Tag Archives: graduation

Jul20

Molting

Posted on by
Standard

I started this journal by admitting that I’d woven feathers into my hair. At the time, it was a celebration of taking chances and investing in the next step toward personal and professional development.

The day I got feathers, I’d just returned from taking the GRE (graduate school exam), a necessary precursor to my application for admission to Harvard. It was a big risk. I’d studied. Crammed.

Ultimately, I performed reasonably well on the language portion, but although I tried to catch up on math concepts that I hadn’t used for about 30 years, only 14% of all Americans who took the GRE did worse than me. (Did you follow that sentence, and its bit of math … tricky, huh?) Luckily, I’m not pursuing a degree that relies heavily on numbers, phew!

Anyway, the GRE wasn’t the most important part of my application. Essays and recommendations were probably more important. But taking a standardized test for the first time was a big deal (to me). Sweat. Performance anxiety. Sleepless nights. Hours of study. It meant I was serious about this whole process. And I was being measured against a lot of other people who also have graduate school dreams and vocational aspirations … you get the idea.

So I’ve had these feathers since December. And for those who are curious, but haven’t had the chance to ask, you can shampoo feathers. You can brush and style them, if you want. When you get your hair cut, the feathers come out, and after the cut, they’re knotted back into place. They’re attached by a knot, but they basically stay in for a lo-o-o-o-o-o-nnnngggg time.

See, I had about 12 or so feathers when I started out. All kinds of colors. Over the course of several months (seven, but who’s counting?), they fell out a little at a time.

The last one drifted to the ground, and I didn’t even see it happen. I washed my hair this morning, and didn’t find any more plumes. Sigh. The feathers are gone. This phase is over, it seems.

The feathers were … what, a symbolic act? An external recognition of an exciting accomplishment (surviving hours in a cubicle answering questions on a computer, knowing I was bombing on the math, because my 16-digit answers didn’t fit into the 2-digit blank answer box)? A sheer giddy indulgence?

All of the above.

Their slow shedding has been, in a way, a metaphorical measurement of the many steps that have passed since I sat down to take the GRE. 43 drafts of an essay later, I completed the entire application process. Filed it online. Waited until mid-March for acceptance. Waited longer, through rounds of debate about how we’d pay for graduate school and Sarah’s college at the same time, to decide if I’d accept a spot in the 3-year, full-time MDIV program at Harvard’s Divinity School. Stayed below the radar screen a lot of the time, because this summer and this autumn are so focused on Sarah’s transition to Northeastern to study nursing, that I often forget that I have my own forms to complete, loans to secure, classes to choose and many other administrative steps to finish, also.

The final feather disappeared on the same day that I opened my new student email account, submitted my bio and picture, and looked at the list of classes available for registration. I’m still bad at math, by the way. But I can count to zero (no feathers).

Now my head is a blank canvas again; it awaits a new cut, and perhaps more decoration. Maybe I’ll re-plume. Maybe not.

Meanwhile, the first burst of feathers fulfilled its role … it served as a talisman, while I dared to dive into the unknown depths of a new adventure.

How do we outwardly mark milestones? With jewelry like class rings or engagement diamonds, perhaps. With a tattoo, permanent or temporary. A piercing. A badge or pin. A uniform or new type of clothing. Head gear. A name tag. Some grooming of hair, nails or skin, such as a haircut, mani/pedi, facial or other makeover.  A change in external style.

Other landmarks are never visible. We often don’t wear insignia to show where we have been, what we have endured and overcome, where we are going next.

Ultimately, you can’t look at a person and read their entire story based only on an outward appearance. But sometimes, it’s fun to provide a clue about what’s going on inside.

Feathers, for instance.

 

 

 

Jul6

The Best Part

Posted on by
Standard

Yes, I can say, honestly, that I had a favorite moment about my daughter’s homecoming yesterday. Homecoming, again, you ask? Yes, she’s been traveling a lot this summer, and will do so again.

My older daughter is actually a grown woman, in so many ways. Over 18. Headed for college: Northeastern University, Boston. Focused on her degree: nursing. Traveling internationally at the end of the summer (Italy) and for the first semester at school (Greece). Meanwhile, working an office job plus bussing in a restaurant for several weeks, saving money. Making plenty of her own choices, without the need to check in with dad and mom about whether it’s okay or not. As far as I can tell, she uses sound judgment, and keeps herself reasonably safe, though she’s willing to take chances, too, which is a healthy balance. Living independently, setting her own hours, making her own plans.

She spent several days out of state with a friend. She saved up the money for the trip, planned it and was responsible for her own itinerary, goals and arrangements. In many ways it was one in a series of symbolic journeys that stake claim to her adulthood.

