Like a Golden Retriever

 

Yesterday I got offered a new job. It’s exciting because it’s kind of my dream job, but also because my current position has become almost unbearable and I’ve been looking for a new job for over six months. After a lifetime as an entrepreneur, I landed in a large bureaucracy. I think I was brought into the position to build the program, but after the game plan was created, and the players were put on the field, I stood on the sidelines bored and uninspired, counting goals and watching for fouls. Not my jam.

I’m 54 years old. The wisdom that comes with living this long gives me access to understanding, after two years, instead of ten, that being a cog in a wheel is not who I am. It never was and it never will be. 

My new job is working with entrepreneurs, essentially bringing them into a community of other small businesses. If you bring it down to the brass tacks, I’m a salesperson, selling something that I truly love and believe in. I did this for twenty years when I owned my yoga studio. I sold memberships to people to pay my rent, my teachers, my utilities, my taxes, and myself. I loved the creativity of this work — figuring out how to appeal to people, building relationships, creating community.

At my third interview for my new job, one of the panelists asked me, “What would you say is a superpower necessary for this role?” I hate those kinds of interview questions. Throwing the interviewee into confusion, they seem designed to invite stupid, irrelevant answers because they are so far from what anyone has actually prepared for the interview. 

But this time I was lucky. A thought popped into my mind right away. “The person in this role,” I said confidently, “would need to have a rejection deflector shield.” Feeling like, at that point, I had nothing to lose, I went on to share how my partner calls me a golden retriever.

I am like a golden retriever because I always go back for more. Like a golden retriever, I’m a little bit dumb and very enthusiastic. This has been a painful character trait in many ways. My poor partner has watched me over the years pining for unattainable outcomes with friends and family. 

With friendships that have changed or family relationships that are marinating in dysfunction, she’s watched me trying tirelessly to fix them. Like a golden retriever, I bring my slobbery ball to said person’s feet and drop it over and over and over again, never seeming to get the message that they don’t want to play.

But this same drop the ball and wait attitude has served me well in other areas. During this time of struggle in my current job, I must have applied for fifty positions, some of which I was qualified for and others, a total stretch. But, being a little bit dumb and very enthusiastic, I’d keep trying, facing rejection after rejection.

I first got called a golden retriever when I joined a women’s soccer team in my early twenties. I had only played two years of soccer in high school and I was fit, but didn’t understand strategy and I had no learned skills. I played defense, and I struggled to keep my position on the back field. I’d chase the ball wherever it went, trying to get it away from the other team. One night after a game, as I berated myself for having no idea what I was doing on the field, a team mate lovingly said, “It’s okay. You’re like a golden retriever.”

 My job search over the last many months has been frustrating. I’ve suffered feelings of insecurity that no one would want to hire me at my age. I’ve imagined myself stuck in my current position, wasting away, like the woman behind the window at the department of licensing.

It’s always been kind of a joke, a humorous slight that I’m like a golden retriever. There have been many times in my life that I’ve wanted to shed those character traits. But not anymore. I’m like a middle-aged golden retriever now. In dog years, I’d be between 8 and 9 years old, still active, but slowing down, and slightly less dumb. I’ve got several more good years and I’m very enthusiastic about what’s to come. 

Like a Missing Limb

I dropped my daughter at college four days ago. While I was gone, my partner tested positive for COVID so when I came home I had to stay in my daughter’s bedroom in the basement.

It was strangely comforting. My friends have been worried about how I would fare in this moment of change. I think most of them thought I’d fall apart when my only daughter left home. I’ve always been very attached to my daughter, deeply connected to my role as a mother. 

In the last couple of days, good friends and concerned family members have reached out, “How are you doing?” they call and text. 

“Fine?,” I respond, not quite sure. It feels like my brain is scrambled. I know something is missing, but I’m not sure what it is. I wonder if this is what is like to have a missing limb. I have no immediately detectable pain, but there is a heightened awareness; something is definitely missing.

“How do I feel?,” I ask myself as I make my ten-day COVID home in my absent daughter’s room, tidying her bed and putting away the last load of laundry she did before she left for college.

I miss my daughter, but I’m also excited for her. I get several texts a day of the meals she’s eating, new friends and the beautiful scenery she’s surrounded by. She’s around, but she’s gone.

I’m happy that my daughter chose a school far away. I’m thrilled about the adventures and challenges in front of her. In the short time she’s been gone, all signs point to the fact that she is ready to be on her own. “You’ve done a good job,” one friend tells me, “she’s ready for this.” I take comfort in this sentiment and I trust that my daughter is in the right place right now. But in her absence, something isn’t right. 

