Today like every other day
We wake up empty and scared.
Don't open the door of your study
And begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There a hundreds of ways to kneel
And kiss the earth.
Rumi
Dear Sofia,
It is storming outside, and I miss you. You are on a a great adventure with your beloved cousin, aunt, uncle and grandfather. You are no doubt swimming, boogie boarding, feeding endless treats to the dogs, enjoying being the "big cousin" and reading "When Papa Snores" with your Papa. You have decided he snores less than your grandmother. This debate is a source of ongoing entertainment. In any case, you do not miss me. Which is good.
I'm thinking about you for a lot of reasons - but mostly because of the fact that I want to apologize for being so distracted lately. There has been a lot going on. Some good, some not as good, and while I know that ultimately it is the nature of growth, it still hurts.
As a child I remember waking up in the middle of the night in agony from leg cramps (appropriately named growing pains). And my parents would explain that this pain was the result of my bones elongating and the muscles and skin around them stretching to make room for my new, bigger bones.
I remember being in so much pain that I did not want to grow, that I didn't want to make room for more bone and more muscle and more skin.
And that is why I have been distracted, and why I am apologizing, because now, just like when I was a child, I have been saying to myself, "I don't want to grow, it hurts too much," and this has taken my attention.
When you make room for something new, and you kick out the old, no matter what, it is painful.
One of our favorite neighbors whose children you adore have moved. And last night I ran into the mom as she walked out of her now empty house with the realtor, who was to officially put up the 'For Sale' sign the following day. We were talking about her new house and how much she loves it and then, suddenly, she just burst out crying. "We were engaged in this house," she said. "All three kids were born here." And I understood. She was torn about pulling down the wooden, hand-engraved sign that hung over the mantle top that said, "Once upon a time..."
Their story in that house was ending. And as the credits rolled and the words, 'The End,' came up, there were tears.
Your father and I are ending a chapter of our lives as well. The credits are rolling. The words 'The End' are coming up. And there are tears.
But we are excited for the future.
As a child I could never have known where my grown legs (that had hurt so much to come to be) would take me. I am thankful for every single place - good and bad - that we have gone. And I have come to find that the thing that anchors me through the undulating waves is writing. Writing my book, writing to you, to friends, to family. Pen on paper, scribbling; or, in this case, fingers on keyboard, tapping. It is my way of kneeling to kiss the earth. It is what grounds me.
And I would ride a hundred waves of despair to remember this.
So find the thing that grounds you. That anchors you, when the growing pains come.
For they surely will.
In the meantime, laugh and play the day away with your cousin and the dogs, without missing us.
But if the day ever comes that you do miss us, or anything from the past, if you ever wake up empty and scared, take down a musical instrument and let the beauty you love be what you do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the earth.
I love you,
Mom