Writers Gotta Write

 Oh dear Reader. How I have missed you.

At this point, I'd be surprised if I had a single reader, because what would they read?! I have been amiss, a bit lost, a bit in transition. But over, and over, and over, the same truth rises us: for better or for worse, I am supposed to write.

Hopefully for better, of course.

So my new plan? To write. Anything. No matter how crappy - or how wonderful, it's time to show up for myself. And - if I'm very lucky - for you.

I am in a wonderful, strange new part of my life. The empty nest is filled with surprises, actually, and nobody told me it would feel like this. I read Grown and Flown online, and I can't tell you how many articles say how hard it is to let go, how senior year is a countdown horror to loneliness, how letting go is a tearful process.

Anybody who knows me knows that I love my daughter as much as I love my own life, and that there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. We made it through my cancer and divorce together, and my love for her is matched by my respect for her. Tessa means the world to me, and my love for her is infinite. So please don't judge me for saying this:

But Grown and Flown didn't tell my story.

I love my empty nest.

First of all, it's not really that empty. She went to school in September, visited in October, and is coming home for Thanksgiving in November. Then, she'll be back for almost a month in December/January. But even when she's gone, we're connected. I send her little packages (note: I don't think my home made cookies were worth the $23 UPS shipping fee - I need a better method!), postcards, letters, and endless texts. She's part of my life on a daily basis, and I carry her with me where ever I go. I don't think she carries me in the same way - that's not her job - but I am secure in her love. So, between frequent communication and visits, I don't feel too empty.

Secondly, it's not only Tessa who is learning to fly.

For her whole life, my life was organized around hers, as it should be. I signed up for motherhood, and I don't resent it at all. I put her needs first because I wanted to, and because it was the right thing to do. I wouldn't trade those sleepless nights, or infinite attempts to get her to eat her broccoli, or sleepovers, or story time, or hiking at her pace, or driving her to endless playdates and after school activities. I wouldn't miss a minute if I could do it again. But now? Oh - there is liberation!

For her, liberation looks like a sink full of dishes and a roommate who doesn't care (and adds her own dishes), with no mom around to scold and demand and passive-aggressively clean the sink (hey, I never said I was perfect). It looks like sleeping in late and staying up even later. It looks like finding her own way, her own people, her own way of moving through the world. It's study groups, finding a favorite coffee shop, having her own language with her boyfriend. It's learning how to write A+ papers, and managing procrastination. It looks like managing the rent on time, and grocery shopping, and eating only the food she likes best.

And for me, liberation looks like remembering who I was when I was in my 20s.

I had a small period of my time after I graduated and got a "real" job and before Ryan and I were dating and eventually married where my life was truly my own, restricted only by my budget or my imagination. In that time, I went to concerts with friends, library talks by myself, and I hiked almost every weekend whether I could find a friend to join me or not. I took my first yoga class, and a writing class. I hosted dinner parties, went to plays and movies. I took great joy in buying grocery store flowers for myself. I did volunteer work. I wrote pages and pages in my journal.

And here I am again.

A month ago I signed up for a yoga class, and while I've only been four times so far, it feels a bit like coming home. I have the time, the money, the health, and the inclination. My Warrior 3 is really quite bad - wobbly and oh-so-crooked - but I can tell it's a bit better. My Dancer is broken, but that's okay. My Tree is steadier, my Warrior 1 and 2 are powerful, and my Standing Fold is deeper every time. Bridge feels incredible, and my Dancing Warrior (flowing from one to another) lets me know I am alive, and well.

I bought tickets to go to plays with a dear friend. We went to the first one: filled with feminist ideas, laughter, social commentary. Next up is a Jane Austen play, and I'm giddy with nerdy delight at the prospect.

I went to Mount Rainier for the first time in years, and climbed a path that had me gasping for breath before I slowed down (and realized that I was still passing everyone, just not at the speed of my 20-something self). A watched a hungry marmot filling his belly, and as I climbed above the treeline I felt strong and steady.

A recent repeat of COVID (I am so utterly sick of this!) had me at home for a week. Horrors! But a half dozen friends repeatedly volunteered to bring me supplies, and little gifts showed up at my door. I was finally able to sit down to write letters, and I sat on the sofa staring out the window, comfortable with my cup of tea even when I didn't feel well.

The dinner party I had scheduled will still happen, just on a different day.

I know I haven't found my way yet. I'm still working on dating (what DO I want?!), getting my finances and savings where I want them. (This was the year of a new mattress - it was 22 years old, good grief - and a new fridge and a new washing machine because they broke, and then new car tires and a $6000 repair, all on the heels of my beautiful trip to Italy. My savings has taken a hit!) I'm never caught up on grading (I have a plan!) and I'm really not a very good gardener and my yard is a silly wreck. I keep saying I'm going to run but I don't run. I spend too much time on my screens.

But.

I'm finding my way.

So, here is my promise to myself: I will end this year better than I started it. And for me, writing is a part of that, so I will show up, and write drivel or gold, but I will write. I will stop waiting for the right time, for the right motivation, for the right idea. I will write the book, or I will write here, but I will write.