It’s not so much that I miss my daughter as that I am confused about who I am without her. This afternoon I went to the grocery and passed by the Kombucha she loves so much. “I won’t need that for a few months,” I thought to myself as I robotically found myself in that aisle. Later in the afternoon, my partner and I went for a walk. When we came in, I looked at the door, making a note to keep it unlocked because my daughter would be coming home soon. 

“Oh wait,” I said to my partner, “she’s not coming home.” The phantom daughter, lurking everywhere but nowhere to be found. A few hours later, my partner ordered pizza. When it arrived, I thought the delivery driver had it wrong. “You ordered two pizzas?” I hollered out to my partner on the porch. She had forgotten again that our daughter wouldn’t be home for dinner.

Is this how the mother bird feels where her baby flies out of the nest? Bye-bye baby bird….. I hope I see you again soon. Once a bird can fly, she is safer out in the world where she has mobility, a way to escape the predators that would swallow her whole when sitting unprotected in a nest.

But we’re not birds. I don’t see my baby as safer out in the world. I spent eighteen years protecting her and now she’s out there. I can’t see her. I can’t feel her. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing or how she feels or if she’s sad or lonely or hungry or if her sheets are dirty or if she packed warm enough socks for snow. 

I wonder if the mother bird feels this way when her chicks first leave. There’s a delicate period when the chicks first learn to fly. Though they are strong enough to leave the nest, their wing and tail feathers aren’t fully developed and they are still vulnerable for a short period. 

It’s only been four days since I flew across the country with my little bird and dropped her into a new nest. Like the new-flying chicks, she too is developing her strength and independence. She’s learning to fly far away from her mother. 

It really does feel like I’m missing a limb right now. This is hard and I’m not really myself. But thinking of my daughter in her new home, imagining her learning to fly on her own is a beautiful vision, a wonderful distraction. My nest may be empty, but my heart is full. 

This is Me. This is Mine.

In the last few months before my daughter left for college, I said yes to everything she asked me to do. Sugary-sweet ten-descriptor drinks at the Starbucks drive-through? YES! Shop at Ross Dress for Less for workout clothes? YES! Go to Orange Theory at 6am on a Tuesday? YES!

Orange Theory is a workout gym that combines cardio and strength. Each workout is guided by a “coach” and you wear a heart rate monitor that posts your stats on big screens around the room. The vibe is kind of Euro-Club-y — the whole place is mirrored and everything is dark grey. Loud thumping music plays in the background of the coach’s microphoned instructions. 

Orange Theory is something I never had any interest in doing. But because my daughter asked me to go, I did. And then I did it again. And again. Every time she asked me, I said yes. I just wanted to be around her, to soak up her energy, to squeeze out the last moments before she moved away.

Each time we went to Orange Theory, my daughter was gracious and let me sign up for the station next to her. On the tread (for any older generations, this is what we used to call treadmill), I ran next to her, carefully following her actions. Because the music was so loud I often struggled to hear the coach, but even when I could hear her, I didn’t understand the lingo — “base pace”, “all out”, “take it down”.

I watched my daughter manipulate the speed and incline levels on her tread and followed. When she went up, I went up (though not as high), and when she went down, I went down (often lower). Running on the tread next to my daughter, I could see her face in the mirror. I could watch her working hard, giving it her all. 

For years, I watched my daughter play soccer from a distance. It seemed like she was working hard, but I don’t know if that was because that was what was expected of her as a team player or because we signed her up for soccer when she was five and she just did what she thought we wanted her to do. I don’t know if she would have chosen that sport for herself.

A few months before college, my daughter told us, “I want to develop good eating and exercise habits before I go to college.” She started going to the gym regularly. Then, craving some variety, she started Orange Theory. 

She signed up and then got me to sign up. I liked the workout, but I mostly liked working out with my daughter. It was so fun to see her in that element. Watching her face in the mirror as we ran on the tread side by side, I could see the glimmer in her eye, the determination in her focus, the energy behind her exertion. It was all hers. Unlike her efforts on the soccer field, here she was performing for herself. 

Seeing her run hard on the tread, I had an image of myself slowing down, my speed lowering until I was completely stopped. I would fade into the background and my daughter would continue running onward, towards herself in the mirror, towards the woman she was becoming. 

