Passages

Over the last few weeks, a nephew and several family friends have graduated from college or high school.  For me this has the same bittersweet excitement as the beginning of a new school year... full of potential and also a little full of dread.  I both love and fear a new round of responsibility, especially while it's shiny and fresh and appealing.  The graduates are surely feeling a mix of those same things.

Also within recent days, I've been preparing one of my offspring for her driving test.  We have jumped through all of the state hoops, paid the fees, dredged the tea-stained driving log out of her wallet, spent hours driving from one end of town to the other, pulling in and out of parking spaces and finally, I waited alone (only a little anxiously) while she took her driving test.  She is a hands-on learner and easily passed on her first try (as opposed to the written test, which will not be mentioned again.) Today, we bounded through the last round of hoops.  That is, if you can count waiting an hour and a half at the State Department of Revenue bounding.

But these are all external things... these are rites of passage that government agencies or schools have devised, not the ones that signify real learning.  The one passage that seemed more real than any of these this spring was Friday afternoon.  Middle offspring was looking forward to her test on Sunday and hopefully her license on Monday, but while she waited, she was part of a camping trip with seven other teens.

As she stuffed things into her daypack, I called repeatedly from the living room.
"Did you pack yoga pants to sleep in?"
"Yes, mom."
"Did you pack a rain poncho?"
"Yes, mom."
"Good socks?"
"Yes, mom." Only slightly annoyed.
"You and your friends know how important it is to keep your food where it won't attract bears, right?  Do they have a way to deal with that?"
"YES, mom."
We went to the store for her share of supplies.  She listed for me over and over what she was to bring.  We rounded up the food, and I started my questioning again.
"What about water.  Is someone bringing water?"
"Yes, mom.  Mi--- is."
"What about paper towels?  Do you want to bring some paper towels?"
"No, mom.  Ma--- is bringing those."
Somewhere at the edge of my mind, it began occur to me that she not only knew her portion of the list of needed items, she also knew what each of her friends had been assigned.  Then, slowly, I realized that these were not lists that a parent had made. Parents had no part in creating lists, dividing them up among this informal group of participants, or checking off the items to make sure nothing was left out.  The teens were responsible for all of this.  They knew what they needed and they knew how to make this trip happen, successfully.
Soon after, we reached the park where she was meeting up with her friends.  Two cars were already there, one was a Subaru wagon (requisite car for the Colorado outdoors) with a canoe safely secured on top.  The driver of the Subaru deftly whisked bags of groceries out of my daughter's hands, snugging them into the back of her car, careful to leave space on top for the chips and hot dog buns.
"Strawberries, yum!" she commented with the last bag.
I visited with the friends for just a moment before I left them to their adventures.  Strains of "Sunrise, Sunset" whispered in the back of my mind, as I wondered how these young women and men suddenly seemed like they could be on their way to, well... anywhere.  And they were ready to handle it.  I didn't need to worry.  They knew more about how to do this than I did.

Travel well, my children.

On Children
 Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.