Right now, this moment feels hard. I'm about to take my oldest to college. He's ready and happy to be going. I know this year will be wonderful and hard for him, full of opportunities that are sometimes exciting and sometimes overwhelming. I feel sure that he's ready and accept that it's time.
But it's hard. I really like him. I'm not really done connecting with him. I greedily want to be part of this next stage, watching him grow and change. I want to share it with him, to love him close up rather than from a distance. I don't want to be left behind.
I know in my heart and my head that this is a good and right transition. I know the rightness of opening to this leaving-the-nest moment with grace. I celebrate his readiness. I can adore him, look forward to the glimpses I'll get on the phone and when he comes home, be ready to help when he needs me, and remember that he is a good man.
At the same time I'm letting the feelings happen, crying when sadness wells up in me. Feeling the grief of letting go of the baby that was, the little boy that was, the kid that was, the young man that was. Knowing that none of that is really lost, that it is still alive in him and certainly alive in my heart and memory even as my life is forever changed by this transition.
So I open to and accept. I cry and worry and plan. And I come back again and again to loving this moment, just as it is. I remember how inexpressibly lucky I am to have this moment. I rest in the gratitude of a grateful and aching heart.
My life and work are guided by the these core understandings: that all beings (including me!) are capable of transformation and joy, that healthy parenting matters profoundly, and that simple practices can support each of us.