Letting Go...

Saturday was a difficult day for me. Matt and Cindy are both enrolled in college classes this fall, and I knew that their first Philosophy paper was due Saturday night--along with a big test over the first unit--and I was worried because when I spoke to them on Friday, they still hadn't finished either. I avoided giving them a lecture on the consequences of procrastination, instead encouraging them to call me for help--regardless of what time it was or how close to the deadline they finished.

So Saturday rolled around, and I tried not to think about it. I puttered through my day, took the dog for a walk. Watched a movie with my husband. Tried not to watch the clock. I finally broke down and called around 3pm (my time), and Matt assured me that they had everything under control, that they would call if they needed me.

They never called.

I went to bed Saturday night, my mind racing in big loops that had me staring at the dark ceiling until close to 2am. Matt finally called the next day: they had both finished their papers and tests and turned them in on time, and had both earned perfectly respectable grades (I suppose it's easy to grade assignments really quickly when you don't write a SINGLE comment, but simply post a score...but that's a whole other rant.) I read Matt's paper, and was really impressed with the quality of his ideas about choosing "The Middle Path" and with his structure, style, and tone; it was just a bit short of the minimum length requirement, which is what prevented him from earning an "A."

And Matt was thrilled. Proud. He'd done it all on his own, and he'd succeeded. When he asked for his dad so he could tell him all about it was when the realization hit me...

It was better for him if he could do it for himself and get a decent grade than it would have been to have my help and received a perfect grade. This was perhaps my greatest downfall as a parent--that I had trouble letting go, letting them succeed or fail on their own. After all, I reasoned, with my help, I could ensure their success. What I didn't realize was that in their minds, it then became my success, and actually undermined their confidence in their own ability to succeed on their own.

What's frustrating is that I'm coming to this conclusion now, when they're 19 and (almost) 22. You know that old cliche about hindsight being 20/20? So true. Four years after he grew up and left home, and four months after the birth of his first child, I'm finally learning the importance of letting go...

Time

Time is such an intangible thing.

It comes, it goes, we lose track of it. It weighs on our hands and on our minds, it crawls by, and it flashes by at the speed of light.

I’m turning forty in a few months, and suddenly, time has become a tangible, frightening, and precious commodity. I don’t have nearly enough of it, even when it’s crawling by. I feel guilty for those times when I wish it would go more quickly, but sitting in a crowded doctor's office with a roomful of sick people, I find it hard to cherish the moment. Especially when my “To-Do” list has carried over onto the third page in my planner, and everything on it has a deadline of yesterday.

When did my life get so busy? But then again, when was it not?

A reader is born

"Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war because of the air raids..."

I learned to read words when I was three, but it was in my first-grade classroom that I encountered literature for the first time. Each day after lunch, we laid our heads on our desks, my teacher turned off the lights, and for thirty minutes, she read to us.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was my introduction to the world of fantasy, the world of literature, the world of imagination. I remember the first day she read to us quite vividly--the scents, the sounds, the images that surrounded me--even after all this time. I remember how the classroom was arranged, where my desk sat, and the posters on the wall. I remember her voice, soft and melodious, rising and falling in a rhythm unique to that particular story. I remember how the language and style fascinated me, was like nothing I'd ever heard or read before...

Most of all, though, I remember my wonder and awe.

That day, in that classroom, a first-grade teacher found the right book for the right child at the right time, and a reader was born.

Thank you, Mrs. Jones. And thank you, Mr. Lewis. You have both enriched my life immeasurably.

When Looking Backwards Helps us Move Forward

"Responsibility does not only lie with the leaders of our countries or with those who have been appointed or elected to do a particular job. It lies with each of us individually. Peace, for example, starts within each one of us. When we have inner peace, we can be at peace with those around us."--the Dalai Lama

Things I learned this month:

(1) We often speak to avoid listening, using language as a defense mechanism--to build a wall that helps us to maintain a safe emotional distance from others and ourselves.

(2) The need for constant distractions is a sign that we are avoiding being alone with ourselves.

