This was all pre-internet, of course. Books were the predominant way to explore the world - and escape the world when needed. I was quite the escape artist, being the introverted hermit that I was - and still am. For the last thirty years, my library has always been a key part of any home. Books are comfort. Books are knowledge. Certain books will always be old friends who gently remind me of who I thought I was and who I dreamed of being.

When we started the moving process that had us finally downsizing last fall, the books got packed up pretty quickly. For the most part, the library of books stayed in those boxes until this past weekend when I finished painting the built-in bookcases kindly made by Andy. Nine months had passed - nine months of one of the most profound transitions I'd ever made in my life.

And the books tell the tale.

As I unpacked and sorted through the boxes, I realized how many of the books were no longer interesting to me. I've donated hundreds of books over the years but never have I been so aware of how my own shifting interests have guided that process.

Books on organizational health and leadership - into the donate pile. Books on parenting (other than my all time favorite, Parenting from the Inside Out) - on the pile. Psychopharmacology, the old DSM-IV - goodbye. Other therapy books, psych theory, how to build a practice - gone. Taking care of an orchard, year-round gardening - heading to new homes.

There is nothing like physically moving just far enough away to find a little perspective - and figure out what really draws my gaze as opposed to what I need to be looking at to feel like a "good" parent or a "team player"; or what other people think I should be steeping myself in so I can be my 'best self" (How does anyone else really know that about someone?).

This last nine months has brought me  - time and time again - up against this question: what is important to me? And of course the follow up question is - why would I ever waste time pursuing anything that doesn't energize and excite me? Why keep books on my shelf that no longer serve me? Why hold on to old versions of who I thought I should be when it is just so easy to breathe and be myself?

Because sometime it isn't easy to set aside all that conditioning that tells us to strive for some better version of ourselves. And that image is usually generated outside of our souls by all sorts of influences - like family, society, community, age group, gender, etc. We aren't taught to be unfinished masterpieces, we're told to keep taking painting lessons until someone -someone who is not ourselves - tells us the painting is perfect.

That just isn't going to happen. There is always another someone else. And besides, the perfection "lessons" are fucking exhausting.

So I'll keep my hiking guides, creative writing inspirations, books on ecology. Children's books that are no longer in print and my first edition Simarillion. Yeats and Sagan, Palmer and Plotkin. Mysteries and sci fi, poetry and Marcella Hazan cookbooks. Books that invite me to dream.

I'll buy new books and generate new boxes of donations. New directions. New strokes on the canvas. Releasing the old, painting over old lines. Outside the lines.

A piece of poetry that I love -

Be received.

Be received by the broad earth of your worthiness

Cast off everything

Everyone else has known for you

Move gratefully from these old skins

And this time, as you toughen,

Decide

for whom?

- em claire

I like this new skin...

Standing on the deck

I am enthralled with the water.

Standing on the deck, I can look out over Burrows Bay to the Olympic mountains, Burrows Island, a marina, a state park with a peekaboo view of Lopez Island. But my eyes are drawn downward to the water itself, this ever moving, fluid body that can go from glass to white caps in what seems like a blink of an eye. One day it is a lake, the next I have waves crashing to shore. Shorebirds are scattered across the surface, diving, flying, fishing. A heron likes to stand on a lone rock that emerges as the tide withdraws.

It is at night right now, when the lowest tide of the day happens, that a completely different world is revealed. A long spit of beach appears. The water retreats back towards the channel and I can see just how shallow this part of the bay is. The light of the moon reflects off the dark masses of exposed tidal land and I feel impatient to see this in the day, when I can put on my mud boots and go wander down among the rocks.

I leave the window open at night just to hear the waves coming to shore. Depending on the weather, it is either a cacophony of stormy confusion or a rhythmic lullaby.

Logs came ashore yesterday. Today they are gone. The tidal difference is close to 9 feet in a given day.

I feel enchanted, mesmerized. I find myself standing at windows, tasks left where I dropped them.
As this new house fills with our belongings, I am almost startled to keep realizing that this is my new home.

What does it mean to live somewhere that captures your imagination everywhere you look?