This was a post-graduation trip she had planned with a companion as a celebration. It was a whirlwind turnaround, just 48 hours after she’d come home from the youth group’s community service trip to Staten Island, NYC.

So much coming and going. It’s like rehearsal for her “big” departure to college, studying abroad for a semester, this autumn.

She just returned home last night. Again.

Chris (my husband) and I had talked about the transition each time she leaves. He has observed, and I think he’s correct, that her absence has more immediate and daily impact on me than him, in some ways. Not that he doesn’t miss her. Just that he goes to work and focuses on that, while even though she’s grown, my days remain more organized around Sarah’s needs and schedule.

Since she’s an adult and quite independent, that may sound surprising. Yet our days often intersect as we work out connections. It’s a careful dance of boundaries, of her emerging role as an adult woman in the house, a give and take between parent and grown child, the little daily steps of an intimate and changing family relationship.

So when she’s gone, I take time to become accustomed to her absence. To the lack of Sarah-centric activities: calling out hello when I hear the front door swing open or click shut, stocking the fridge with fruit she’d prefer or a beverage she enjoys, or scheduling how we’ll share the car for the day

Then just about the time I stop waking up, wondering if she’s home yet, or checking my phone for a call about the day’s plans, or asking if she wants to have dinner with us, or whatever other little ways we’d connect about logistics, she comes home again. And those “tuning in to the Sarah channel” habits settle back into place.

When she’s home, I check in with her. Not a lot, but hopefully enough to find out if she wants or needs anything from her parents during the day.

Sure, I thought I’d be ready for her launch to college in the fall. Yet the deep way in which I missed both Sarah and Chris when they were away in Staten Island was a reality check. Even the smaller ache of her trip to Florida was a revelation.

Realistically, I can’t prepare, totally, for her departure … I’ll have to experience it when it comes, go through the changes that come with her absence, and become accustomed to new rhythms and ways of being connected from afar, as two adults.

She’ll be away from home more this summer. Overnight. Weekends. Several days.

Each trip will be, for me, a lesson in letting go. For her, another chance to take up adulthood.

I’m learning the rhythms of a mom whose older daughter is alive and well, but living some distance away, and claiming the life of a grown woman.

Now you can argue that, yes, our children aren’t fully adult until their early twenties. Technically, their brains aren’t completely developed until they’re about 22. In some ways, they’re not even physiologically able to function as adults until then, because the part of the brain that exercises judgment about risk-taking and consequences, etc., isn’t actually all wired until their early twenties.

Wait, not actually an adult until 22 or 23? Yeah, right. Sure. Tell that to my high-school-graduated, off-to-college daughter. She feels like an adult. She acts, a lot, like an adult. She has many of the responsibilities of an adult.

Legally, state by state, our children have different rights at different ages. For instance, in the Commonwealth of MA, by age 15 they can establish sexual emancipation and seek contraception and treatment without parental consent. At age 16 they can start driving with a limited license. By age 18 they’re voting (we hope), may join the military, co-sign a college loan, and legally manage their medical care (for most situations, they’re now considered legal adults). After age 21 they can purchase and consume alcohol, or rent a car.

Those are all technicalities, and don’t apply to individuals. None of it, in reality, is the measure of cognitive development. Or emotional maturity. It’s just a date on a piece of paper that sets a standard to provide some common rights for all citizens.

So meanwhile, Sarah’s finding the real balance of what she wants to do on her own, and what she wants to share with us, her family.

And I’m learning to step back. Hold my breath. Wait.

I’ve done it before – let go as a child journeyed where I couldn’t follow — in different, more permanent ways, when my youngest child Jessie died.

Trust me that Sarah’s coming and going, her impending departure to college, and my own acclimation to being the parent of a grown daughter, is not the same. It is a separate and equally important experience. This way of letting go is a healthy and natural step for all mothers and children.

Natural. Also, messy. Imperfect. Sometimes heart-breaking. Other times exhausting. Exhilarating, for each of us, in different ways. Always a work in progress, as boundaries and expectations change. Hard to do. Yet desirable.

For each of us, her departures and returns are steps in a bigger journey. The transformation toward a different, more mature relationship.

I believe … I hope … that we will be mother and daughter, but also friends, on the other side of this evolution, this change, this transition. There’s so much I admire and respect about my daughter. Conversations we’ve already had. Others I hope we’ll have. Experiences we have shared, and others yet to come.

So when she came home yesterday? Well, Chris was stationed in the car in the parking lot, while I was in the airport, looking for Sarah. Sarah and I somehow missed each other, and she found dad first. Loaded her bags into the car. By the time I got back, everyone was buckled in place, ready to go home.

There she was, Sarah sitting in the back of the car, me in the front. I turned around, said hello, welcome home, over the headrest. Huh. We were divided by seats and belts, by knees and elbows, by the need to get out of the parking garage, and by just plain awkwardness.