(3) Feeling passionate about the world around us is natural and good, in spite of our academic inclination to value reason over emotion, and in fact, many of us who find our home in academia do so because it's one place where we can avoid emotion and still be considered "normal."

Moments of clarity...

Life whirls along at a frightening pace sometimes, with so much to do and so little time that it's easy to get caught up in the "To-Do" lists and forget that life is a journey, and that each moment should be savored. With the end of the semester and 187 final projects to grade (not to mention the half dozen or so panicked students who "forgot" the class was ending and that assignments were due), a four-hour NCOA graduation ceremony on Thursday night, a trip down to Seward on Friday and Saturday, and then a whirlwind of household chores to wrap up on Sunday, you would think that I would have fallen into this trap over the weekend; I certainly have in the past, but this weekend, I resisted. Here were my moments of clarity:

(1) Lonnie dragged me to the NCOA graduation ceremony, and I was prepared for a long evening of stilted conversation and boredom. The only other woman at our table was about my age and pregnant with twins. I thought: We won't have much in common. And then I noticed her careful diction and proper grammar, and asked, "What do you do?" Victoria and I discovered that we shared a common history as radio air personalities and news directors, that she hailed from Texas (where I've unintentionally managed to spend 9 years of my life), that she holds a degree in Communications and a background in advertising, and has a 14-year-old stepson at home. We also discovered that both of us were new to Alaska, lived in Eagle River, and she had just made the transition from successful career woman to military spouse and full-time mom (and while excited about the changes, naturally feels some ambivalence).

The moment of clarity: Sometimes, we find a new friend when when and where we least expect it, and we should never make assumptions that close us off to new relationships...and if we look hard enough, we can almost always find a level of common experience that opens the door.

(2) Cindy called me at 4:30am on Friday, in labor, for moral support. A contraction seized her as we were talking, and she began to chant, "Owie, Owie, Owie, Owie..." and then told me after it ended: "I didn't expect it to hurt so much." I thought: She's only a child herself...how can she be ready to become a mother? During the next phone call, Matt assured me that she was being "a real trooper," and after the baby was born, I could hear the pride and awe in both of their voices. And I realized that they were three years older than Lonnie and I were when Matthew came along...

The moment of clarity: Having a child is part of the growing up process. We're all "too young" when the first child arrives in the sense that we're completely unprepared (regardless of how much we've tried to prepare); whether we're 18, 21, or 40--it's still just as frightening, just as overwhelming, and plays just as significant of a role in helping us to discover who we are and of what great things we are capable.

(3) We spent Friday loading the truck, packing up the dog, our bags, and sundry yard tools and equipment for the trip down to Seward. Our project for the weekend was to clean up the Veteran's Cemetary in Seward before Memorial Day. As we drove down Turnagain Arm and through the most magnificent mountain ranges I'd ever seen, I watched my cell phone for "No service" messages--Cindy was in delivery, and I didn't want to miss that phone call. I couldn't help but be awed, though, with the beauty that surrounded me, and when the phone call finally came, it caught me completely off guard. I thought: I'm a grandmother. I'm a grandmother. I'm a grandmother...and waited for it to sink in. I waited for something transformative to rush through me, for some sudden insight to come crashing into view.

The moment of clarity happened much later that day, as I knelt at a grave in the Veteran's Cemetary. "Jess" had died at 58, in 1985. Twenty-three years ago. On his grave, though, were flowers and monuments in various stages of decomposition, some of them shiny with newness: "I love you," they declared. Heart wreaths, small tokens, and a riot of colors told the world that--not only was "Jess" beloved when he passed away--someone still loved him, still missed him, 23 years later. It brought tears to my eyes. I suddenly realized that becoming a grandmother was about building a legacy of love to leave behind...nothing more, nothing less.

