The best way to keep children at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires.
― Dorothy Parker
As graduation day nears, as the young man marches forth to accept his diploma, I know. I know it’s time. I know he’s ready. I know this summer will be fraught with weirdness as we negotiate a new normal – one that involves an adult man-child and the expectations of a family that still operates according to an odd set of unspoken but agreed upon terms.
I’ve been examining my grief. It’s a helpful thing to observe one’s own emotions without attaching a positive or negative value. My grief, nonsensical at times as grief tends to be, is not borne of fear or loss. My grief seems to be consistent with the ordinary pain of change, infused with a touch of nostalgia for what was.
I have penned plenty about my parenting. The early years were not easy for me and few things rival the difficulty I experienced with toddler and newborn, aside from my mother’s death when I was a child. The truth is, those things that take you to the end of yourself are the things that bring the best kind of pride. This is true of my parenting.
And yet, the hardest years, the best years, result in a human being that must leave. This is the design. But what do we do as parents, with our own growing up, with our own formation and rewiring? Does it go to waste when they launch?
So, what do we do when it is no longer appropriate for a mother or father to supply what mothers and fathers supply? Where does all of this go? We have an endless stream, it seems, of adoration and words and planning and anticipating. We are gifted in remembering the mundanity of odd dates and nonsensical facts. Gifted in anticipating all the horrid tragedies that might occur and planning for every eventuality. We know how to stop and appreciate a fresh bloom or the scent of a memory. We know how to nurture. The mothers and fathers who feel are the mothers and fathers who know. They know the odd way their child’s eyes glass over when they’re sick, they know the odd tone in a voice that needs to spill, they know the twist in their gut when things aren’t adding up and an investigation must ensue.
And tell me. What happens to these skills I’ve developed, the sixth sense I’ve honed? What happens to the gut rumbles and the swirling middle-of-the-night thoughts that crack open the aforementioned investigation? Where do these priceless nuggets, the hidden gems of knowing go when the children disappear? It seems too great a set of skills to squander.
And yet, I’m tired. It is time to release and watch what happens. It is time to see if the man-child will flop or fly, sink or swim. I shrug my shoulders and send him off, into the world to figure it out. I’ve used far too many words as it is, he seems to know everything anyways.
Last week I attended and co-facilitated at the She is Called Conversation in Denver. Fifty women, some mothers, some not – all in touch with their unique beauty and femininity – descended into one room. A holy power displayed itself as our entire femaleness was brought to the table to be examined and celebrated and empowered. And the power of this strength oozed through the created spaces, palpable and heavy, altogether too much to contain for the force and wonder of it all.
This overwhelming, curated beauty will change the world. My work of parent a piece of this beauty, a slice of this offering, for the work is not complete. The world needs mothers. The world needs parents – not to fix, but to nurture, to smooth, to hold accountable with the highest of motivations. Love. This, offered to us by the One who entrusts us to the work of Love and Light in the world, through our being. Not our doing, our being ourselves.
The parent path only exacerbates what already was. My work of mother, of honing these unformed beings, has shaped me deeper into my own becoming. The work of mother and parent curates what is already there – growing wholeness, beauty, and the fiercest fire.
So what do I do as my fledglings fly one by one by one? I dive deeper into who I already am and I continue the work of mother, of parent. I continue the work of Light and Love. I continue the work of being – exactly as I was made to be.
The path of parent is not linear. The path of parent goes round and round and upside and downside and through and over and in. We become, we shed, we realign, and we press into the spaces that need our touch, our questions, our curiosity, and our nurturance. We partner with the need in our communities and offer hope into our spaces. We take our hardened edges, entrusting them to the smoothing of compassion and mercy. Through empathy we seek to understand and find the intersections – where light seeps into the cracks of our community’s connections.
The path of parent is one of pouring out and filling up. Emptying and filling on repeat.
The path of parent demands reverence. The mistakes, the successes, the failures have all intertwined themselves into a beautiful milieu of humanity that pulsates with life. New life with shared purpose, building anew our communities and spaces.
May we believe in what we know, what rumbles in our bellies. May we with confidence look upon the successes and failures and mistakes and believe in homecomings and second chances and redemptive resurrections.