Our daughter Katie is graduating from high school in a few short weeks. I am already anticipating how quickly the summer will pass, a blur of “last moments” before leaving for college in the fall. The ache is sharp in my throat as I write this, my body communicating the painful reality that my words name. Too soon, our home will be very quiet.
As I prepare myself for this leaving, I find memories playing in a jumbled sequence of pictures in my mind. I see Katie as a baby, standing happily in her crib, babbling to her brothers as they sing to entertain her. I hear her infectious laughter as she pesters her dad, teasing him relentlessly, somehow reading when he most needs a break from being serious. I hear her chattering away in the back seat of the car on the way home from elementary school, eager to fill me in on her day. Some days, my mind was full, and I felt incapable of taking in all the details she was laying out in such exquisite detail. I remember saying, “I really want to hear about this, and I’m having a hard time – can you try to summarize for me?”
One of my most favorite memories with Katie illustrates the tension between the quiet I crave as a very auditory-sensitive introvert and the delight I take in the running commentary that is so much a part of who she is. Our family was on a once-in-a-lifetime kind of vacation (thanks to Chris’ travel for work) in Great Britain. We’d spent days touring ancient castles in Wales, our children delighting in the history, letting their imaginations run wild with tales of medieval knights stationed behind the stone parapets, defending against foreign invaders. On one particularly clear day, we followed a recommendation from our friendly innkeepers and set out on a hike up Mount Snowdon.
The boys were eager to prove their climbing skills, veering off the path to scramble over boulders instead. I sent Chris on ahead to keep up with them, settling on a quieter hike for Katie and myself. Except for the quiet part. Katie proceeded to talk as we made our way up the gently sloping path, recounting highlights from the trip so far, asking questions about what we were seeing and when we would get to the top, making up stories from her active imagination. It took us three hours to climb to the top, and I don’t think she stopped talking the whole way. In fact, I remember at one point, stopping and saying, “you know we don’t have to talk the whole time, we could just enjoy the quiet for a while.” She paused just long enough to reply, “Why would we want to do that?” Why indeed?
It was another three hours down the mountain, this time all of us listening as Katie continued her running commentary. Halfway down she lost a tooth, prompting curiosity about the British tooth fairy, and whether she would bring dollars or pounds. That day is etched clearly in my mind, an early picture of the person our daughter would become: a lover of words and story, connected through her words to the people and places around her. It is a picture we all hold in our family – the memories of the tales she has spun on travels over the years are recounted with fondness.
I find myself holding these memories with ambivalence. I am aware of how long it took me to finally bless my need for quiet, to have kindness for the part of me that shuts down when over-stimulated. At the same time, I feel regret inching its way in, whispering that I should have paid closer attention, heard every single word, because soon my chance to listen will be over. As I ponder this next transition, the reality is that the quiet I have so craved and learned to carve out for myself as part of good self-care is also disruptive and unsettling, because it reminds me of what no longer is. Everyday life in our home is no longer loud. My grief feels heavy in this space, making it difficult to separate the life-giving quiet from the one filled with doubt.
And I realize that the quiet doesn’t change, producing rest or despair – how I hold it does.
And so I am returning once again to what feels like the theme of my life right now – considering how I hold things – memories, relationships, current experiences. Do I hold them with kindness and grace, or judgment and accusation? The harsh and loud inner critic in me grew in an environment that taught me I was always on trial, being judged as right or wrong. And so my transformational work right now is centered on quieting that critic. While I would like to get rid of it all together, my counselor has assured me acceptance will more likely produce the quiet I so desire.
And so this weekend, as I snap pictures of Katie and her friends dressed up for Senior Prom, I intend to hold that moment with kindness, another to add to the treasure trove in my heart that I can pull out in the quiet when she is gone – goodness and grief held side by side, bound together by love – knowing I can rest in the quiet filled with love.
Janet Stark is a woman learning to embrace her depth and sensitivity. Inspired by Mary pondering things in her heart, Janet writes about her experiences here. She is grateful for the deep love she shares with her husband of 26 years, as well as her 4 children and 2 grandchildren. She is a life-long lover of words and looks forward to reading and sharing at Red Tent Living.
“And so I am returning once again to what feels like the theme of my life right now – considering how I hold things – memories, relationships, current experiences. Do I hold them with kindness and grace, or judgment and accusation?” Oh, Janet, THANK YOU! As an introvert who married and lives with a houseful of very verbal extroverts, I get all of this post. Sometimes I have to tell children that my ears just can’t hear anymore right now, and it is only recently that I can admit that with kindness to myself and not contemptive failure. Embracing the gift of words that many of my people have been given, balanced with the need for quiet has been a tricky dance to learn. Being able to speak my need kindly and having them accept it has been a huge learning curve. But we are all learning. Thank you for being willing to share your heart so that others can learn and grow. Many Blessings to you!!!
Julie, so glad to know I am not alone in not being able to hear any more at times!! I am so glad you are finding kindness for your need there as well.
Janet, I so love your word descriptions of what my heart also holds. I feel a deep connection of understanding to your world that provides hope and light. Thank you my quiet, dreaming, pondering and very wise friend. Thank you.
Thank you Christine. I love the places we are connected and very similar!
Your words resonate deeply. Thank you
Thank you for reading, I’m glad my words landed with you.
Beautifully written…and it causes me to remember the quiet that desended on our home when Jenny left. The heart ache is almost impossible to describe yet so present. Savor the moments…there will be more to come. I will be looking to the pictures this weekend and the beauty they hold for you and Katie.
Thank you MaryJane…I know you understand that ache. So hard to hold well! And yes, I will definitely post pictures this weekend – looking forward to all the fun of the preparations.
Changes keep coming and they don’t always come easy. I am trying to embrace the good things that changes bring however I don’t always do well in my desire to do that. Your words are a good reminder that life often brings what is in my comfort zone and that what is out of my comfort zone….and how do I choose to hold both. Thank you for sharing your struggles and your acceptance.
It is good to be part of a community that can encourage each other…because change IS hard! I love that you still have the desire to move towards even things outside your comfort zone…it keeps you young! 🙂
You express the ambivalence so well. Stirs the ache in my heart of how much I miss the daily presence of my daughters. How to bless that grief rather than numb the pain continues to challenge me. Your words encourage my heart. Thank you, my friend.
Thank you Wendy. I still remember you putting words to the pain of having children leave for school when I was facing that for the first time. I appreciated your honesty then as well as now. It is a challenge to bless that grief. Love you!
In your writing I find a sister who can say what I experience. Thank you for putting words to my heart and for reminding me to care for the parts of myself that I have little patience with and sometimes hold with contempt.
I love the ways we know each other’s stories – even when we don’t know each other! Bless you in the struggle to give yourself more grace and care.
“Goodness and grief held side by side”…such tender words. I experience you as listening deeply, Janet. I imagine your Katie has received that same gift. Thank you for putting words to this. May there be sweet moments to savor this summer.
Thank you Joanna! Your words always feel life-giving and full of thought. And you are right…Katie is a listener as well. 🙂
Keep writing. I need a book from you.
On Fri, Apr 22, 2016 at 6:34 AM, Red Tent Living wrote:
> redtentwomen posted: “Our daughter Katie is graduating from high school in > a few short weeks. I am already anticipating how quickly the summer will > pass, a blur of “last moments” before leaving for college in the fall. The > ache is sharp in my throat as I write this, my body co” >