Dear Sam,
I am starting this last post one month and two days before we will drop
you off at your college dorm room and walk away. My chest is tight just thinking about
it. How can we possibly? How can we not?
This summer, it has been ever more apparent that you are ready to
fly. I have this sense when we are in a
room together, that you are like a gigantic bird. You are trying to take flight, and my arms
are wrapped around your waist, weighing you down, holding you in place. I won’t do that, even metaphorically. You are heading into some of the best years
of your life, and I am excited for you.
I can’t help but feel the tug of nostalgia, on the cusp of this goodbye,
however. You are ready and it is right,
but I’ll miss you.
Have I taught you everything there is to teach? Before you go, are there lessons I have
missed? I guess it is too late,
now. You know I’m here, but it’s on you
now.
Last weekend, I had one of those lovely, rare hours at the lake when
everyone was occupied. We were between
meals and all the dishes were done.
There were no immediate chores to attend to. It was a cool, cloudy day, but nevertheless
most of your siblings were down at the water.
You were at work. I took myself
out onto the deck with a glass of wine and an excellent book to spend an hour
in one of my favorite ways. It happened
to be one of those rare moments when I had had just enough wine and the book
was just the right kind of magic (how I wish I had shared this love of reading
with you!). The alchemy of a beautiful
place and a lovely glass of wine and a fantastic book and a rare moment of
blissful solitude created an afternoon that just sparkles in my memory. I underlined fiercely and even took notes in
the margin (who takes notes in novels they read for fun? Your mother, and I’m not sorry even while I
simultaneously acknowledge how odd it is).
I was reading a book about a daughter and father so naturally, my
thoughts turned first to your beloved grandpa, my dad, and then, inevitably to
all of you. One quote caught my eye, and
I share it here.
“Mothering seemed like downhill skiing, or cooking elaborate meals from
scratch—sure, anyone could learn how to do it, but it was much easier
for the people who had seen other people do it first, and well, from a very
young age” This Time Tomorrow, by Emma Straub (p 217).
You’ll never be a mother, of course, but maybe you’ll be a parent
someday. Will you look back on these
years when your dad and I bumbled and struggled and messed up and loved you
hard in between all the mistakes and think we taught you well, and from a young
age? Time will tell, I guess. I hope so.
And then there was this.
“Alice knew that she didn’t have much time. There was that word again! No wonder there were so many songs about
time, and books about time, and movies about time. It was more than hours and minutes, yes, but
Alice could see how much each of those mattered, all those tiny moments added
together. She felt like a walking
needlepoint pillow—The way you spend your days is the way you spend your
life.” (P 244) All those tiny
moments mattered, Sam. They still
do. I believe my biggest regret as a mom
will always be that I rushed too much. I
love being the mom of many, and indeed believe all the intensity of my
mother-love on fewer of you would have been far worse than the diluted version
of me that you got, but there was always so much to do--so many tasks and
chores and obligations. I so wish I had
managed to slow down more. I really
tried, though, know that I really tried hard.
It is not in my nature to take life on at an easy pace. I’m a leaper and a doer—rarely much for
pondering or lingering. So, you got the
mom you got, and I got the child you are and we rattled our way through it, day
by day. We spent our days. We are spending our lives.
So that brings me to my final bit of advice, and it’s perhaps a bit
ironic given what I just said about taking it slower. Leap in and LIVE, Sammy. Don’t have regrets about staying comfortable
or safe, choosing a nap over an experience, or taking the secure route over one
that leads to adventure. You are smart
and strong and kind and brave. Make your
life into the stuff of your dreams. I
love this quote from the movie Meet Joe Black, and I’ll end with it
here. In the scene I’m quoting, a father
is advising his daughter on an important life decision. Emphatically, he tells her,
“I want you to get swept away out there.
I want you to levitate. I want
you to sing with rapture and dance like a dervish.”
He goes on and his daughter scoffs a little at his enthusiasm. The father begins to back off, but eventually
the daughter says, “Give it to me again, but the short version this time.”
“Ok,” he says. “Stay open. Who knows? Lightening could strike.”
Chase the lightening of your life, buddy.
Get swept away. Sing, dance,
love, live. Before you go, stay
open. Lightening could strike.
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