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Sunday, March 24, 2013

Nothing Much to Say


I can never getting enough of seeing the evolution of faces, my own, my loved ones, anyone's really. It fascinates me. Here are my three in 2002 and now. My son and daughter are 10 and 7 in the first picture, my niece is 13. In the second photo, taken a week ago, they are, from left to right, 18, 21, and 23.

My daughter turns 19 this week Thursday. I ordered Georgetown Cupcakes to be delivered to her on her birthday, a custom assortment. We were on the phone together and she chose the flavors. We also mailed a gift that arrived this weekend, but the mail room is closed, so even though she got the notice that it's there, she won't be able to collect it until Monday.

I feel sort of weak and cleansed, fresh from a long shower but exhausted by it, too. I am on the mend from a virus of some kind, but not mended quite yet. I am cosy at home with my husband who is watching March Madness college basketball after solving the day's problems at church this morning, dipping into his pocket to meet various needs, coming home with his wallet empty, his sense of purpose activated. That little community church is so full of need. As its warden, my husband is the center that holds, the one who has a rapport with all demographics, the educated liberal intellectuals, the homeless and at risk, the lost and found souls who gather there, all of them so needy in some way. My husband's need is to be useful, to help keep the ship afloat during this transition between priests. They are so lucky to have him. As we are.

I have a strange sense of peace this afternoon, but I miss my children, too. I am okay with their being away from me. The hard part is not knowing the shape of their days, what experiences are transforming them minute by minute, not being able to keep track as they become who they will be. It can't be helped. This is what it means to release them. Perhaps in my next life I will choose a culture in which everyone lives in close proximity on the same compound. Or at least on the same island.

My cousin Maureen said to my children last week: "When you grow up all together as we did, all the cousins, and you spend so much time together, you remain close for life, no matter how many months or years come between you. When you see each other, you pick right up where you left off. The way were raised, all of us together on a small island, it was wonderful." My children seemed to be really listening.

11 comments:

  1. I remember right before Jessie moved out and I was at a park and saw a young college girl sitting at a picnic table, studying, and I thought to myself that soon Jessie would be doing things like that and I would have no idea! None! She wouldn't be calling me to check in and say, "I am going to the park to study Anatomy," and she wouldn't be home for supper and I wouldn't have any idea what she was eating for breakfast or wearing each day and, and, and...
    I cried and I will never forget that moment, even though three of my children had already moved out and moved on and you would have thought it would be easy by then, or at least easier.
    No.
    It is a process, isn't it, letting them go?
    And one that grieves mamas dearly sometimes. And yet, we do it. We manage. And the miracle of it is- so do they.

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    1. Mary, you have no idea how much it means that you understand. You really, really do get what I feel. It is such a grace to feel known like this. thank you for getting it. For really truly getting the depth of it. Love to you, dear Mary.

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  2. I love reading your thoughts about family and love. You always make me realize how much all have in common even if our outward circumstances appear different. We all cherish love and family and roots and togetherness.

    Hope you feel better soon.

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    1. Gary, thank you! It's true, we are all so much the same.

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  3. Angella, your family is just a few years ahead of mine. My own chickadees are cooking dinner right now. One day they will be gone and I am dreading it. I am so connected to them and they to me. I don't know how you do it.
    Thanks for sharing this.

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  4. So much beauty, love, and genetics intertwined.

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  5. I love how you love your family so much. I am envious that I never had that and marvel in its beauty. Your children will thrive on that alone. Sweet Jo

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  6. "All of us together on a small island." That sounds so idyllic!

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  7. I keep scrolling between the two pictures and marveling. My youngest is six right now. On my desk is a picture of her at two. It just doesn't stop.

    I love the way you write about your life.

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  8. But you have said much, and I read it all with pleasure. The photos are remarkable -- there is something so luminous about your children and relatives -- I can't put my finger on what makes it so.

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  9. I see my family in your family so many times. and I love what your cousin Maureen said. I don't think it even has to be an island, just so you spend lots of real time together during those growing up years.

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