LETTING GO TO STAY CONNECTED

“You’ve been warned,” my husband, Boyd, announces on a rainy, Sunday afternoon. He is standing in front of the bookshelf in our bedroom that is overflowing with books. Books on top of books. Layers of books. Books balanced on the edges of the antique shelves that I inherited from my Great Aunt Blanche.  “The box stays here,” Boyd slides an empty cardboard box across the floor to the wall with his foot.  “…in five days, this box will be filled,” he pauses for dramatic effect. I’m holding back laughter. If I didn’t find hilarity in this dynamic between us – the one where he is driven to the brink of insanity by the amount of paper and books I keep in our home – it would be too stressful. I nod, suppressing my smile. “You’ve been warned,” he says again.

“Got it,” I say. He looks at me like I don’t. “Really, I got it.”

“I’m so serious – five days…” I let out a giggle.

“It’s not funny,” he says and turns to leave the room.

“It sort of is,” I say to no one.

“It’s not…” he calls from the doorway.

I’ve been warned before. And there have been consequences. But he’s never thrown out or donated items I really care about. He won’t pare down these books without my consent – that’s why the warning is sort of funny. I will do it. I must. I have empathy for him – it’s hard to be married. It’s hard to live in someone else’s clutter. And if you’re Boyd, it’s just really hard to live in any clutter.

So, I start the review.

And immediately, I discover an entire row of books – the bottom shelf – that can be donated: parenting books. God, I have so many parenting books. Baby sleep habit books, sibling rivalry books, talking to your tween books, positive discipline books, bless the mess of family books, raising-a-great-kid books, emotionally intelligent teenager books, and then too many books on the college admissions process.

As I transfer each book to the cardboard box, I flip through the pages. Some of the books are annotated all the way to the end. Many of the books are only highlighted in the first few chapters, and a few books have clearly never been read. So many words.

So much information – the science, the interventions, the facts, the strategies, the reframes – so much time and energy I devoted to learning the concepts of good parenting. I shouldn’t be surprised. Mothering, leading, teaching, and guiding children has been something I wanted to do since I was a child. I wanted it as a personal experience; I wanted to be in charge of a family. I also sought it out in my professional life. I naturally pursued jobs where I was helping students and families. I studied human development – I used what I learned to serve people.

I lived what I learned in my relationship with each one of my three children.

And now, the oldest, twin girls, are in college. They are freshmen and the last few months have felt entirely strange without them in the physical space of our home. For the past 18 years, my mothering has been tactile, real time, daily touchpoints, eye contacts and insights that arise from keen observations. I’ve been paying attention. It’s easy to see – they move around me with ease. I’ve got them in their natural habitat – they are so used to me, they forget I’m here. I hear them when they don’t think anyone is listening. I sense them – the sound of a door closing conveys her emotional state. I track their comings and goings, bring guardrails to their bad habits and praise their good ones. All of this, because they lived in my domain. They were contained by the walls of our home. They were held in the circumference of my arms, a world of ever-present nurturance. The backyard was the wilderness. Our dinner rotation of pasta and peas, chicken and rice, was a culinary bonanza. Sorting coins and counting birthday gift cash was an afternoon of untold riches. The sky was the limit, and the sky could be found above the roof of our house, to the west at the park with the ducks, to the east surrounding our elementary school and to the north where we sometimes wished upon a star before bedtime. Family life defined their life.

Their lives are bigger now.

We have moved into new territory, a space outside of the chapter outlines in the books I’ve added to the box.

I’m not sure of my true north in these parts. And maybe, even more importantly, is she sure of hers?

Did I do what I was supposed to do? Did I prepare her? Did I follow the guidelines well enough? Was I consistent? With the guardrails off, will she be able to manage her bad habits? Is she ready to make the best choices – the ones that keep her aligned with her values?

I don’t have the answers to these questions.

But I do know, I’m not going to the bookstore to find them. They way forward is not a parenting manual that enumerates the steps to launch a young adult.

The way forward is through the steps I take, deeper into my adulthood – a responsibility I assume – to show up for what will emerge as my motherhood now.

I’ve been considered an expert in this area. I help women emerge – I support and coach mothers on the art of letting go.

A million moments of practice – I know how to guide because I’ve lived it, too.

And so, I find myself here – the teacher of letting go is called to let go.

But it’s different now. The moment when they actually leave, move out, venture into the world as a voting citizen, seek greener pastures, expand their horizons – this moment is more than letting go.  It’s also about trusting that they go well.

You can only take the idea of trust so far – the rest of the way is for trusting.

Trusting is trusting. It’s an act of faith and intention. I must trust that I can find my way and go well in that direction. Just as I expect and trust that she will.

I forge a path from real time to FaceTime, from unexpected hugs to requests for more money, from conversations in the kitchen to questions over text. I am learning a language, a set of behaviors to relate, a new way of being in this family.

The answer is in my body, where it’s always been.

We cannot trust from our heads alone – it is an act of embodiment.

And I am in it. I can feel the direction rising up magnetically. I am a compass. Where I once believed my acquired knowledge set the course of my choices, now I understand more fully. I was never without the intention of my devotion. The road for connection to my children – to children, to family – was always paved with my desire to connect. I’ve lived a full body, all-sensory, open and wholehearted yes to witnessing young life and being a part of shaping it – and now, it’s my turn to live my learning, expand my understanding, believe my presence transcends time and space. Letting go is a part of staying connected. Letting go is essential to staying connected.

And trusting that she goes well – that I go well – is the truest true north around.

Photo by Pexels at Pixabay