The moment to greet each other had passed, a missed opportunity. Sigh. Oh, well.

Then when we stopped to eat dinner on the way home? She didn’t sit down in the booth right away. Instead, she stood there, and reached out with both arms.

Asked me, “Can I have a welcome home hug from you?”

Wow. My daughter.

In that moment, right there? Such grace. Such insight. Such good ways of saying out loud what she needs, laying claim to what is healthy in a relationship, and then doing something about it.

I loved that embrace. That Sarah wanted it. That we both needed it.  That she asked aloud for it.

I loved that we held on tight, for a long moment, and connected without words. Sometimes words liberate us. But sometimes words get in the way.

Meanwhile, that welcome home hug? For me, it was the best part of her immediate homecoming.

That hug said just about everything that really mattered.

Jun6

Downpours and Diving Lesson

Posted on by
Standard

Change is hanging over us, as low-slung and threatening as the storms this week. And although it’s exciting, it isn’t always easy to navigate. I’ve described the chaos in our house-under-construction, and the upheaval in our lives as we graduate, go to college, move in and out, etc.

Even in positive circumstances, which these are, such transitions are stressful. We lose our balance. We can’t eat or focus. We go in too many directions. We can’t sleep. We’re uncomfortable and uncertain. We keep lists, or double-check information, trying to maintain a feeling of control. Yet is seems as if we’re caught in a current, and can’t find solid ground.

If you’re like me, you try to balance it all, but something gets away from you. Maybe you forget things. Details. Appointments. Items on the shopping lists. To-do tasks. You drop something.

Splat. Plonk. It sinks into the waters rising around you, lost, and causes ripples.

And it doesn’t take much of a ripple to trigger tempers and moods, does it? To deflate enthusiasm or leech away limited reserves of energy, focus, and patience. To release a tsunami instead.

On overcast days, as the weather itself broods and gathers pressure, it feels as if the world is in the same pensive mood. Waiting. Grumbly. Wanting to let loose.

A few days ago, I stood in line at Zumi’s. Some customers were complaining about another rainy day.

Then I witnessed one woman rush outside as it started pouring down. She looked up into the sky, flung out her arms and welcomed the torrents. “Thank goodness it’s finally raining!”

She was right. We needed the rain. We needed the release.

Hard to believe that a few weeks ago, it was unseasonably warm. Even unbearably hot. Sunny and scalding. Our town was already enforcing a water ban in May. Imagine how dry and barren the river will become in the next few months, how low the water levels in the town wells will dip, as the truth of summer’s heat and focus burns bright in the weeks ahead.

We need to be quenched. To get wet. Whether it’s warm and misty on humid days, or cold and sheeting on more bitter ones, we ought to be exposed to and saturated by the elements.

Yes, it’s a heavy mood inside my house, my family. And out there, sometimes, in the wider world. Grey. Cranky.

We could use a little release of pressure. In our case, it might come out as a storm of emotions. Or a letting go in the form of exhaustion and a craving for sleep. Environmentally, it hangs over us as a ponderous gathering of clouds, bursting with water that we require to live.

I’m telling myself to dance inside the downpour, when it comes. To welcome it. To revel in it, as I saw another woman do just days ago.

But admittedly, I’m reluctant. I’d rather stay safe and dry.

All those emotions, when they come rushing out of me or someone else inside my family, feel like a flash flood. Of words. Of body language. Of feelings. Too much all at once. Overwhelming.

And yet, they are real. Honest. They are sometimes how we connect. Not gently. Not tenderly. But powerfully. In a way that requires some response. And the ability to stay afloat.

So I’ll have to let those emotions, with their bursts of language and accompanying actions, wash over me. And then I’ll touch bottom, push up, tread water, and keep my head above the rising tide, and immerse myself in this shivery wet discomfort of change and connection.

After all, the reason I can swim is because my mother insisted on all of us taking lessons. She’d never learned, but wanted all of us to become safe and confident in water.

Yet when I was a little girl, although I could easily cross the pool pulling and kicking and breathing, I was afraid to go off the diving board. I refused to jump, unless she was in the deep water, waiting for me.

And she couldn’t swim. Yet. So I waited. And my mother took enough adult swimming lessons to learn to tread water. To scull her hands and feet in the bright, clear, scary volume of the deep end. Then she could “catch” me when I jumped off … or rather, bob around nearby as I plunged down into its blue chlorinated depths and floated up again, panicky but exuberant.

Back then, I was too afraid to trust anyone else. So she overcame her own fears, her own lack of skill as an adult, to make me feel safe enough to reach for something more.

Even as a young student, I knew the measure of what my mom had achieved, to help me. Later I’d grow up to be a lifeguard and swimming instructor for several years … and I give much credit to my mother’s love and discipline, her commitment to learn a skill she’d never mastered as a child, at least well enough to be there when I asked her to help me. And to want more for me, and all of her children.