I don't quite know what this new world means in relationship to my old world. That might sound a little over the top but I'm beginning to realize that Andy and I have put in motion a transition that will change so many different aspects of our lives. I suspected before, now I know.

We have so many dear friends and family who have moved all over the world in pursuit of careers, adventure, better housing options. They visit family across the country, build new networks wherever they are living, and keep in contact with old communities via Skype, Facebook and email. We haven't moved all that far from the communities of family, friends, and profession that have been ours for the past 20 years - and it still feels like a major step away to move 90 miles north. I'm coming to realize that this step has more to do with leaving behind the suburbs of Seattle - a life we chose to raise our family.

That's the difference I feel as I lean on the railing of the deck, once again contemplating the swells coming up from the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I've moved to a small town that is not a bedroom community for a major metropolitan area. There is one Starbucks coffee shop. For anyone who lives in Washington, you know that means small town. There aren't any big box retail stores within the city limits - that's a half hour drive to Burlington. I've left the suburbs where access meant everything - schools, soccer fields, 24/7 grocery stores and strip malls. Great restaurants, theater, shows.

But not this beach.

I don't know what new opportunities wait for me here. Is there work here? Projects that will entice me off this deck? I hope so...in a few months. Right now, I'm content to keep unpacking all the physical and psychic baggage that I've brought with me. A friend had the perfect metaphor - I'm walking into a new room (literally and figuratively) and the old decor doesn't work anymore. Some of it will find a way onto walls and shelves but it won't be used in the same way. I don't quite know what the new decor will be but whatever begins to align with this transition will have to include the rhythms of the sea.

Daring to Let Go

Pulling open the hall closet doors reveals fifteen years of accumulated memories. I start slowly, making piles of school supplies, arts and crafts, photo books. There's all the old stencils that I never got around to using and three new boxes of crayons. Half a dozen old school binders that only a thirteen year old would love.

We've decided to put this house up for sale in the new year.

It's a conversation that's been happening for a couple years now. Without kids in the house, where do we want to live? What kind of place do we want to call our own? What does our life together now get to look like?

We've always agreed that first things first - we'd need to move on from this home and make our way towards another one.

Selling the house is the easiest part of the equation. Letting go of this home that is permeated with so much love and joy - and some teenage angst that ruined the carpet in one bedroom - is harder to do in real time. Talking about it has been fine - actually packing up the photo books - that's been tougher.


In order to sell a house, we have to depersonalize all the living spaces. The jumble of framed pictures collected over the last twenty years has to be sorted through and packed away. Some of the pictures have stuck to the frames and need extra help to keep most of the photo intact. There's a pile of old gilded frames heading to Goodwill while the photos go into an archival box with the hopeful aspiration to scan them all and make sure everyone has copies.

Why does this matter to me?

There is a sense of holding tightly to the snapshots of bright eyed children, wedding photos and the required holiday pictures in front of the fireplace. I'm reminded of how thick the woven tapestry of this life of mine is, how it has been built on relationship bonds and shared experiences that hold me, ground me - and in some ways do not release me into the future.

I've written about what it has meant to me to live in the empty nest - that sense of retiring from the particularly long and amazing career called parenting. Moving out of this house is daring me to live into that statement - to release my children to the world, to give priority to how Andy and I - it isn't just me making these decisions - want to live our lives.  The decision also impacts my parents and my sister; friends and work partnerships. Escape velocity - mucking with the family homeostasis - is one of the hardest things I've had to do.

Leaving this house is daring me to not only accept change but dive straight into the unknown.

But first we have to box up all the albums and trinkets and hand-made Mother's Day gifts that seem to be stuck in just about every corner of this house. I cry over pictures, blubber over handwritten notes to the Easter Bunny and lovingly find places for these precious items in boxes that may or may not ever see the light of day again.

Over the years, I've come to honor the grief that accompanies any change. I have to grieve what I am leaving or releasing, and in this case, it is a house - a way of living - that encapsulated some of the most incredible years of living that I have had. We intentionally built this house as a container of joy and love. And so it has been. May it continue to be so.

