September 13, 2021

“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the one that is waiting for us.” —Joseph Campbell

Our eldest moved out today to a new town, with new housemates, and new adventures waiting, new challenges to overcome.

No school plans yet, no job yet, just a few boxes of clothes and art supplies, skateboards and dreams all packed helter skelter waiting to be newly arranged, managed and pulled on and tried on and tested to see what might work and feel best.

The fun part was piling his belongings along with his sweet hearts’ into a big box truck, borrowed from D’s fathers’ employer —a local winery. Little brother came along, too, for all of the right reasons.

All four of us, including our dog have a lot to pack and unpack through this next chapter. Our dog was so upset with the turmoil and strange changes in the house that he puked up his entire dinner tonight. Who knew that dogs stress eat too?

The move itself was seamless, with no traffic jams, beautiful ferry rides both ways beneath a wispy white cloud-studded sky, with golden sunshine highlighting waves upon the water. Thick stands of seaweed and twigs rode the blue waves while seagulls soared and danced on air currents pushed up by the ferry. And riding on the wind, as always, was the rich, briny smell of the sea.

There was no time for a swim today, and after a nine-hour day helping our son move north, I found myself after dinner tonight standing still in our eldest’s now vacated room. It was so very quiet—and still a little messy. I paused and sighed and then I began tidying and cleaning.

Like a crab I scuttled back and forth across the floor, wiping up dust bunnies and bits of paper, pencils and dirty coins, folding clothing left behind for little brother to pick through, and all the while organizing my thoughts and trying to make sense of this new chapter and accept that my first born has left the nest.

I cried tears already, a few times over the past week, in anticipation of missing him, bewildered by how fast the time has gone, aching with the physical distance coming, the absence of his daily hugs.

Today, however, felt like a celebration. Our son was so very happy and excited, so eager to get started on doing all of those things that those in the adult ranks get to and have to do. What more could a parent want?

People have often asked me if he “has plans for school”. Yes. He is starting today—the school of life as a young adult, learning all of the things that go with that. And maybe he will pursue higher education down the road too. But not now, he is listening to his own wisdom, his own heartbeat.

And I am so very proud of him.

I knew this day would come just as surely as I know that the sea will be cold every single time I step in. I knew today would be challenging and leave me feeling raw and chilled to my core, just like the shock of cold that set in and slowly dissipated dozens of times as I swam through the deepest darkest days of winter last year in the Salish Sea. But like warm chai post-swim, my youngest warmed me to my core, took away the chill, with his loving presence and serene nature as he helped his big brother take flight.

Yesterday I dashed to the landing to “just take a dip”, with little time before our farewell dinner at D’s mom’s house, but found myself headed due west away from shore even though I knew time was short.

A lone seagull perched upon a small float, and as I approached he ever so slightly shifted his body, turned and took flight, leaving me alone in the sea. Like my eldest, he too, needed to take to the sky, and I needed to stay in the water below and just let him go. Eyes up, heart open. Quiet.

Today as we sailed upon the ferry westward towards home, I scanned the blue water to the north where the water meets the sky and where my son now at this moment is building his first nest. One lone seagull flew close by and low along the ferry deck, and I thought of my son.

I left him grinning from ear to ear with his young love, as the wine truck engine came to life and the young couple did donuts around us in the empty church parking lot from their well -loved van, waving us goodbye. And giggling.

A crazy relief and fear gripped me as I saw the children still alive and well within them, shrouded with an adult mantel.

“They can do this. They will be okay. I will be okay,” echoed through my body like a prayer.

Birds and water.

Before we hugged and said our final goodbyes, I noticed a line of birds perched in a row upon a wire above the quiet alley.

When our eldest was in preschool we would spend the daily drive listening to a program called Bird Note on the radio. A. loved it so much we would purposely arrive late to preschool just so we could hear the endless sounds and stories of birds from around the world. Together we learned of their calls, their habits, their vast migration routes, their incredible speed and agility and their critical role in our own survival.

How perfect that seagulls caught my eye swimming yesterday and upon the water today, and when we said goodbye. How lovely it was to see a flock of geese soaring overhead as we left our neighborhood today.

A. is my bird son. And he has taken flight.

Like a seagull I hope he will try one perch then another, then another keeping an eye out for eagles and other birds of prey. Taking flight when he needs to, and staying put when he needs to.

I hope he will spend time solo, riding upon floats out at sea, looking for food, listening for the call of other gulls, resting, breathing. Remembering that just being is enough. He is enough right now.

I hope he will dive like a cormorant into the deep, then resurface, always full bellied and wet, flapping to a nearby boat or piling to spread his wide wings and dry off. Feel the sun, feel the wind, love the rain.

I hope he will remember to sit still at night like the owl, and wide eyed call out into the night when he needs a friend, or help, his voice echoing through the cedar trees, bouncing off the moonlight to reach a kind ear hidden in the forest.

I hope he will beat his wings fast and hard like a hummingbird and sip sweet nectar slowly even as life is whipping through him at a breakneck pace.

And I hope he will travel far north and south, like the wild geese, following his own inner clock, his own heart beat, and take solace in the rhythm of the changing seasons.

And I hope he will return home from time to time, whenever he needs to check on his first nest. The one we built together—his dad, his brother and me. The very nest he was born in, uttered his first cries in, drank his first milk in, danced and played in.

I hope he will bring his feathered friends along too, sometimes, so a chorus of bird songs can fill the air. I will sing too.

And I will keep singing even when he flies away again, because I know his heart will be full of songs and stories, and his belly will be full for I shall feed him. Always.

P.S. I am excited to let you in on a little secret! I am creating a Patreon site. Stay tuned for details.

And thank you for your support!

Love, Mary