As I stand beneath the ponderous sky, and consider dancing in a downpour or submerging myself in a flood tide of emotions, maybe I don’t want to get wet. But I will

I remember that diving lesson all over again.

I know that I, too, have gone  places I couldn’t imagine, because I would do what was required for my own child. Here I am, all over again, challenged.

Awed by compassion and commitment that we have for our family and loved ones, and how much risk we will take for each other, just to connect. To help each other move forward. Embrace change. To make it safely to the other shore, the solid ground, and a place of growth and transformation.

I’ll admit, though, that sometimes I’d like to bask in some sunshine, a bit of a hot-day burn on my nose, content inside a fuzzy warm towel, wiggling sandy beach toes. As a treat.

Jun5

Life Under Construction

Posted on by
Standard

Right now, doors lean off their hinges. Two-by-fours stand raw and newly-placed. Hardware collects in piles. Toilets, sinks, and appliances perch in boxes, awaiting installation.

In three days, family will arrive to help us celebrate Sarah’s graduation. At the moment, the folks coming and going in the front, back and side doors are carpenters, plumbers, electricians, cleaners and friends willing to help organize for an hour or two.

We’re trying to complete a working bathroom by the end of the week, since the old one is ripped wide open. And there’s more. The rest of the project will continue once we put up a wall between the two sides of the kitchen. The first floor of our home will be divided, and its old incarnation as a house with an apartment will be resurrected. We’ll close off part of the downstairs, restoring a three-quarter bathroom and kitchen to the small rental unit, to bring in some income and offset college tuition payments in years to come.

Out back there’s a dumpster. Filling up with construction debris, including an old rump-sprung sofa we sawed into pieces to get it out the door yesterday. It’s the receptacle of the non-recyclable items in the general purge going on through several rooms, as we consolidate our own family’s living footprint and empty out rooms for the tenant.

It’s interesting, what we uncover along the way. Old newspaper clippings. Evidence of three layers of floors and walls. The stairways beneath the plywood. Old doorways that once led someplace, but not anymore. The granite edges of the original foundation. The earth itself, exposed and hollowed out to make space for pipes, because some of the house is situated over the ground versus a full basement.

It’s complex, being in such a state of change: liberating, chaotic and anxiety-inducing.

Meanwhile, our groceries are stacked in bins. Our bedding is folded in piles in odd places. Contractor bags fill with with more items to be donated to Big Brother Big Sister or the Epilepsy Foundation as shelves, closets and containers are emptied: books, clothing, videos, computer games, art supplies, odds and ends of beat-up furniture.

Mind you, we’re safe. We’re secure. We have a roof over our heads, mail arriving, food in the fridge, clean clothes and beds at night.

We aren’t homeless, we aren’t in mortal danger. Just discombobulated, uncomfortable and inconvenienced.

Believe me, I appreciate the difference. I have experienced much worse, living out of backpacks and suitcases in a hospital, for instance, or tossing and turning in a sleeping bag on a church floor as a volunteer for a soup kitchen in Staten ISland, knowing full well that this was the bettr-than-the-street reality for a soup kitchen/homeless shelter’s clients.

Yes, water is shut off at funny times. Same with power. We try to shower early or late, run our laundry before anyone starts work. We charge batteries so we can use computers and phones without connection to electricity.

Privacy is limited at certain times of the day, because the places that must be opened and used to run pipes and lines are the very walls and doors, ceilings and floors that shield us when we retreat, and they’re either ripped away, or jammed open. Polite, skilled professionals work in places that we never usually spend time in: the attic, the basement, a dug-out hole beneath the floor, the space between two walls. They’re shining bright lights into dark spaces, digging deep into suddenly-revealed niches of the house.

Not too many secrets exposed yet, besides old newspapers, including features about Red Sox players.

Yet we feel as if the skin and bones of the house reflect the innards of our family itself. We’re turned inside out. Exposed. Made vulnerable.

As I’ve mentioned before, just the act of sorting and discarding, which is part of this clean-out and renovation, can feel emotionally volatile. I come across reminders of our past. Drawings and notes from Jessie. Old hospital badges and medical supplies stashed in pockets for emergencies. Sarah’s medals or patches from soccer, her art projects from first and fifth grade, used notebooks with homework assignments and journal entries side by side. Small sticky notes from Chris. Photos of the two of us, before children, before this house, when we first moved to Ipswich, dancing the Polka at the Polish picnic.

As I discover such treasures, I have to decide, then and there, about keeping or tossing these items. With a promise that if I keep it, I’ll eventually find a place or purpose for it. And a deep breath if I let it go. Or an assurance to myself that I’ve held onto what’s most important, one way or another, and we cannot hoard every scrap and memento … that’s why we have these closets and bins to empty now.