The cleaning out of cupboards and the decisions about which piece of furniture is going where is easy. Processing the end of an era needs time and gentle attention - and lots of tender love. From me, for me - while holding a vibrant excitement about what is next.

The Empty Nest Fills Back Up

The empty nest fills back up pretty quick.
College summer break for one daughter. Moving from the east coast to Portland for the other daughter. Two adult children - young women - back in the house.

While the older daughter - she who left for Portland today - had hoped to be here for only a month. She was here for over two months.

I can't claim to understand how difficult it has been to be back in this house after years gone or what it is like to come back to this particular home after a year at college. What I know about that is from a completely different era.

It is simply what needed to happen.

But I can certainly feel a huge sense of relief waving my oldest daughter back out into her adulting world. Maybe we were just a rest stop on her highway - a wonderful sojourn back in the heart of her family - but wow she was ready to get out of here.

How do we love so deeply, appreciate each other so fully - and revel in our independence when we escape the Family orbit? I ask that question not only for children - but for parents as well.

Sometimes its hard for me to realize that Andy and I are actually that orbit for our kids. This house is the black hole of regression where no one forgets what you did when you were fifteen or how you can push that one button that will send your brother (or sister) over the edge. And then there is us, as the parental unit - the looks we give, the tone of voice, the worry. We can't help it. When children regress, its hard not to join in. When parents treat us like we are children, we balk but enjoy the home cooking.

I don't have the stamina for parenting anymore. Call it menopause, aging, impatience - I'm not all that willing these days to be referee, short order cook, or dictator. Its hard not to put those hats on when two adult children are here long enough to lose their 'guest' status (that shiny, I'm so happy to see you phase) and start to roost. Two more adult women in the house is nothing to be taken lightly. Powerful sisterhood or a powder keg. Sometimes both at the same time.

And nothing lasts forever. The new apartment is rented, a new job starts, the college will soon open its doors...

My older daughter - who's been desperately waiting to head out, gave me a big hug this morning as she got ready to leave. She whispered a soft thank-you in my ear. I held her close, not wanting to release her... from my orbit. Damn, I thought, she was here long enough for me to get used to her being around. I kissed her cheek, told her I love her - and let go. Again. There was a bemused look on her face - too many thoughts, feelings, experiences to voice - and so she just leaned in and kissed my cheek, letting that say all that needed to be said.

I waved her off, that little car of hers loaded to the top as she heads down to the job and roommates that she's found. Off she goes again, ready to conquer the world.

The youngest has another month and then gets to head back to her friends in Walla Walla. I'll hug her close too on that day we drop her off. I'll probably get a little teary eyed, kiss her on the cheeks and tell her how much I love her. And let go. Again.

My kids, loving and tending them, is the orbit that is so hard for me to escape. And these complicated, amazing, quirky adults, who also happening to be my children, are living their lives full steam ahead. I feel loved and appreciated. I'm happy to clean out the guest room.

Parenting may be a role, but being a mother isn't. It just is. Love without strings. Faith and hope in all the wonderful goodness that will fill their lives - and letting go. Again and again.

Renaissance

Life after kids is Good.
I could just leave it at that.

The thing is, people ask me how it feels to have the last little chick out of the nest and I tell them it is amazing - that I'm as giddy as a kid in a candy store - and that's when I get these slightly startled looks.

I share with folks how fabulous it is to be a couple again - not parents, not so-and-so's mom and dad, not the triage team. Look, I'll always be a mom, but I am really happy to not be actively parenting. I have this amazing man, my partner, best friend and lover of 28 years by my side and we are happy. If we ran through the house naked the weekend after the little chick was delivered to her college dorm - who would know? That's just a rhetorical question of course.

Those startled looks either turn wistful by this point or the grins start to appear.

Life is Good

And its kind of sad that folks seem surprised that the empty nest can be such an amazing, life-affirming time.

Look, its not all giddiness and contentment. There have been some adjustments in the rhythm here at home. I'm used to cooking like a short order chef for multiple tastes and preferences. I was used to having some little rug rat in my personal space 24/7 - and -  to keeping my cell phone next to my bed when the rug rats were out for the night. I was used to juggling my work, hobbies, and friendships around the schedules of child care. Even when said child was seventeen.

