One month and two days

 If things go according to plan, Tessa will graduate college in just over a month.

I stand here in wonder and awe at her luminance, the magic of this moment in her life and in mine.

For her, this is something that nobody can ever take away form her. It belongs to her and her alone, and she gets to hold it forever. It is proof of what she can do, of her tenacity and resilience, her intelligence, her fortitude. She never liked school - I think she enjoys some of her classes, but homework was never anything but painful - but she saw it through, and I'm so proud of her that I'm bursting.

"Sit in salt water, light a candle for my daughter..." sings Florence + The Machine as I typed that last bit. Florence is singing of the pain of her miscarriage, and the "You Can Have it All" title is bitter.

But I wonder if  - miracle of miracles - in the end, I get to have it all. Of course, not ALL-all, but somehow, still, all.

I lost things along the way, "like salt in a weakened broth" says the poet Naomi Shihab Nye in "Kindness":

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

Oh, yes, I lost things. I lost my breasts, then my womb and ovaries, my femininity stripped from me and placed under a microscope, quivering in stainless steel dishes, cold and exposed. Then I lost my marriage - or did I ever really have it? - in what, at the end, felt like a purifying fire, the heat filling me where the surgeries had left me iced.

And then I lost those years of career, never to be regained. I lost financial footing, clawing at the shale slope and longing to find something solid like basalt or soft like a forest floor, looking down and fearing that I'd fall off the cliff face.

Sure that I was done - don't bad things come in threes? - I lost again, this time my family of origin, ugly words revealing what had been the truth for too long, shame flooding my body. Thank goodness for years of lifeguarding, so that I could swim with all my might to rescue myself, finding shore and gasping at the sea of shame that threatened to take away everything I knew about myself, shaking in the grief that I do not get a family the way I thought I would.

But every time I lost, I found again.

22 (nearly 23) years since I held my baby and knew for sure that this is what pure love looked like.

20 years since cancer, and I'm alive to see Tessa step into her womanhood in this new way.

12 years since divorce, which I feared would kill me in a new way, but was actually proof that I was a  phoenix, that I could rise and fly in ways I'd forgotten possible; years of showing Tessa how to live.

9 years since losing my family of origin, father first, then everyone else: mother, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins. One cousin did let me know that my grandmother had died but then had to call back, embarrassed to report that I was not welcome at the funeral. Years of teaching Tessa boundaries, and learning to parent myself as well as her as I sorted through the detritus of my upbringing and vowed not to gift her with its waste.

8 years since I returned to teaching, finding my way again in my career, using my education. Years of modeling passion and purpose to my daughter.

4 years since Tessa decided to go to college, and found her way in. Difficult years for her, but such a time of proving to herself something that she needed to know in her bones. And four years of remaking myself, with her living in an apartment on her own time a couple of hours away.

And now? Now, she launches. I have given her the best of myself, even when that wasn't enough, I think it's fair to say that I gave it my all, and that my commitment to giving it all to my beloved daughter until I draw my last breath is a thousandfold what it was that first time I saw her face, cradled her body, and vowed that there is nothing I would not do to protect her and give her a good life.

So she must launch, and I will too.

I am filled with a new energy lately, finding my footing more than ever, and I'm so hopeful that this next phase will be a time of kindness, of stepping into light and love.

When I first got divorced, I stood on the edge of Lowman Beach, and had the sudden clear vision that when I saw orcas swim by that beach, it would be a sign that I was ready for the next phase of my life, ready for love, and that love would find me. Since then I have run to the beach every time the orcas were nearby, and I have seen them many times since (it's one of my gifts!), but never from Lowman. I could spot them at Alki, or Constellation, or from a boat in the Sound, or from Emma Schmitz, or from a ferry or an island... but never from Lowman. Disappointed, I decided that maybe it would never happen, determined not to want it, but searching the horizon of the sea despite myself.

Last week I saw them from the shore, a crowd of us gasping in delight - "Did you see it? In line with the point, by the research boat! Oh, look, another one!" The man next to me loaned me his binoculars and I saw a fin so large I was sure it was taller than I am. And my heart beat faster - was it really a sign?

And then today I went to the beach again, wrapped in a blanket against the cold, looking for wishing stones and painting a little seascape in my portable art set (I remind myself that it was the process, not the outcome, that I was seeking, because I have no idea what I'm doing but it's fun anyway!). And then... was that a splash? Oh! And another! And running to the water line, talking to another woman, delighting in, yes! A third! Oh look at them, by Colman pool, how are we so lucky to live her, and now the sun is setting (so early in the afternoon!) and I can't believe it and oh I love orcas.

Twice in a week. Grateful to the tips of my toes, sure now that it's a sign (sometimes I'm slow, and I appreciated the confirmation!).

In one month and two days, my daughter's life changes forever, and she grasps what was hers to claim, her birthright. On her mother's side, she is the second woman to receive a college degree. I am the first, and it was hard for me (how DID I work 70 hours a week sometimes?!) and it has been my joy to make it easier on her.

And now we both launch into new things. She is all dewy skin and flat stomach and breasts that belong to her body and independence and dreams and determination and integrity and pure stubbornness and the deepest kindness. She has hopes, but she has fears too, and she will have to reinvent herself in this phase. She is ready, of that I have no doubt. She has wings; she will fly.

And I am launching too. Did the orcas bring love? Time will tell! But my writing is back on track, and that feels good. I'm exercising in the mornings. I gave up sugar for the month (exceptions for Thanksgiving!) and I'm on day 10 without it. Work is going well. I go to the beach on my day off, and I make Christmas presents for friends, and I go to live concerts, and I read stories and light candles and read tarot. I have friends who are good and true, and I have friends who are actually sisters. I have big dreams for myself, and peace about watching Tessa fly.

I never seem to do things on just the right schedule - I couldn't write this in two days to have a clean "just one month from now" because I'm not that tidy. I'm messy and on my own schedule, not right or wrong but mine, just the same as my daughter.

We have made it, she and I. We are well. It's messy, and sometimes it's scary, but it is also so jaw-droppingly beautiful. As she creates herself anew, I create myself anew, and I am inspired by her, and hope that I can return the favor.

I saw orcas, and I must mark the occasion. My daughter and I are well.

All will be well.

(And just to be clear, I think "mystic" is witch. Yes. And I loved her ever since learning the UU song by Meg Barnhouse, and I love her even more because of Florence's references.)

And speaking of Florence's lyrics....

I got to hold my daughter in my arms, and she did not die. And then I did not die, and I get to see her become a woman, to sprout wings bigger than mine, to surpass me in so many ways. And I get to playfully say, "you can't pass me yet - watch this!" and flap my own broken wings harder, to fly higher, because I have mended them over and over and I can still fly.

The crows don't get out of the way when I walk by anymore; I tell them how beautiful they are, and they strut near my feet, our eyes meeting. Their black glossy wings remind me that I can fly - and that I still have some magic tricks up my sleeves, because I am not done reinventing myself either.

One month and two days from now, she grabs the ring. It's my ring too, and how glad I am to share a copy of my own. Let her come into her power, and let me explore mine.

All shall be well.