I owe it to myself. It's time to fly!

Empty Nest

 My daughter is winding down her first year at college, and it feels like a huge milestone in my life, not just in hers.

The past year has been full of surprises.

First, let's be clear: it's nothing like I imagined... except when it is.

I thought she'd be social and spend too much time with new friends instead of studying. I thought I'd be worried all the time. I thought the house would feel empty and strange. I thought it would be the end of something. I thought she wouldn't commit to her studies and she might come home to find a different path. I thought she'd never come home on weekends.

I was wrong.

She's found her academic groove and she remains connected to her beloved childhood and high school friends (including her high school boyfriend), but she hasn't found community at school. I did worry a lot - a LOT - at first, but now I feel relatively peaceful. The house started by feeling empty, but now it just feels like home. She has found academic success and motivation, and she's committed to earning her degree. And she comes home frequently.

So: I was wrong about that.

But some of it is just as I hoped.

Moving her into the dorm was a magical experience that I found healing. As a non-traditional student without a lot of family support, I never got to live on campus (I barely spent any time on campus except classes, because mostly I worked). Going shopping for Tessa's supplies - the perfect chambray blue duvet cover; towels that were soft and fluffy; a mattress topper because it was on the list of "must haves"; throw pillows that I'm pretty sure never get used but made her eyes light up when we bought them - was so much fun. When I had my first apartment nothing was new, or pretty, or special. My first Christmas after leaving my parents' house I asked for a blanket as a gift because I was perpetually cold and I didn't have enough bedding. That memory - and the fact that my mother gave me a hand me down blanket that was in the color scheme and size of her king sized bed, despite the fact that I had a double bed, means that I got her cast-offs, despite my parents' ability to afford more - made me patient as we shopped the aisles of Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and IKEA, debating each item extensively before finding just the right ones or sighing and searching again on Amazon.

Loading up the back of the Subaru with blue zippered IKEA bags, driving over the mountains, and having the usual comedy of building an IKEA side table and unpacking everything together was just as I'd dreamed. I made up her bed with the topper, the blush sheets, the pretty duvet, the piles of throw pillows (which she arranged and rearranged until they looked just right). We probably looked like caricatures of a college day mom and daughter: she in her Central crop top, me in my baggy CWU Mom sweatshirt, smiling and sweaty and sometimes on the edge of tears, with lots of hugs. When I left that night she gave me a carved jade heart and some heartfelt words, and our hug was extra long. When I got in the car to drive home alone, I played Taylor Swift and sang loudly, waiting for my tears to come... but they didn't. I was happy. My girl was where she needed to be, and she knew how deeply I love her, and the future awaited both of us.

I know I sent too much. Her first aid supplies alone could probably cover the entire floor of her dorm for a year. She could have holed up and lived on the snacks she got started with without ever leaving to get food. I'm pretty sure she never read any of the novels she brought with her, but as a fellow book nerd I knew how important it was to have them tucked onto her bedside table shelves.

No regrets. 

We send each other cards and letters at least weekly. I display mine on top of our piano (displaying cards is its only use since Tessa decided, a decade ago, that piano wasn't her thing).

When she's gone I collect little things for her and place them in her room: a new pack of masks, snacks, a sundress for our summer trip, new bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I send her texts every day without expectation that I'll get a response because I know she needs her independence, but I also know she needs my love notes, and I often get a response anyway.

This is better than I expected.

The house isn't empty, because she comes home every few weeks to visit (make no mistake - her local boyfriend is more of a draw than I am - but that's okay, because I get the benefit of her visit anyway).

I am not sad the way that some of the parenting websites told me I'd be. I do not sleep in her bed, wrapped around her pillow. I do not long for crumbs on the counter or dishes on the sink. I long for this: I long for what I've got. I long for her to know that she's got my full support. I long for her to feel safe, protected, but also capable of handling what life throws at her. I long to be her safe space to return to. But I also long for witnessing her as she grows wings. She's thinking of a semester abroad. She might move to California when she graduates. She doesn't think she wants to be a mom even when she's older. She has her own ideas of life, some of which I find exhilarating, and some of which make me worry, but all of which belong to her. 

One of my parents' angry threats to me when I was a teen was "you'll see when you're older!" and "just you wait!" I did wait. I got older. And what I learned was that my feelings of craving wings to fly were completely normal and natural, and that what every kid wants most in the world is the encouragement to fly and the certainty that a loving nest awaits them if they want to visit. I wasn't being selfish, or mean, or unloving, or ungrateful when I wanted a different life than the one my parents envisioned for me, I was just - living. Being myself, not them. Finding my own way. Every time they told me that my way of living was wrong, I yearned to fly farther away. Every time they clipped my wings, I flapped them harder, trying to make up for my lost feathers by expending more energy.

Parenting my daughter through each stage of her life has been healing and eye opening. 

My nest is empty-ish. But I'm happy, because I didn't raise my daughter to stay home with me until she was old, I raised her to go out and seek out her own dreams, and that is what she's doing. When I buy her little necessitates, or send her love notes, or encourage her to follow her dreams even when they're not mine, I'm really parenting myself too, reminding myself that this is what I deserved, too.