Every time we ran on the tread, I trudged along next to my daughter, more focused on her image in the mirror than on my own. Seeing her dedication was mesmerizing. It was as if, with every solid set of strides, her body was chanting, “This is me. This is mine.” Her choice, her idea, her passion. 

This is what I want for her. I want her to capture that feeling that comes from finding something she loves and doing it! I wish I could harness the energy that flowed from my daughter as she ran her heart out on that tread. I wish I could bottle it up and tuck it into the front pocket of her jeans where she always keeps a tube of Aquaphor. I wish that every time she put the moisturizer on her lips, she could put a little dab of ‘Eau de This is me. This is mine’ on her wrists.

I cherish those sessions at Orange Theory with my daughter. The image of her on the tread running towards her future self—her strength, delight and passion — nourishes me in these early days as I miss her from afar. I feel grateful to have been invited into that space to witness my daughter in her “This is me. This is mine” zone. 

I hope, as she navigates her life in college and beyond, that my daughter keeps looking for and finding experiences that connect her to herself and make her feel as alive and connected as she seemed to feel on that tread. One thing I know for sure — if she asks me to join her, even if it’s something I never wanted to do, I’ll definitely say yes.

The Last Wednesday Morning

This morning I woke before the sun. We’re having a heatwave in Seattle and all night I slept fitfully. It seemed like I sweat and twisted through complicated, weird dreams all night in our hot, stuffy bedroom. Getting up was a relief from the stagnant cage I’d spent the night in.

I made my coffee and went out to sit on the deck. The cool air from the lake dried the baby hairs sticking to the back of my neck. I heard the crows having their morning caw-chats on the power lines circling my house, down the street geese honked on the lake, a tiny flock of bushtits fluttered on the bush below the deck, and a racoon rustled its way along the edge of our rock wall.

It was still a little dark as I took my first sip of coffee and, as I watched the sun coming up over the lake, warm and orange, already bringing with it a warning of the heat to come, I felt the heaviness of impending change.

Upstairs, my partner was still asleep. Downstairs, my daughter was tucked into her bed in her messy room, much cooler in the dark, damp basement. “This is the last Wednesday that my daughter will be asleep in her room,” I thought to myself as I watched the sky lighten.

This last Wednesday at home is a milestone. And next week, on a Wednesday, I will be moving my daughter into her dorm room 1300 miles away, with a girl from Texas, whose parents will be saying goodbye to their daughter too. Another milestone.

Milestone — the symbol of another mile traveled, a marker of time and distance and change. I’ve thought a lot about how I would feel when this day finally came, when my daughter left home. I’ve been preparing for this moment, this particular milestone, for a long time.

With each milestone, I imagine my daughter moving further away. From me.

And she is. With each milestone, she moves further away from the place where she started. Each milestone marks a moment. With each milestone, there is an end to something, but also an opening to something new. With each opening, my daughter gets closer to where she is going, wherever that may be.

Next week when I drop my daughter off at college, say goodbye, and fly back home to Seattle, she will be on her own. That milestone will mark the end of her living at home. And it will mark the beginning of her living on her own. It will mark the end of daily care and contact from her parents and the beginning of more responsibility.

And, on my path, I have my own milestones. When I leave my daughter at college, I will come home. I can already imagine her room, empty of her favorite things, still and quiet. I expect that I’ll feel the fullness of the sadness that’s been peeking its head up like a prairie dog for the last six anticipatory months. And I imagine I’ll feel worried because that old friend is always with me. But what else? I wonder what new openings will come from my daughter’s absence, from the quiet emptiness of her room.

Far away, in the middle of the country, as my daughter experiences an avalanche of “firsts” — first time living with a roommate, first philosophy class, first time taking care of all her own meals and laundry, first time without parents nagging her to make sure she doesn’t forget to [fill in the blank] — I will be back home, experiencing the milestones that come from an empty nest.

This is a big change for sure, but I feel mostly ready. Being a mom has always been this way — milestone after milestone, a series of endings and beginnings, opening new paths along the way.

I have a lot of questions. Will my daughter come back to visit often? Will she ever move back to Seattle? I feel a little scared and a little sad because I don’t know the answer to these questions. Her path is full of milestones, destination unknown.

But if I’m honest, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Love comes to me in the memory of apartment 14A. When I was in elementary school, my two sisters and I regularly took the public bus to our grandparents’ house on the north side. We took the Jeffrey Express, which picked us up a block from our house and dropped us in front of the Art Institute downtown. From there, we transferred to the 151 and travelled the rest of the way to our Nana and Papa’s apartment. We got off at Goethe Street. Nana taught us that Goethe was a poet from the 18th century and the correct way to pronounce his name was “goe-tuh.”