I was standing on the sea shore in Seward when all of these threads finally began to connect in my mind. Sea otters cavorted in the bay while a nearby sea lion leapt through the air with a still-fighting fish clamped in his jaws. Two Navy destroyers docked nearby, young men spilling out in boisterous groups, eager for a couple of days of shore leave. An elderly couple sat on a log holding hands, laughing together at the antics of the sea otters. Lonnie and Mickey bounded ahead of me over the rocky shoreline, both pausing ever so often to watch the ongoing battle between the sea lion and the fish. I stood, holding my camera, trying to decide which moment I should try to capture. Suddenly, the sun broke through the clouds and bathed the mountain peaks in a wash of yellow and orange and pink, and I felt overwhelmed. How can I capture it all? I thought to myself, frustrated.

And then it came to me. Taking a deep breath, I slid the camera into my pocket and looked around. I could only capture it all by being there, really there, in the moment.

Making new friends...

We all struggle to adapt to new environments, and my experiences over the past few months have given me a deeper understanding of the anxiety, insecurity, and sometimes--sheer terror--that accompanies leaving everything and everyone you know behind and being transplanted somewhere new...even when that new place is a wonderful place to be.

This is Mickey. He's a 100 pound, four-year-old Alaskan Malamute, and a few weeks ago, his family had to give him up because they lost their home. We're adopting him from a local Rescue group, and during my search for articles and information on how to make the transition go as smoothly for him as possible, I ran across an article that encouraged new owners to try to see this process from the dog's perspective. Since Mickey's personality tends to be a little anxious anyway, I took the advice to heart.

Imagine--it suggested--that you are suddenly plucked from your home and family and placed into a noisy kennel, a brand new environment full of people and other dogs you don't know. New people come to visit you, moving in and out of your life like dream images, until one day, you're loaded into the car and taken somewhere new yet again. The new people in your life might be wonderful, and the new home may have everything you ever wanted--except that it's not your old home, and your family is still gone. The article suggested that it can take months for a dog to adjust to a new home--and that this is a fact that surprises many new owners.

Not me.

I've always dreamed of living in Alaska. I loved the idea of buying a home that had an amazing view of the mountains, where wildlife became a part of everyday life, and where each new day brought an increasing awareness of our place in the universe. And while I remember our years in North Dakota fondly--primarily because of the amazing and wonderful people who populated my life while I was there--I never planned to make it "home." And yet, when I moved 4,000 miles away to Alaska, it rocked my world.

I traveled halfway across the country by car, and then spent 3.5 days on a ferry--before arriving in Haines and driving through blinding snow on mountain roads for two days. For many, the trip would have been an adventure; for me, it was traumatic. Like Mickey, I tend to get a little anxious when I'm yanked so thoroughly out of my comfort zone. I'm not one of those people who thrives on change; I cling to routines, to the familiar, because chaos is destabilizing and frightening and tends to make me feel insecure.

Like Mickey, I had to leave my friends, my family, my community, and the life I had made for myself there. Suddenly, I had to learn new rules, a new town, a new job, and went through the stressful process of buying a home for the first time. The trauma lasted for months.

Last week, though, I came home from work, and as I walked through the front door, I felt that sudden, comforting relief that you feel when you come home...and I realized that, at some point, this had become my new comfort zone, my new home, and that slowly--but surely--I was acclimating to my new environment. I know the neighbors (and their dogs and kids) by their first names. I know the fastest way to get to campus, and I'm confident enough to argue with Google maps about the best route at a given time of day. I know the names of the mountains that surround our home, and I'm picking up the lingo: "the bush" instead of "the wilderness," "Cheechako" for "greenhorn," "break up" for "spring," and "Lower 48" for everything...well, in the Lower 48.

Yes, it will take Mickey time to adjust, and I'll be patient for as long as it takes him to decide that he, too, is finally home. It's all too easy to look at the situation from his perspective after the events of the past few months, and especially because he and I seem to share a cautious, anxious approach to new experiences. In fact, we'll probably make perfect companions for that very reason--then, when L. does take us out for new adventures that stretch our comfort zones, we can find solace in the idea that either way, we have each other to lean on...