All of which has been really easy to let go of.

Getting to focus on a loving, wonderful relationship with an extraordinary man and having found myself in a professional space that I love - I've had no problem retiring from active parenting.

I don't know how I got myself here to this juncture in my life with such a grateful and optimistic attitude. Its been a joy filled experience, the care and keeping of children, but that ride is over. Sure I wonder what life has in store for me now that I have given the world three more mouths to feed but I am also really enjoying the peace and yes, the quiet, of having them move on. Granted, the youngest is home for breaks while she goes to college but she is also an adult now and its her choices and decisions that guide her onward. We're not done supporting her - in all the ways that needs to happen; however, I am done trying to manage her development. That, my friends, is an amazing burden to set down.

Besides, I have this great guy to have fun with, a house that needs to be cleaned out (such the slow process) and part-time work that is keeping me incredibly engaged and busy. I have family and friends, colleagues and students. I don't know if I just got lucky or maybe the whole 'lonely' and depressing empty nest scenario is really just another myth. I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who hit that time in their lives with pain and distress. And yet, when I think about the couples I know who have all had their children leave home - I see resilience and renaissance.

Renaissance is actually a perfect word for this time in my life.

I am going to keep answering that question about life after kids with a heartfelt "wonderful" and keep watching that startled look become a little more hopeful and thoughtful.

Cell Phone Powered Off

I guess there was a reason that I finally got a cell phone all those years ago. I was pregnant with my youngest and it seemed prudent to have a portable phone with me for emergencies. My son got a cell phone for his sixteenth birthday, again, more as a safety line while driving then a mobile computer. Of course, way back in those days (2003) cell phones were just that - simple phones that didn't even have texting capabilities. It was used when we were, well, mobile.

Technology changes and my youngest got a phone when she was about eleven. With both her siblings off at college, it felt - here's that word again - prudent to give her a way to contact me as needed. She was thirteen when I went back to work full-time and there was a thread of communication that went back and forth between us over that phone. We could text each other without it interfering with classes or meetings.

This is all probably pretty standard in most family homes these days. Kids have cell phones for all sorts of reasons - ease of communication, emergencies, juggling all those social networks and schedules. Heck, my daughter was more apt to tell me how she was feeling over text than face-to-face.

And yet...
And yet.

Okay, so the youngest child left for college over a week ago. For the last four years - all through high school - I have usually charged my cell phone next to my bed. It was silenced but on. Over these years, this daughter of mine, would often text me in the middle of the night when her own world felt overwhelming and distressful. Or she would ask me something, obviously awake at 3 am. There were nights where she was out with friends and missed checking in or curfew. There were nights that she wasn't where she had said she would be. There were nights that I got calls at 3am and there were nights that she was out with people that I did not trust. There were nights that I asked her to simply send me a 'good night' when I knew she had landed somewhere to sleep. So I knew she was safe.
It's not easy knowing about the kids who have been selling drugs, bringing guns to parties, doing meth in the girl's bathroom, going into the city for all-night raves and driving under the influence. That's the world of teenagers she kept rubbing shoulders with. I know how complicated that world is and I feel deep compassion for the struggle that so many teens have in this culture. I'd say that in some ways my daughter was drawn to suffering and her compassion put her in places that scared the crap out of me.

The thread of communication via our cell phones helped me sleep and sometimes kept me awake all night. I had too much information - and not enough. The instant communication that comes with the cell phone would be agonizing when she didn't answer at 2am. The illusion of safety when she texted me back that she was fine and at a particular agreed upon location helped me often roll back over and go to sleep. I knew it was an illusion. She could be anywhere doing all sorts of things and I really had no idea beyond the fact that she had answered in a coherent enough way to soothe my anxiety ridden brain.

One of the things I was looking forward to as she headed out to college was turning off my cell phone at night. For me, this would symbolize releasing this child of mine into her adult life. If there was an emergency she would call the house phone.

It was hard to turn my cell phone off.