When we got off the bus, we crossed the street and pushed through the revolving glass doors into the high-ceilinged, black marble lobby. All the doormen knew us. Charlie or Jack or Arnold stood behind a Calacatta marble podium with tiny black and white television screens on the wall behind him. On the screens were static-y images of the other building entrances; every once in a while a person would walk across the screen for an instant.

The doorman on duty was always friendly, greeting us with a big welcome. “Hello girls” he’d bellow, as he picked up the desk telephone and dialed up to Nana and Papa’s apartment. “Mrs. DeMaisberg,” he’d say, “the girls are here.” We could faintly hear Nana’s voice from the phone as the doorman lifted his chin and nodded us towards the south entrance while buzzing us in. 

One of us would push the up arrow on the elevator and we’d lean our ears into the two sets of doors, trying to guess which one would come first. Once inside the elevator, we shoved and shouldered our way to the lighted panel with the forty-one buttons. We each wanted to be the one to push 14A, the button that would take us to Nana and Papa’s apartment. 

Nana and Papa had lived in that apartment since before I was born. We grew up going there and knew the building intimately. We’d gotten into trouble several times for pushing all the buttons at the same time and tying up the elevator. But from this naughty behavior, my sisters and I had seen most of the tiny individual lobbies in the south tower of the building. 

All the lobbies were different — some very simple and clean, others wildly ornate, filled with art or flowers or photos. Some had colorful painted walls and doors, others were wallpapered or tiled. I remember having favorite lobbies. My sisters and I would talk about which ones we liked; what our lobby would look like if we lived in a building like this. 

The elevator to Nana and Papa’s apartment opened up to a tiny rectangular space with three doors — a front door, a side door into the kitchen, and a third door leading to the stairs and the garbage chute. Their doors were all matte black, and the walls had textured wallpaper that looked like straw. There was a short black cabinet with an empty stone bowl and a handful of masks from other countries decorating the wall across from the elevators. The front door had a big gold knocker beneath the tiny peephole.

The elevator made a slow hiccup before it landed and dinged at the fourteenth floor. As the elevator doors parted, the image of Nana and Papa’s big black door opening came into view. My sisters and I would get off the elevator at the same time that Nana stepped into the threshold of her front door, already hugging the air in preparation to welcome us into her arms and her home. She was as excited to see us as we were to see her. 

One by one, she’d take each of us into her arms for a squeeze. She’d smell our hair, kiss our foreheads and send us off behind her where we’d race into the kitchen. Nana wasn’t a cook, but she always had a jar of honey roasted Planters Peanuts and a container of carrot slices soaking in a square tupperware of ice cold water on the top shelf of her refrigerator. Nana also stocked diet A & W root beer, which she taught us to pour into a glass with a little ice and skim milk to make a “root beer float.”

As we rummaged through Nana’s fridge, she made her way back to her armchair in the big, open living room overlooking Lake Michigan. There was a long, low couch next to her armchair and three swiveling club chairs on the other side of the large coffee table. My sisters and I planted ourselves on the couch or the chairs as Nana, almost always smoking a True cigarette, asked us questions about school or swim team or brownies. 

Eventually, my sisters and I would make our way into the guest bedroom where we’d change into our bathing suits and robes (they lived in Nana and Papa’s guestroom closet). We’d wait at the front door for Nana to put out her cigarette and put on her shoes and then we’d all take the elevator up to the top floor of the building where the pool was. 

The 41st floor of the building housed the indoor pool and hot tub, a tiny gym, and men’s and women’s dressing rooms, each with a sauna. My sisters and I, having grown up in a rickety old Victorian house, thought these modern amenities, like the elevators, were truly miraculous. There were four large circle windows on the north wall of the poolroom and it was rich with the scent of chlorine. There was almost never anyone there. 

Nana would take a spot in one of the lounge chairs and smile and clap as my sisters and I romped, jumping back and forth from the pool to the hot tub and back again until our eyes burned. When we were done, Nana would hold out our robes for us and, shivering, barefoot and wet, we’d make our way back down to 14A.

Apartment 14A is home to hundreds of tiny memories — pressing the elevator button, “root beer floats,” the 41st floor pool, and Nana’s hugs. As I’ve grown older, I’ve wondered why these memories with Nana are so clear while so many others from my childhood have faded like photos in the sun. 