The more freedom I give her, the more I support her dreams, the closer we become. I honestly didn't see that one coming, even though it should have been obvious. My parents held me tight to a vision I didn't share, and I suffocated and struggled to break free of the confines of their vision; I gave my daughter space to figure out her own path and called out my support, and she has opened up to me in return. So obvious once I see it, but such a journey to get to this place.

My nest doesn't feel empty, even though it is. It feels like home. It feels like a soft place to land. It feels full of possibility.

Right now it's time for me to work on developing my own wings. Sometimes I feel jealous of my daughter - not for her youth and beauty, but for the possibilities that lie ahead of her. And then I remember that it's not too late for me, and that I can still recreate myself a hundred times over, and that just as she's got me cheering her on and believing in her with all my heart, she's cheering for me and believing in me, too. I can hear her shouting "Fly, Mom! You can do it!"

I didn't expect that. 

I'm still working on finding my way. I haven't got it all figured out AT ALL.

But watching my daughter spread her wings gives me strength to remember how to fly. I see her circling our nest, riding the currents on her wings, and I hear her call to come join her in the sky. We won't always fly together, or in the same direction, and I need to make sure not to crowd her up there - the sky is big enough to give her space - but after years of sitting on my nest, tending to my little baby bird, it's clear that we're both ready to soar.

It's terrifying and exhilarating. But I'm ready.

Flying Solo

 A few weeks ago, my daughter and I got in the car - which I had packed with ten giant blue IKEA zipper bags full of bedding, clothes, shoes, and more, per the recommendations on Grown and Flown and Pinterest - and drove a couple of hours east... and I left her there.

This is the longest I've ever been apart from my girl, and I feel hollow and strange. We've done up to a week apart before, usually with lots of phone calls to check in, and I always knew at the end of the week she'd be back where she belonged, with me. But this time, she's where she belongs at college, and she'll never be home again in the way that she was before.

Now, she has two homes. My home will always be her place to land, and the room down the hall is still filled with her things, awaiting her return for holidays. But she and I both know that she has two homes now, and her growth and her future lies mostly in the other one at the moment.

This isn't a woe-is-me, I promise. I couldn't be happier for her, because she's out there trying to live her best life, trying to discover how to navigate when she's that much closer to adulthood. I am proud of her for finding her way, for being brave, for meeting new people and having a roommate for the first time (as an only child, I'm pretty sure this is a shock to her system!), for figuring out food cards and dorm rules and where her classes are on a campus, but she's ready. For whatever bumps she's experiencing, she's ready. She can do this.

And so can I - I hope.

Everyone talks about kids remaking themselves in college, and how much their parents miss them, but nothing prepared me entirely for the truly empty house I'm in. My canine companion might really be my best friend, because I feel really alone, despite the wonderful folks in my life.

No husband.

No family of origin.

None of Tessa's friends in and out all the time.

And a global pandemic that absolutely refuses to go away (and it feels like I'm the only one really worried about this winter - what if it's worse than last winter, despite the vaccinations?!). I'm being careful (it turns out that was a good idea - because I had Pfizer, and after 4 months it's at half effectiveness for preventing disease, and I'm with 150 kids a day at school in my crowded classroom).

So here I am, more solo than I've ever been. I'm of two minds about this: time to write! to be a superstar at work! to exercise more and more! to take classes! to visit art museums! to hike! to cook! to do house projects!

...and curl up in a ball, possibly in front of the television, and not get up.

Honestly, the jury's out.

What I did decide to do was start therapy again.

Mostly, I want to work out my family of origin stuff. When my mother was hospitalized recently I reached out to her, and as soon as we spoke, I regretted it. She brought up everything I've done to offend her in the past 20 or so years (we thought she could be on her deathbed, and she wanted to re-hash that I had not invited her to attend Tessa's birth... sigh). She said, "At least when I die, I guess I'll know you reached out once" (in a sad, dramatic, sighing voice) and when I pointed out that I've contacted her regularly - most recently to send a graduation announcement - she had no reply. She acted like it was confusing why we're estranged. I said "the door has always been open to see you again" and when she acted surprised I said, "All you and Dad need to do is agree to no name calling, belittling or yelling" and she said - in a surprisingly snotty voice, "OH! So you have BOUNDARIES now!" and did not agree to those boundaries and changed the subject.

I think of all of it, that last one was the toughest for me. I have the no-yelling-belittling-name-calling rule for EVERYONE I meet. Cashiers. Waiters. Passer by. Students. Friends. Strangers. Everyone. I feel like it's the absolute lowest bar in the world, but in my family it's simply too much, and for me to express a boundary is unacceptable, even when it's a lowest-of-the-low boundary.

So here I am. 52, solo, in therapy.

I am determined to get to the good stuff. The good stuff looks like an active life, close connections, meaning, and love. Romantic love, too. But I know I have to deal with my "stuff" before I'll be ready for that.

Sigh.

I think my first big leap now is to figure this out. Therapy. Journaling, Determination. Asking hard questions.

And then maybe the good stuff?