I stood frozen over the power switch. How odd, I thought, watching myself. This way of worrying, this anxiety that I had to be accessible immediately to her, felt so deeply embedded.  I had been her 911 button. My fears and anxiety had helped create that dynamic in our relationship. I could taste the fear of What Might Happen if I stopped being so vigilant...

Oh.

There it was.

And I gently turned off the phone.

Vigilance is scar tissue for me from my own past. I knew enough about my fears and their voices that whisper to me in the night to realize that the only way to change this feeling was to push through and let time give me a new experience. The cell phones had simply become a tool for the fear, feeding and assuaging it at the same time.

Time is needed and I can throw some compassion my own way.

I miss my youngest child - as I miss my other daughter who lives across the country. Love and care do that to us.
And that's the soul-centered place I want to be in when I do use this amazing technology to connect with them.

Count Down to Empty Nest

The day my youngest child heads out to her new college is fast approaching. On Thursday, her dad drives her over the mountains to her new residence in a truck stuffed full of everything she thinks she will need. This multitude of boxes includes a rice cooker, an orchid and a couple dozen stuffed animals.

I have asked myself: Is she ready?

Was I?

And then I asked: Who’s not quite ready for her to leave?

I have found the dance of parenting particularly intricate with this last child. She’s the ‘baby of the family’ and she’s an only child with her siblings nine and six years older. I don’t even think I can completely understand the relationship that I have co-created - how can I see what I am so deeply embedded in? What's really important is how ready she is to get out of this house and breathe the fresh air of living her own life instead of being immersed in my protective bubble.

“I’m not sure I trust her to make good decisions.” My husband said this last night after a difficult summer that included her car being totaled. By her.

And then I asked: Can you trust your ability to love wholeheartedly knowing that the other person is on a journey that will most likely include choices that you would not make?

We, as many parents, anxiously hope that our baby will teeter into the world infused with our sage wisdom and experience. Obviously, she hasn't grown up in a vacuum, but right now she just feels the exhilaration and growing pains of becoming her own person. It’s a hard process to bring a word like trust into. It’s front-loaded with expectations, values and conditions - all geared to a parent's peace of mind. Wanting to "trust in another" is all about the person who wants, not the person who is targeted to provide. 

My husband spoke to that as well - about letting go, releasing this bundle of joy out into the universe for a purpose that is hers to explore and discover. When we let go, we start trusting that we can be separate and thrive in our different ways. We trust that whatever happens, we – parents and children - will find the strength and compassion to learn, grow and love. When life challenges our hearts, we want to have faith in our ability to move through those moments. 

We let go, because no matter what we think, we can’t ‘trust’ any other person on this planet to do exactly what we think they ‘should’.

It isn’t any surprise to me that the seemingly earth-shattering and most difficult questions we are asking as the last child packs for college are concerned with potential loss (of life, limb, sanity, trust). The fundamental questions are reverberating loudly because this time - with this change - our world axis is actually shifting. Within a couple of days, the twenty eight years of having children in the house will be history - a wonderful history that began when I was 22 years old. We are all clinging – yes, daughter included – to old dynamics even as we embrace the new. She’s giddy about college and reluctant to leave home. I’m giddy about not having kids in the house and not sure how I won’t worry about her eating habits. There’s comfort in where we’ve been even as we outgrow those old ways of being. The push and pull of this moment is larger than just one kid heading out to college.

She feels it, so do I. Our other children feel it too. My older daughter who lives on the east coast told me today that she can’t wait to see how her father and I will settle into our own relationship that isn’t centered around the care and keeping of children. She’s excited for us as a couple. So am I. 

I look forward to having my children in my life as adults, as people who know me in ways that no one else ever will and as people that I have watched grow from their very first breaths into amazing human beings. And, very soon, I get to put down the parenting hat which feels like the end of a very long marathon.

The youngest child has a few more years of moving in and out of our lives as a dependent. The marathon might be over but I'm sure we'll have a few laps around the field of support and needs. I'm optimistic. Why not? My hope is that the parent/child dynamics will begin to wane as she becomes more and more independent.

As I become more and more independent.

It’s a two way street as we both step into the changes of growing up and older.