I have many more memories of Nana — the week I took care of her before she died, afternoons trying on her silk scarves and chunky jewelry, shopping for school clothes at I. Magnin and Bonwit Teller, going to Moon Palace in Chinatown for dinner…. 

What I remember most is that Nana was always so happy to see me and I was always so excited to see her! That sheer delight of being happy to see each other is one of the purest experiences of love I’ve ever known. I imagine that’s why so many of those memories stick while countless others have slowly disappeared. 

People say there’s nothing like a grandmother’s love and, in my experience, that’s true. My relationship with my grandmother gave me a sense of being loved that’s lived on in my memory for over fifty years. I didn’t appreciate the specialness of that relationship then, but I do now. I’m almost as old now as my Nana was when I was a girl and I fantasize about one day becoming a grandmother myself. If I get that chance, I hope I will give my grandchildren that special love that Nana gave me.

Write it Down in a Letter

About fifteen years ago, on the way home from teaching an evening yoga class, I heard an interview with Isabel Allende on the radio. At that time in my life I was going through a separation and I was desperate to create some kind of system that would help me make sense of the world. My main priority was being a good mother to my young daughter; I couldn’t afford to fall apart. I was hungry for guidance.

In the radio interview, Allende shared the how she managed the time following her only daughter Paula’s death. Paula was in her late twenties when she died from complications of porphyria, a disease that is rarely fatal. After Paula’s death, Allende turned to group of close women friends and started what she called a prayer circle. The idea, she said, was simply to witness each other. There wasn’t a focus on fixing or changing anyone, just to support each other by being there.

That very night, I emailed a handful of friends to share the idea and, wallah, my own prayer circle was born. Five friends and I met monthly for two hours and followed specific guidelines — listen, don’t advise, be willing to share. We didn’t interrupt each other to share a great idea about how to solve someone’s problems. We didn’t gossip. We just listened and shared. And it was a beautiful, wonderful thing.

Once, when I was feeling really desperate about the state of my life, I wrote Isabel Allende. I told her how times were hard, how I felt hopeless, how I’d started my own prayer circle. She wrote back and encouraged me on my journey. She signed of with, 

Your are at wonderful crossroad in your life and you have an open heart: many good things will come out of this, for you and your daughter.
Love,
Isabel Allende

I am at another crossroads now, in the transition time of letting go of the little daughter I so worried about all those years ago. After Isabel Allende’s daughter Paula died, she published the book Paula. The book is comprised of writings Allende created during the year that Paula was in a coma. Allende, not sure if her daughter could hear her or not; not sure whether she would live or not, writes to her to get through this painful transition filled with unknowns.

Several years after I started my prayer circle, Isabel Allende came to speak and my circle of girls went to see her. Completely star-struck and nervous to speak to this woman who had quietly become my guide and mentor, I approached Isabel Allende with my circle of friends at my side, and introduced myself, telling her that I was the one who had written her that letter to her and to thank her for her wisdom. She was gracious and let us all take a photo with her. 

Part of this transition I am in is honoring my daughter’s distance, her need to move away from me, to put my voice in the background and her voice in the foreground. My inclination is to keep advising my daughter, managing her and telling her ways to live her life. What I’ve learned (quite painfully) over the last few years, is that my daughter isn’t hearing me the way she used to and my nagging often turns into an argument.

A few weeks ago I woke up with a list of things I felt compelled to share with my daughter — thoughts about what she ought to pack for college, ideas for who she should invite to her graduation party, questions about how her college saving is coming along. I knew that if I brought up this litany of to-dos with my daughter first thing in the morning it would only lead to conflict so I decided to write her a letter.

My intention was never to share the letter but to simply get my worries out on the page so that I wouldn’t burden my daughter. I’ve written every day for fifteen days and my letters have turned from worries and lists to hopes and dreams as well as simple proclamations of love and unconditional support.  

When Isabel Allende was writing to her daughter during those long days of the unknown, there were things she wanted to share with her daughter — memories of their life together, tales of her ancestors, and the deep mother’s love she carried. There were also questions she had for her daughter stemming from a mother’s natural curiosity to know the secret parts of her children.

Isabel Allende’s daughter never awoke from the coma. The book Paula carries her memory. It is a beautiful testament to an amazing woman who died much too young. It is also a profound narrative of a mother’s love. 

When my daughter was little, when I first started my prayer circle, there were lots of concrete things I could do to help me feel connected; things that let me know I was taking care of her— reading a bedtime story, making a healthy dinner, holding her when she felt sad. These days my daughter feels mostly unreachable, and soon she’ll be living in a dorm in another state more than a thousand miles away. There are so many things I want to share with her, things I want her to know and understand, memories I want to relive.