We’re in such a whirlwind of change. Even though it’s planned. Intentional. Inspired by necessity, but also by passion and hope.

It’s still stressful, too. It causes reflection, uncertainty and re-prioritization.

Just as the house is being gutted, changed, its skeleton added to and subtracted from, our lives are also in upheaval and transition. Sarah has officially graduated. She’s working and traveling this summer, then going away to college. Her friend Shelly is also staying with us through the summer, then moving on to live on her campus, too. Along with many of their peers. Meanwhile, I’ll be starting graduate school at the end of the summer. Chris is following tantalizing passions in his career as an architect, designing educational spaces.

All around us, families are modifying their shapes and rhythms. For lots of reasons, some joyful, others sad. Often for reasons so complex that it’s a mix of delight and anxiety. ‘Tis the season, in many ways.

Nothing will be the same. Change is everywhere, and though we might have denied it before graduation, or tried not to think about it until sometime in the future … say, later this summer … this project brings it home. Literally, home. Now.

Our immediate reality is under construction. Being renovated. Both on a physical and functional level. Also on more relationship-based levels, too.

The goal – for the house itself — is to create a space that is improved for our family, generates income, and also provides affordable shelter for someone else. We preserve the historic character of the house, but end up with better infrastructure by way of plumbing and electrical upgrades. The outcome should be satisfactory … different but useable, a compromise of access to some resources, how we come and go … and ultimately we’ll re-organize where and how we live in the house, but it’s helpful in the short-term and the long-term.

Meanwhile, we’re letting go of more accumulated clutter, so that our lives are lighter. Trying not to clutch onto the past, but to relinquish a lot of it, and set aside just the a few symbolic reminders. Make space, as I’ve said in past posts, for the inevitable growth and change comes to any family.

For the next few days, it’s messy, busy and overwhelming. Everyone’s edgy and cranky, trying to check in with each other, being extra-polite and tolerant, but occasionally losing tempers, swearing and stomping or retreating (if that’s possible) into silence.

Meanwhile, drills squeal and saws buzz, as insistent as the thoughts wheeling in my mind, the to-do lists ticked off as I try to manage time, keep track of details, and prepare for several events and projects. Hammering pounds as quick and loud as my heartbeat. Water rushes when they test the plumbing connections, sluicing through those arteries the way blood is roaring in my veins in the midst of this renovation.

Change is everywhere. In the walls around me. Inside my own mind and heart.

Below is a prayer for a new home. Ours isn’t new. In fact, it is centuries old. Yet every home of every age, whether it’s a stone fortress or a tent or a cardboard box, could use a blessing. This is a paraphrase of many different prayers, but it feels right to me.

“Oh, Great Builder, be close to those who live in this home and seek your blessing. Be our shelter at home, our companion when we are away, and our welcome guest when we return. Make of it a safe, living and sacred space. Later, when it is time, bring us into the dwelling place You have prepared, in the Creator’s house, for ever and ever.”

Maybe if I think about it as a meditation, I’ll find a calm moment in the midst of hectic construction. Or maybe I’ll just wait until the hammers, drills and saws stop humming for the weekend. And breathe again without sawdust in the air.

Jun3

Time to Dance

Posted on by
Standard

Today as we celebrate commencement, we also consider people of all ages, old and young, generation by generation. What we share, what we pass along to each other.  The steps we take, the dances we dance.

I love to watch couples ballroom dance. Usually they are older than me by a few decades, one generation or more. I watch their grace and dignity, assurance of movement and rhythm, as they spin in stately time around a small space to almost any music at all. I envy it. I never learned it. I’m always awkward and out-of-synch (or at least that’s how it feels).

Of course, some younger people have this ballroom skill, but not so many, and definitely not Chris and I, though years ago we took some lessons and chuckled through them. It’s a different sort of dance than my daughter Sarah and her friends have learned. She dances in occasional mosh pits, and plenty of times while moving to punk, rap and pop. Sarah has also learned such genres as jazz/hip-hop, ballet, and modern. Even some aerial dance on ropes and slings. Sarah and her dance school peers can almost fly.

We all know such different ways to move upon the earth. To dance. To step. To hold and connect with each other. Some solo. Or in couples. Or in groups. In circles and squares, in patterns and wheels. Some with poise and confidence. Balance and lightness. Others like me, enthusiastically, without rhythm or skill. Some almost standing still.

This morning, during a celebration of graduates and seniors at church, we reflected on the heritage of leadership from church members who have belonged and participated for 50, 60 and 70 years. Then we acknowledged our young generation of new leaders who graduate high school today, and will embark on many paths.