When Letting Go, Create a new Vision

He says to me, "We need to talk tonight. I've been thinking about Jessara."
I'm slow to respond, stunned actually because I realize that he's been giving a lot of thought to something that I wasn't thinking about. Oh boy, I've got to prepare myself; I want to put off what I think is coming and ask if we can talk about it after dinner.

Sure.

As we clean up the dinner dishes, he brings it up again and I realize that I had completely forgotten about his request to talk - I'd put it out of my mind completely. I'm slightly amused at my brain's protective capacity.

The conversation unfolds.

He's been thinking about all the things we've talked about the last few months (our youngest heading off to college next fall, how we want to restructure our lives, the things we've talked about doing) and Jessara, our boat of eight years, is an 'anchor' around our financial health. Up to this point in our lives, that's been okay. We've had such grand adventures on her as a family that the costs were always worth it. We aren't using her very much anymore and she does what every boat does - she sits in the water and breaks.


Jessara off of Spencer's Spit, Lopez Island, WA

He looked up how much it would be to charter a boat - a lot less than it costs to keep one. He continues to give solid, reasonable reasons why it is a good idea for us to sell her now.

As he talks, I feel myself pulling Jessara in closer and closer to my heart.

No! Don't ask me to give her up quite yet. I don't care what I said six months ago about not going to Alaska - don't make this a logical, rational decision! So what if I'm the one who pinned you down to talk about the possibility of selling her next year...

I'm the one that cracked this conversation open in the first place and there I stood, holding on tighter than I ever had. It was like the hug you give someone that you love when you don't know if you'll see them again. It's tight and bittersweet, longer with a reluctant release. But the release has to come. You have to let go. I couldn't disagree with any of his reasons, I understood, and yet...it hurt. This man I'm married to then did something quite amazing. With an off hand comment that brought back another conversation that I had forgotten, he says, "I took a look at some of those little teardrop trailers online."

I've been forgetting a lot of things, obviously.

The death hold I had on Jessara eased off a little bit. If I was a dog, my ears would have perked forward. It was a baited hook with a different vision. The beauty of it was that he was letting me know, for the first time, the ways in which he was beginning to envision our empty nest. This wasn't me poking and prodding the poor guy - he was poking me back and pointing out that without a boat, we could pursue new adventures in new ways. He was embracing tangible possibilities - and had been - but on his own time scale. This was news to me because only a few months ago he had told me that he needed the next year to just think about change. All the possibilities that I kept talking about were raising his anxiety. We made a pact to keep everything in the 'contemplation' stage until 2015. Which was why I was surprised by what I was hearing. I was also moved.

I realized that we process life's questions in different ways which includes different time frames. He needed to have the time to think about life in the empty nest from his own perspective which tends to include things like budgets, 401k's, savings and costs. Not just those things, but they show up more in his thinking than mine.  I can't begin to tell him how much I appreciate this in our relationship. He's a programmer - logic is the language he loves. And yet he is married to me, a woman who had to drop Logic as a class because I hated it. Ack - all those rules drove me crazy.

One of the many choices - More about Serro Scotty Trailers

So there we were. Making a major decision to change the way we live by selling our boat.

I cried a few tears of sadness - because letting go needs to honored - and then sat quietly for a long moment before I looked up, a gleam in my eye and asked -

"Do you know how many National Parks there are in this country?"

He just sighed - and smiled.



A little bit about Jessara can be found at Jessara's Voyage

Conversations about New Beginnings

It was about twenty six years ago that I signed on for a particular job that has defined my life in ways I never expected.


young parents who had no idea
what was about to happen to their lives
 

Job Description: The care and support of three children. Sometimes known as raising a family. No prior experience necessary. On the job training provided whether you like it or not. Hours: 24/7.  Possibility for advancement – only if you count potty training and ability to drive a car at 16 as liberating moments.

Luckily, I didn’t have to do this alone but I have been the primary caregiver for three precocious children who are now becoming three amazing adults. With my youngest now sifting through college brochures and getting ready to turn eighteen this fall an odd thought occurred to me: In about eighteen months, I’m going to be retiring from this raising a family gig – whether I like it or not. Active parenting will be shifting into a very different role where it is no longer my job to protect, guide and provide 24/7 support and triage.