The truth is I want to share all of these things because I want to feel closer to my daughter. These memories and to-do lists help me feel connected; they comfort me in this time of transition. Writing a letter was a stopgap that I thought would help me get through one anxiety-heavy morning, but I see it as much more now. 

Writing letters to my daughter is a way to honor this transition for myself, but also for her. I can share memories, declare my love, nag to my heart’s desire, and she can maintain the space and independence she so needs right now. I keep the letters to my daughter in a little notebook that I have no intention of sharing with her anytime soon. 

Maybe one day, if my daughter becomes a mother herself, and she experiences this transition I’m in now, I’ll let her know about the letter-a-day trick I used during her last summer at home. I’ll tell her how all the feelings she’s having are totally normal and that it might help to just write it down in a letter. 

The Lotus and The Mud

Yesterday I was on a webinar for new parents at the university my daughter is preparing to go to in a few short months. I took pages of notes about what needs to happen, when, and how. “It’s going to suck telling her all this stuff,” I thought to myself. My daughter has always been fiercely independent (not unlike me), but now more than ever she’s determined to make her own way.

My role has been relegated to stagehand. I set the scene so the actor can act. Once I’ve done my bit, I retreat into the darkness and make myself scarce until I am needed again. My daughter, like most eighteen-year-old young women I know, is the star of her life right now. She’s busy living the life of a celebrity and has lost sight of the little people who helped her get where she is today.

Yesterday, when I was wallowing in nostalgia, wishing I had more than a fleeting to-do list to connect me with my daughter, I let myself feel the heaviness of my sadness. And as I settled into the darkness, the image of a lotus came into my mind. 

“That’s it,” I thought to myself, “she is the lotus blossom and I am the roots.” I am in the dark, her dark, right now. I am under the surface, rooted in the mud and she is above the water, basking in the light of the day.

I was comforted by this image. I remember when I was the center of the universe, when I couldn’t give my mother any credit for anything she did. To do so would be to deny my own glorious presence. I too rose above my mother. I left her in the murky waters below so I could unfurl my petals in the sun. Now it’s my turn to be the roots.

Like my daughter, I was always connected to my mother. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I needed her. I needed her to remind me of deadlines, to provide me with a trunk to pack for college, to feed me dinner every night. But during most hours of the day, I revelled in my independence, dismissing the hard work that helped get me where I was. 

The lotus, while it rises from the mud without stains, as if to deny the very earth from which it came, receives a steady flow of nourishment from the roots below. And how beautiful a sight the lotus flower is.

As I sat in the webinar yesterday thinking about packing up my daughter to send her 1200 miles away, I filled myself with worry about all the things that could go wrong — missing housing deadlines, not getting the right classes, getting a shitty roommate. My worry compounded as I anticipated my daughter’s resistance to accepting help from me. 

The lotus, often referred to as a living fossil, dates back 145 million years. The lotus is hardy and resilient; it is strongly rooted and survives in even the most destructive conditions. 

Being in the dark, under the water is thankless, and it’s also a little bit scary. Down under, you can’t see clearly what’s happening above the surface. It’s an act of trust and faith to believe that everything will be okay up there. 

At night, the lotus petals close up, settling down for the night. The splendid exhibit of beauty shutters itself into the darkness along with the roots below. It’s a lot of work to be so magnificent and the lotus needs time to get rest and nourishment. Down under, the roots are always connected, a slow steady flow of energy that supports the lotus flower to open up into the light each day. 

I know my daughter will be okay next year because even if she’s not okay, I’ll be here, soggy, muddy roots reminding her that she’s got support and love and back up. It’s hard right now; parenting is all work and no fun. But this isn’t the full story. 

Every morning when the lotus reemerges, opening herself up to the sun, she is basking in her glory, but she is also gathering energy to feed her roots. This is motherhood. I’ve survived this long under water because I’ve received a steady supply of sunlight for eighteen years. 

I’ve had it all wrong. Right now my daughter’s independence is the sunlight. This is what is actually feeding my roots. She’s where she is supposed to be because she’s taken the nourishment I’ve offered and she’s strong and vibrant, looking towards the sun. 

Next year when my she goes to college and takes care of her business and lives her life and hopefully finds great fulfillment and joy, she’ll be the long-distance lotus. And I’ll be here, rooted if she needs me.