And because I’d discovered and contemplated the quotation at the end of this posting, and written it into my daughter’s graduation gift, it made me think of the different ways we dance. Different generations. Different cultures.

It’s something we share as a form of celebration, and yet it has transformed from age to age.And we all have our own style of doing it.

Later this afternoon, friends and families gather in a hot and sweaty gym that holds tight to the memory of  students’ exertion, skill, discipline, anxiety, determination, loss and triumph. It keeps us company as pungent layers of old perspiration and well-used sneaker scents. It sighs beneath our rustling and shifting as the past echo of their shouts, sobs, gasps, exhalations, and cheers.

Outside it’s raining. Pelting and slashing sideways, cold and blustery. Yet as we arrived, the birds sang from the shelter of green foliage. Above the ponderous weight of clouds rolls a sun that will return. There is promise in both the rain, and in its passing.

Indoors we sit fanning ourselves. For hours. More honors and awards are presented. The chorus sings, including Sarah’s sweet true voice, in one final act of unity.

We listen to thoughtful words from specific members of their class, with visions about what has brought the class of 2012 to this moment, what is happening today, and all the opportunities awaiting them tomorrow. We hear speeches by teachers, coaches and mentors who have guided and challenged these students, held them accountable and given them second chances.

Afterward, it’s chaos. Robes and gowns everywhere. Photos. Grins. Crazy poses. Group hugs. Different clusters of people congregating.

Leaping. Jumping. Caps and tassels in the air. A kind of nervous impromptu dancing, don’t you think?

Eventually families scatter to their separate plans. Some students leave alone. Most are surrounded by loved ones. Maybe they congregate again at parties. Or dine privately, sharing words and memories. Retreat to their own rituals surrounding this journey. Go home and simply rest, because plans aren’t yet made, and it’s all a blur of possibility. Or simply move on to the next part of the adventure.

At the start of the day, we paid homage to our elders. The ones who paved the way for everyone celebrating in the gym today. Those who rocked and turned in the measured steps of foxtrot and waltz, or rollicked to the jitterbug or the twist. Who trod ground from schoolyards to battlefields, beaches to graveyards. Who walked the floors of courtrooms, classrooms, aisles, hallways, offices, kitchens and so many other spaces, taking the steps that brought us to this moment.

For a little while, we paused and recognized the elders who nurtured and taught us. Who handed down the legacy that is now placed into our care, and our childrens’ keeping. Who have plenty more to say and do, though they’re willing to share the responsibilities and pleasures of what comes next. In the church sanctuary, we offered them a standing ovation … so slight a commotion in return for the decades of work and inspiration they have already provided.

And this afternoon, we laud our senior high students. We watch them promenade, sit and stand as a class, then walk up (or skip or boogie), summoned by name, to claim diplomas. We give them flowers and philosophical books, blank journals and bubbles, gift certificates and, yes, new flip flops in which to take a few carefree next steps. We bundle up meaningful contritutions such as words to live by, or simply offer love measured in hugs, tears and willingness to let them soar.

We know that regardless of what we give them today, they contain their most important resources inside themselves. We wish our graduates the joyful, healthy and generous use of these blessings … and all those gifts they already carry within.

We hope they hear the music of life, and move to its sacred steps. Because finally, we challenge our children to translate a few words of Latin. To learn one new thing, and then carry this hope imprinted in their hearts. “Nunc Pede Libero Pulsanda Tellus!”

Ssshhhh, I’ll pass along its meaning to you. This is a partial quote from Horace, and in paraphrase, it means, “Now is the time to dance footloose upon the earth.”

Jun1

Claiming Life

Posted on by
Standard

I should say that not all children have the privilege of reaching commencement, or the opportunities just beyond it. I have known amazing high school seniors who cheerfully filled out college applications, one while she turned dark green due to liver failure in the wake of relapse with cancer (people thought it was skin paint in honor of St. Patricks day).

Graduating after treatment for cancer.

On the other hand, I have known cancer and transplant survivors who celebrated their graduation … maybe late, but they got their diplomas and finished school, despite extended time in the hospital and bouts with a life-threatening disease.

As Sarah’s graduation ceremony approaches, I am fully aware that every breath and step she takes is a gift. None of us know how long we’re given, we can only use our time as best we’re able. I know she is the only child in our family who will have this chance, and she’s grabbing hold of it.

I recognize that many parents may never experience this rush of fear and pride that we feel right now. And there are many reasons why this will be so … and each version of why a child doesn’t graduate from high school or obtain a GRE and start the next step in an unfolding life … each one of those stories is heartbreaking in its own way.

I’ll relate a few anecdotes about our friend Emily. She was in her last weeks of life. She received permission to leave the hospital with friends for a few hours. Her dad fussed about her staying out late and taking chances, maybe because she was under-age and maybe because her organs were slowly failing. She teased him. Suggested that nothing she did could hurt her much more than she was, and she needed the chance to taste whatever moments life could offer her. She went out dancing with friends at night in Boston. Came back smiling. Tired. Ready for a nap.