I could say quite a lot about women and roles and what I’ve learned along the way about the choices that I made – but that’s in the past now. I look at these kids of mine and think they are pretty damn cool. I think they’ve done most of that for themselves – with a little help from the parenting pit crew. The courage and strength I see in them humbles me and I ask myself – is that courage living within me as well?

Andy and I had a chance to talk this past weekend as we wandered around Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. I told him how I love the San Juan Islands and felt more at home in Friday Harbor than I did in our current community. And then I even went a step further and told him that I may want to live up there on a more permanent basis – after our youngest is off to college.

He asked me why – in a very thoughtful and receptive way which gave me the space to answer in kind. I was able to share with him my love of the ocean and land that makes up the ecology of the islands. I grew up on the beach and the ocean makes me happy. I told him how I liked the fact that there isn’t a Costco, Wal-Mart or Home Depot around the block nor is there a Starbucks, McDonald’s or Applebees on the corner. Even the market is independently owned. In the winter the town is quiet; many shops are closed from January through March. In the summer, the farmer’s market brings in produce from all the local islands. It is fun watching the farmers pull up to the docks and unload bucket after bucket of freshly cut flowers. I feel the simplicity of contentment.

It was a good conversation.

I’m noticing how I am questioning all sorts of values and ways that I live my life. At some point, it won’t matter what school district we live in or if we have enough space for three kids, a dog and, on average, two cats. After all these years of being anchored to live in a particular area, I’ve got to be honest, I’m looking forward to considering what is important to me as Andy and I adjust to living as a couple.

Maybe it’s a pipe dream – I don’t know yet. What I do know is that these conversations that we are having as a couple are very important. We need to speak about what our expectations are – the stories in our head about what life without kids running around underfoot means. We are having conversations about our values and beliefs, sharing what dreams are calling us into the future and what fears we have as well.  This is just the beginning of a dialogue that will be years in the making.

I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.- Douglas Adams

Planting the Blueberry Bushes Anyway

I am very aware today that time is marching on.

My 24 year old daughter is leaving the northwest tomorrow to head east for work and living. Watching her sort through the boxes that have been collecting dust up in the attic of her childhood and college years has certainly brought home the fact that she is putting her life in order so that she can move full throttle into her adulthood. I’m thrilled to see her reaching for her dreams. I’m delighted that she’s been so smart about it. I’m glad that when I buy chocolate now, it will be there when I want it.

She moved back in for about 3 months while transitioning from a job and traveling across the globe.  It isn’t the easiest thing to have an adult child move back in but we were all pretty clear that the only way it would work was if it was temporary.  We have a great relationship – and no one wanted to regress. She didn’t want parenting. I didn’t want to parent her. We all tried - success was marginal.

I’ve got one child still at home who has the honor of receiving the gift of my parenting – and she turns eighteen this year. This is where I start hearing that marching beat. One child married, the other moving back east and the youngest looking at colleges and figuring out when she’s going to take the SAT.

This really does have something to do with blueberry bushes.

See, the thing is I’ve always tended to plot out projects two or three years out – especially in regards to the yard. I planted asparagus last year which means next year I get to harvest it. I almost didn’t plant it.  This winter, I’ve decided to remake some of my garden space into beds that require lower maintenance. I don’t want quite so much to tend this year – or any year after, actually.  So why plant anything at all especially if it’s going to take a while for certain bushes – like blueberries or raspberries – to get big enough to bear fruit?

The answer is simple enough – I have no idea what I will be doing in 2-3 years. I don’t have a crystal ball. So why not plant the blueberry bushes and raspberry vines? I can sow wildflowers in the other beds and let pumpkins grow wildly throughout the space.  Here’s my epiphany: I don’t need to continue to tend the garden in the same way that I have in the past.  

I am not tending my children in the same ways I have in the past either.  It’s all about letting go.

The blueberries are planted now, taking over space that was devoted to rows of vegetables last year.  They’ll need a little water now and then, maybe a trim – but other than that, I’ll just let them grow and flourish on their own.