Atlantic ocean to the north, breezes (thank god) picking up as the sun rises from the east, the sounds of Hull bay coming from the south, and the pelicans rounding the point from the west. I taste the salt from the sea and smell a dusty dryness from a thirsty late-summer earth. The gaining heat fills my pores as the sun climbs and hits the rocks, tiles, and walls that cocoon me, all while watching the neon inner-tube dance and twirl along the pool's aquamarine surface. As the sounds on Martha's Vineyard held me captive for hours in the yawning of morning, I am mesmerized by the rhythms of home, meeting this in-between-time of nesting and launching with Fall's arrival.
And how apropos to discover a nest of kingbirds on my walk home from a beach swim the other day. Three fledgeling, silver feathered siblings. Two resting on the edge of a small, woven nest of twigs cradled in a coil of telephone cables and one perched on a wire below trying on his singing voice. And here's where I silently say, "Hello, God. It's me, Danielle. I see what you're doing here. My little hatchlings are not so little anymore. They are in the midst of taking flight. Some before others... I get it. Mama is off doing her thing; be it getting food for her flock, practicing the loosening of the leash as her babes prepare for their journeys, or simply making space in what has become a cramped living situation. But please tell me, how does this mama leave her birdlings knowing full well that when she flees for quick jaunts or hours at a time, kestrels, pigeons and doves circle this sweet, yet vulnerable sanctuary?" This one-sided conversation comes to me after I've ingested the delightful mirroring of what exists in nature and human life, and leaves me in a funk of wanting more with my children, even if it is just driving them around to practices and listening to their discussions about why one of them should or shouldn't have a Snapchat account.
While I wean away from the role of Mother Ginger, I find myself more in an arachnid phase. This family of mine no longer lives in one nest, so, instead, I now learn to spin a web that stretches and reaches far off coasts. The weave is strong, yet the space between weft and weave leaves space that can no longer filter everything. Things slip through. Not all is seen. It's from this post spinning perspective, looking out at the beyond with my elbows sticking out and my wrists crossing over one another, my chin resting on dainty hands falling just so, where I effort to embody Charlotte's serene grace of knowing. Aware that I have no choice but to surrender to life's many cycles, breathing into faith and seeking self-assurance of what I've casted.
It's year three of the weaning. There is acceptance, as well as resilience, in what I've done at this juncture in years before. And there are still so many questions that circle around this place of allowing and not knowing. How do I keep our web healthy, flexible and vibrant? What do I want/need from this life as my fledgelings take flight? What do I want/need from this tropical island where we've planted ourselves as a means to discover new and evolve as humans, while at the same time distanced ourselves from the status quo and the convenience of access? What do I have to give to this island, this family, this world as I face a completely different stage as a parent, woman, wife? It's a lot to think about and I know I'm not alone in facing these forever challenges. It's no wonder why the blues are seeping in as my family's nuclear rhythm changes.
Part of the beauty of writing out these conundrums to an audience is knowing that our webs will soon mingle, if they haven't already. There is comfort in shared grief that doesn't always have to be spoken and there are collaborative sighs when naming the losses and un-moorings together. Big or small, it's okay to ask ourselves, "Where does it hurt?" Just as it's necessary to consider, "What feels good right now?" To find my center in the midst of this tropical storm that is spreading my children around the country one by one (Harry is applying to schools this fall), I filter through the dimensions of past and present decisions. I arrive in my own quiet knowing that I can't predict any sort of future AND I've survived everything that Life has thrown at me thus far. If I worry about tomorrow, and beyond, I can't be present in what is here now. And so, I return to what I know is true...
Elsa is sleeping late in her hyper-chilled basement room with Coco on her pillow, who disdainfully waits for her to get up. Harry's at his first day of school in Advisory for the morning, re-acclimating to academics and re-acquainting himself with his crew of 8th graders. Hugh's in his dorm, sleeping off his second weekend as he navigates college life on a new campus, in a new city, with a new roommate, and alongside about 30,000 other students. Dave sits in his office taking calls, dreaming up ideas, making connections as he plots when he can take the boat out again. And I sit at the outdoor table with the dogs at my feet, connecting fingers to letters, letters to words as the jackhammer of next door's construction makes a beat, the waves roll onto the rocks in a soothing melody, the magnificent frigates hover above and swoop down low to grab splashing fish out of the water like a well timed cymbal, and my heartstrings expand and contract with the ongoing harmony of my resolutions and intentions. My R&B soundtrack plays and I gather strength for this weekend's next spinning session when I head back up north with Elsa to get her settled at Choate for sophomore year.
With love one note at a time,
St. Sunshine
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