In the same few days, as I recall, she used a chef’s torch to make a crème brulee. She loved to make those, and to do it right. (A skill I don’t possess.)

Photo credit: Beecher Grogan

She craved fish tacos from California. And a lip balm of a berry-flavor (something fruity, I think, anyway) you couldn’t get in New England. The tastes of home.

Instead, her friends from the West Coast came and surrounded her. So did her family, from everywhere.

Her room was filled with laughter and wisdom. She knew she was leaving us. It wasn’t fair, but she didn’t spend her time filling up the world with heaviness and rage … she was lighting desserts on fire, sipping drinks, dancing with friends, going out, singing at the top of her lungs, wearing bling to watch televised Hollywood shows like the Oscars, painting her bald scalp, making her dad nervous a few more times, snuggling with her mom for a comforting cuddle, having long deep talks about everything important (because if she’d had time, she could have fixed a whole lot of world problems, trust me). Whatever life could offer, she claimed.

And she filled out her college application forms. Wrote her essays. Believed in that possibility, against all odds.

(Note: Her death was … and is … not the only possible outcome. The majority of pediatric cancer patients survive, although those numbers are averaged, and change dramatically based on the type of cancer. Cancer remains the leading “natural” cause of death in children. It isn’t cured or beaten yet.)

OMG, there are so many ways that an almost-grownup child is at risk. Some ways we can predict. Some fates come unexpectedly.

Yet we must let our living children go … and inhale … and hold it, and hold it, and hold it … and exhale. Because every breath and step is a gift.

And each movement and respiration belongs to our child, though our own toes flex and our own lungs expand and contract, keeping time with theirs, connected as we are to these beings we have raised and loved.

On this graduation weekend, let us be inspired by the children who get there. And remember those who wanted it, and reached for it, but didn’t have the opportunity to taste it.

May31

Cap and Gown

Posted on by
Standard

Today as part of graduation events, the seniors promenade in their caps and gowns, receive tassels and ribbons, and are honored by Ipswich High School for their artistic, athletic, academic and extracurricular achievements over the past four years.

Some students, like my daughter Sarah, have maintained admirable grades and taken tough classes. Yet they won’t be among the percentage that receive individual accolades. Sarah — like many of her peers — has walked too close to dangerous edges, taken huge risks, strayed far from traditional paths, endured unspeakable traumas, and then returned again. There aren’t any awards, at least in our school, for that kind of triumph.

Yet all around me, I see courage. In my daughter Sarah. And other children, collected into the seats in the performing arts center, though they’re too busy cheering, hooting, whispering and being teens to seem like anything more than everyday soon-to-be adults.

I clap for  kids who have earned awards. A small number will be acclaimed due to exceptional performance, commitment to a specific cause and community service, or outstanding effort in certain subject areas.

Yet on this day, so many of our children have triumphed, simply by showing up, finishing their public school career, earning a diploma and taking the next step into the future. Many kids face challenges that are invisible to the general populace.

Issues may be private, hidden situations — or known problems that cannot be easily resolved. Either way, such difficulties have thrown major obstacles in the path of simple survival. Interfered with a process toward wellbeing or success. Financial setbacks inside a family. Poverty. Lack of food, nutrition or medical care. Homelessness or insecurity around shelter; changing residences often. Absence of a safe place to sleep or study. Limited access to resources such as internet, computers, quiet space and time to study. Illnesses or learning differences that go undiagnosed or untreated, from ADD/ADHD and autism to chronic physical conditions. Mental health issues, such as depression, cutting or eating disorders. Gender identity questions. Addictions around alcohol, drugs or food. Family instability. Prison or legal problems. Divorce. Death. Trauma. Other absences or problems with parents or guardians. Social issues such as bullying, whether physical, verbal or through digital channels. Peer issues. Victims of rape and violence, usually at home or inside dating or social relationships. Emotional damage.

Sarah will tell her own story someday. As will her friends. But those are their tales to tell, not mine.

Though every person’s path is her own, and each individual’s experiences are unique, our children aren’t alone in the darkness each has known, the edges each has teetered on or toppled over. Many — too many — face extraordinary layers of problems, hurts, wounds, injustices, lack of resources, and more.

Some kids are obviously in trouble. Their situations are diagnosed and documented. In an ideal scenario, where a child at risk or in danger can be identified, she or he is plugged into a support system that will provide advocacy, resources, safety, healing and coping mechanisms. That’s an optimal situation, but reality often falls far short of such standards, despite everyone’s best intentions.

