| Time is a funny thing. Some say it runs from beginning to end, others in circles or dimensional plains, some say it moves too fast and others say it moves too slow, some even believe it lives in a bottle. I am fond on Einstein’s commentary, “time is what keeps everything from happening at once.” In the last few months, I have been moving my memory through time……or perhaps I have been moving time through my memories? With a slower pace of being and some big transitions with relationship, work, and family I have been able to revisit the archives of my life with a lens of contemplation, reevaluation, reintegration, nostalgia, and of course a few sour doses of, “if I knew then what I know now.” As of late, this Robin bird is sitting in an empty nest. From the perspective of nature, this mamma trusts my children are well equipped to take to the sky. They are strong, resourceful, and deliberate in how and where they land. They can find their way through storms and unpredictable seasons. From the perspective of intellect, I know they are also fit for success, happiness, love, and a life of wonder and exploration. However, despite all this sensibility, it is the perspective of the heart that has me perched at the edge of time. I have a million memories of their evolution and our years of closeness, many of which they themselves don’t recall. Isn’t that an odd fixture in the scene of innocence? To not remember the nuances and development of our youth? I have been thinking much about wonderment lately…. encouraging myself to feel and see the world with awestruck eyes. I recall when my eldest son first felt and tasted rain on his face and when my youngest first played with bubbles in the bath. They were mesmerized by monsoon rain drops and dewy suds and there was nothing more alive than their openness to such simple experiences. Their exhilarated expressions of astonishment and curiosity where beyond breathtaking. The world could have stopped spinning and that experience alone would have been enough for a perfect life. The more present you are in the simple moments, the richer you will become. What of the memories that sour my gut? Those times when I was less than an ideal mother; young, naive, clouded and dysregulated by a dark past and heavy circumstance, riddled with red-head irritability and bouts of depression; often scared, tired, chronically ill, and uncertain of the ways of the world and how to direct, lead, and navigate through systems inherently contrasted to my values. I’d like to think that my imperfection as a mother and my apparent humanness broke unrealistic standards or expectations in relationship and life. How heavy are the standards we hold? Is it necessary? What about all those years I gave my time to multiple jobs and community instead of them? Yes, it paid the bills and filled a sense of purpose. But did it leave a deficit in the account of connection? Probably, to some degree. A sacrifice many single parents are forced to make. Silver lining: I attribute much of their industrious, independence, hard work, and exceptional critical thinking skills to the fact that I wasn’t around. We will call that “Latch Key Lessons”, and they accepted the challenge. Should’a, could’a, would’a is trail of rumination that takes me so far down a hole there is no shadow, just cold, black stuckness. That is pain…cold, black stuckness. I won’t live there, but I will reflect on it, learn the way out and close the door behind me. Regret has no room in a life worth learning from and parental guilt and shame are a weighted jacket I am learning to remove, one tight sleeve at a time. Parents, be kind and forgiving to yourself. One of the earliest practices for me as a parent was to let go of my ideas of who I thought they would be, and encourage them to become who they wanted in their most authentic self, even if I misunderstood or disagreed, which was rare but fierce when present. After all, it is their life and though I had responsibility and influence, they have never been ‘mine’. The evidence is clear, they are exceptional young men. And even clearer, not because of me but because of who they choose to become. I did my best and so are they. We all choose our own way. It’s a difficult passage when you’ve built a life and identify around raising your kids and preparing little humans for adulting. Then one day, on the 18th ish year, they are out of the house and no longer taking 40-minute showers, playing loud music, chilln on the couch, or asking what’s for dinner. The silence is eerie and contemplative, and necessary. Every visit home is a special occasion. Perhaps time is best measured by quality of experience and love, not hours, days or years. The other day I had lunch with my dad, who has also become my best friend, and he couldn’t believe his baby girl (that’s ME) was 45 and experiencing peri-ish-menopause. It was just yesterday when we had that awkward conversation about him stopping on the way home for tampons. His grandchildren are now adults. I can only imagine the world through his eyes and I wonder how his perched heart feels. Transitions are hard. I trip on goodbyes, so I will find my footing in the hello of this new era. My relationship will my kids will evolve into adult years (all willing), and I am eager for this new novel to reveal itself. Though no longer under this mama bird’s watch, I delight in their flight and will forever keep a cozy nest. With love, Robin |
