Moments to Grow

If life were made of moments—

Even now and then a bad one—

If life were made of moments—

Then you’d never know you had one.

                                Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods

              As much as that song gets stuck in my head on a regular basis—life IS made of moments woven together. Trying to be IN the moment, trying to remember all the moments—this has long been my work. I fear forgetting.

                This weekend held moments that made me stop, and think, and reflect, and weirdly NOT get emotionally overwhelmed by the racing torrent of time and loss that for so long has hijacked my response to most things.

                On Saturday morning some of my former students came to help us with yard work. They are fundraising for a trip, and I know they are great kids, so we got ourselves a little crew to help with the branchpocalypse our willow trees left in our yard after one too many windy winter storms.  I haven’t seen many of my students since I left my old job, so having a few come to my house was lovely.

Spring willow (last year--no leaves yet this year!)--one of 4 in the yard.

We had pros come take down the storm-damaged branches,

don't be alarmed. 

                I looked out my kitchen window as the boys arrived—did they have a new kid in the class? I did not recognize one of the young men bundled up against the cold. I went outside to say hello and realized the unrecognizable young man WAS one of my former students, who apparently grew 6 inches since last June.  Like, now he is taller than I am—which was NOT the case before.  And yes, I went out and said “OH MY GOSH DID YOU GROW LIKE 6 INCHES SINCE LAST YEAR???”

                He did, as did the classmate next to him, which I only realized when standing next to both of them.

                AGOG!

                Ok, so I know this happens, I have a son who grew through clothes before I even took the tags off, and even my formerly tiny child has finally grown to be a short teen—but in context of all, seeing this young man so tall and grown up gave me a moment of joy.

                I know, I know, me leaving would not stunt students’ physical growth—I just felt so happy to see these young people doing so well, growing, working together, chatting about silly things. It was a good moment that reminded me of a lot of good moments in my old job with these great kids.

                Once the yard was cleared, my husband started a job we have long discussed—taking down the swingset. We had put off this moment quite a while since my youngest was loath to part with the swingset, but the steps and rails were rotting despite our repair efforts, and with little cousins who come to play, I did not want anyone to get injured out there. Also, my youngest will be 17 in a few months.

The time had come.

I feared my response to this. I have often written about how hard it is for me to part with pretty much any part of our family history, especially in light of my daughter’s catastrophic illness. The Furby she received after very high stakes brain surgery in 2006 still stands as a creepy sentinel in the top of a closet. I can’t get rid of it. So I figured getting rid of the swingset would be excruciating.

Furby is Listening...always listening...

I remember agonizing over which one we could get on our very limited budget, spending hours looking online in the early internet days.  I remember getting it set up while my firstborn was away at camp, surprising him and his little sister when he got home. I remember the baby swing we had on there for my now almost 17 year old, and all the fun my kids have had out there over the years. So much remembering. So many good moments.

the last swing

But somehow, in this moment, I could remember all those moments and NOT get trapped there. Grace? Progress? Healing? No clue why. Just – it was ok. And I had to stop and say, whoa. This IS OK.

I didn’t see THAT coming. I fully expected angst galore!

Taking down the swingset, ending this era of my parenting is ok.

Letting go of a reminder of when my kids were young is ok—because we made it through. For so long I have been terrified to let go of ANYTHING, lest someday that be all we have left.

But our past can be better honored by taking DOWN the rotting cedar, and putting up something new. We will create a new lovely space out there for new rememberings, new moments of joy.

I am grateful for these moments, for zen flowing where normally anxiety and uncertainty rule.

Growth is good. Outgrowing a job, a swingset, heck, even a pair of jeans—ok, maybe less that one—celebrate those moments of growth. Know that you have them. And keep movin’ right along.

Um, officially outgrew the swing.