Other times a child’s troubles are not apparent. Sometimes children who seem outwardly “okay” are scarred inside. Many students who seem to be getting by, or even high-achieving, are trying to tread water and keep their heads above a flood tide of dangerous issues. They’re in danger of drowning. For Sarah, the aspiration of going to college and becoming a nurse – a dream she will experience this fall as she attends Northeastern University — has kept her swimming, so to speak.

So today, in the baccalaureate ceremony, as hundreds of almost-grownup children earn their caps and gowns … I will know. A few names will be called; they will receive an award or pin or honor of some kind. And they will merit those recognitions. But I will applaud all of our children.

Most of these students deserve acknowledgement for their amazing accomplishment: they have survived. They have even thrived. Finished school. Claimed this moment as one stepping stone toward something more.

Apr13

At Any Cost

Posted on by
Standard

When he graduated with his Masters degree in Architecture, my husband Chris was given a congratulatory card by his mom Barbara. It had a handwritten note in Latin. Ad astra per aspera.

Neither of us knew that classical language, but we had fun trying to translate it. Something like “A rough road leads to the stars” or “Through hardships to the stars.” He had worked hard, since he first decided to be an architect at the age of 13, to achieve his goal. He had more milestones ahead in his vocation, which he would successfully handle, one by one.

Now it’s our daughter Sarah’s turn. Years of effort are culminating in a flurry of year-end experiences as graduation approaches, high school ends, and the next part of her life begins.

This week is frenzied. We just came off Holy Week and Easter, not to mention the performances of Sarah’s modern dance ensemble. Now it’s production week and performance weekend for the musical Titanic (Thursday, Friday and Saturday: the anniversary of the ship’s sinking); Sarah’s in the cast. She’s also submitting local scholarship applications, in the hope she may receive some financial assistance toward her education at Northeastern University, which is where she expects to study nursing. So she’s finishing forms and printing essays. She just took an exam in her college Statistics class at Salem State this week. She’s attending “Admitted Students” day on campus at Northeastern this Saturday, to learn more about the program into which she’s been accepted. And then there’s preparation for a busy work schedule this weekend at the restaurant that’s serving lunch for Orthodox (Greek) Easter. Plus being a liturgist at church the same day. And, oh, she turns 18 next week, so while she’s working in her dad’s office next week, she’s trying to decide how to celebrate her big milestone, too.

We’re all drafted to support her hectic schedule. Mom (me) goes out to buy paper for the printer late at a 24-hour CVS, because we’re out of supplies. Dad provides a stapler and black ink cartridge at unmentionable hours of the night (ahem, morning). We email, scan, download and print. We staple. We sign. We offer cups of coffee and give rides.

In a few more days, it will be vacation week, and this hurried pace will slacken … the shows will be over, the applications submitted and under review, and she (and we) can relax until the next deadline. For a while, rhythms will grow more sedate and predictable.

In the midst of this week’s non-stop pace, it’s easy to be cranky. Short-tempered. Lose focus. Step on each others’ toes instead of being gentle.

In fact, the expense of college is frightening for our family, like everyone else. We will make it work, somehow, but it’s not going to be easy or pretty. Lots of loans ahead. Potential debt that equals another mortgage.

We  encouraged Sarah to reach for her goals.  To hold on. To risk. To strive. And if she got there, we made a promise to make it possible.

She was accepted at other institutions with lower tuitions or bigger scholarship offers, but Northeastern is her dream. And we won’t ask her to compromise. The hope of attending school on this campus and in this program  pulled her through complex junior and senior high school years.

We’re working out a plan.

After all, we once had two daughters full of dreams. Only one lived to make hers come true. We would give anything to help both girls go to school, reach for their goals, and grow up. We are privileged and grateful to do so for Sarah.

Meanwhile, we try to remember that during a busy week. We’re all awake at crazy hours and driving too many miles at all times of day, and juggling too many commitments, but somehow showing up where we have to be, prepared to participate, most of the time … well, that’s the best we can do.

This is the living complexity of a family. It’s messy and uncomfortable.  We often challenge each other, and sometimes come up short, other times rise to the occasion.

I remind myself that these are all ways of investing in my daughter and family. Even if I complain, I believe she’s worth it all.  We are each worth this commitment. Trust me that the alternative, which we also endure, is not even imaginable.

Yet on any given day, it’s easy to lose that perspective. One too many late nights or early mornings, a cranky exchange of words and rolled eyes on the way to school, followed by a request to “borrow” five dollars and be available to offer a ride later in the day, and I once more zoom in on the “little stuff” versus the “big stuff”

In case I needed a reminder, yesterday I picked up a stapled scholarship application and glanced through the essay attached to it. Sarah’s compositions are all about her relationship with her little sister Jessie, and why she wants to be a nurse.

It’s Sarah’s turn: Ad astra per aspera.