Holding On to Letting Go

Last night, as I was getting ready to go to sleep, an overwhelming sense of dread and loss crept over me. I paused, trying to analyze what precisely was scaring me, and discovered to my surprise that I was stressing, thirty-six hours in advance, about Wednesday morning when the children go, as they always do, to spend their allocated days with their father.

Nearly eight years have passed since the divorce, but the anxiety over my time without the children returns at regular intervals, usually on Tuesday, the day before they are to leave. Wednesdays, after dropping them off at school, I walk around the house like a ghost, not quite knowing what to do with myself. There seems to be no reason to cook, which I suppose is understandable, but why do I not use this “free” time to write, paint, garden, or -- the fairies save me -- have fun?

Every week I ask myself the same question: why can’t I just let go? The custody arrangement is not about to change, and it is high time to accept that and move on. And yet, somehow, it is my very identity as a mother that is in a crisis. I cannot be a mother only half of the week, but how am I a mother during the days when the children are not with me?

Parenting and life itself, it seems to me, are made up of letting-go bumps. The moment of birth and the cutting of the umbilical cord. Weaning and moving to solid foods. Sleep training. A nanny. Preschool. Kindergarten. The first playdate without mommy, then the first party without mommy. Overnight field trips. Overnight camp. Puberty. And before us, always, the scariest moment, the end of high school, the beginning of college. Soon, they will be moving away, perhaps to the other side of the world, finding a partner, getting married, having their own children. And us no longer needed. And soon, gone.

I cheer myself up by saying that letting go is a life-long endeavor. I look ahead, and I can see that my road leads me straight toward these bumps. No matter how much I twist and turn, how much I struggle or try to avoid a particular bump, life relentlessly pushes me on, forcing me into greater and greater letting go's.

This morning, before school, Eden and I listened to music together. I felt the warmth of her little body against mine, admired how big she got, how long her legs and arms, how cute her little nose is, and the sparkle in her eyes. The next moment I was walking her to school, getting a brief hug. And then I was alone. No matter how hard I try, there is no way to stop the clock. I find myself holding on to these wonderful moments of connection, forcing myself to remember to let go of all but the memory once they are gone.

Hellos and Goodbyes

I used to resent the many hellos and goodbyes in my life. I felt the hole, the emptiness in the house when the kids were at their dad’s. Then, when they returned, I worried over every moment I spent away from them. I suffered under the transience of people in my life: Dar when he still had his apartment, my family and friends who live in other corners of the world.

Hello! I missed you! How are you? And the kids? And then it’s time to say goodbye. And then hello again! How are you? How’s the family? Did you end up getting that job? And goodbye again. How can I live a life when people pop in and out, when I pop in and out, the lives of everyone else? If only the kids were here full time, I thought. Or, if only Dar and I lived together. I wished for continuity, one stable person in my life to whom I wouldn’t continually have to say goodbye.

For a while, my wish seemed to come true. Dar moved in with us and, being between jobs, we spent a lot of time together. Reading my blog to Dar before posting it encouraged me. Seeing him seated opposite me at his desk anchored me to my own pursuits. Watching him planting garlic, potatoes and daffodils in our garden, experimenting with different kinds of soil and locations, created a joyful blanket of safety in my heart. Every daily exchange painted the world in hues of pink and love. My writing blossomed. Stability brought out the best in me. I could feel my creativity pouring out, secure in the happiness of having this one person who is really here for me.

But stability, you know, is fleeting. The Buddhists say the only enduring state is that of change. These last two weeks I got to say a lot of hellos and goodbyes: to family who came for a visit, to Dar who is starting a new job, to the kids as they move back and forth between houses. Yet I don’t feel either the resentment or the lack of continuum anymore. I found other anchors to depend on: my writing, this blog, cooking, my love for the children and Dar, my love for my family and friends. Love and following my dreams ended up improving my tolerance for impermanence, filling up the emptiness and holes from before.

I like to think that my life is a river. When the current is fast, it leaves little time for more than a call “Hello!” and “Goodbye!” to anyone I meet on my way. When the current is slow, I savor the wonders of this world. And more often, frightened out of my wits, I hang on to a bush (which usually turns out to be a blackberry with many thorns) by the riverside, resisting where the current wants me to go. But the river always flows on, and the scenery always changes. As I do, too. And I think, altogether, it's good.

Looking Forward

The last few weeks of 2011 rolled by me like a whirlwind, and now, almost unexpectedly, it is 2012. Many bloggers have been talking about their new year’s resolutions, how to keep them, choose them and not become bogged down by them. This blog post by Rachelle Gardner suggests that it is the process of choosing goals, of planning what the year could become, that really matters. The process sets the intention to better ourselves or improve in some way.

I wrote no resolution as yet. I told a friend that since childhood I remained stuck in the notion of the year stretching from the first day of school to the last day of summer vacation. I remember myself as a child flipping through my new textbooks, marveling at all the new material I will have learned by the end of the year. That was my moment for making resolutions and plans, and though these days I no longer go to school, the promise of self-growth, of learning something new every day, remains a powerful influence on what I want from life.

Perhaps some new year’s resolution could benefit me. Or maybe at least some goals, hopes and dreams, wishes. Some words to frame what I want to achieve. I like the idea of setting an intention for the next twelve months.

Writing daily, being more patient with the children, managing my chores, feeling less stressed -- are these worthwhile goals? Meditating more, chewing more, appreciating more, exercising more. Funny how my goals can be lofty and banal at the same time. How about enjoying life more?

I love the Buddha’s first Noble Truth: “Suffering Is.” My joy is ever colored by the nagging fear that if I embrace my gratitude, my appreciation, the object of my enjoyment will instantly disappear or change. Perhaps my goal for this year could be to make some headway in accepting change, in believing that “finding joy in life” can coexist (or perhaps can really only exist) hand in hand with “Suffering Is.”

As Abraham says, the buffet of life is filled with choices, and that is how I want it to stay. In a chaotic, crazy, out-of-control, stressed-out way, I’m actually pleased with how my life is progressing. I don’t ask for peace, because I enjoy the energy and overwhelment of  growth. I love running around. I love feeling useful and active. I love being bigger than my own life, even if I do only imagine it.

So this is my resolution for the year. As I wrestle, I mean, flow down the river of life, I will enjoy the quiet sections of the river, revel in flailing through waterfalls (the life-changing parts), and let the current carry me to (hopefully) ever more fantastic realms: new novels, new ideas, new projects, to watching the children grow and change, to growing old and happy with Dar, to bettering myself.

I feel inspired already. Happy new year everyone!