Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.

Abracadabra...We Have a Graduate!

 " 'Abracadabra' is actually from the Aramaic (before Hebrew) phrase "Avra kehdabra" which means literally 'I will create as I speak.' " - Medium

On Friday, Daniel's Literature teacher said kind words about him on stage and then the principal of his small high school shook his hand, handed over a diploma and moved his tassel to the "graduated" side of the cap.  Our family cheered loudly, William's bellowed "Atta kid!" bringing a smile to Daniel's face as he posed for the final graduation photo.

Our third high school graduation brought familiar feelings of joy and pride and gratitude for the teachers and tutors who helped our son along the way, and also an unfamiliar sense of surprise and delight. Far from assuming that this graduation was inevitable, I had many low moments in the past 16 years when I doubted the possibility. In tough times my thoughts and vision would drift forward; I would "play the movie" about Daniel's future, and the tape would lapse, blunt cut ends flapping in my mind.

With its time management, peer pressure, sophisticated topics and group interactions, high school can lay a minefield at the feet of it's initiates. When students layer in emotional and learning challenges, high obstacles loom over the mined ground and a path forward seems impossible. But speaking expectations aloud, "You are smart, you will graduate, we just need to find the right place" helped fuel our collective belief and determination to move Daniel forward.

When I heard Kerri Walsh Jennings say on a podcast that her favorite word is "abracadabra" because it means "I create as I speak" I stopped my walk and replayed it.  We all know that words are powerful and that our brain believes what we tell them, but this "I create as I speak" mantra jolted me into a higher plane of awareness.  Daniel and I went to many classes together and as we drove to and fro, we worked to speak positively about his potential, his ability to do good things, graduate, go to college. And, well - to oversimplify - it worked! 

(It's interesting, too, how familiar the Aramaic spelling is to Avada Kedabra in Harry Potter, which actually means "I kill as I speak" but that's a post for another time.)

I believe more in the power of speech than I ever have and I am trying to watch my words and how I speak about my own difficulties and opportunities, as well as those things confronting my husband and my children. Our brains believe what we tell them and the more I say good things, the more good I can create.

Kinkeeping in the Month of May

"A kinkeeper is someone who cultivates a sense of 'family solidarity or connectedness'."  - Carolyn Rosenthal in the New York Times

"When researchers sought out kinkeepers for a 2017 study, more than 91% of the volunteers were women." - New York Times

The counter holds a stack of graduation announcements and party RSVP requests. Our calendars are filling with parties and reunions trying to elbow work aside. Many extended family members claim a birthday in May (seven at last count) and birthday cards, texts, and phone calls need to be sent (on-time if possible, but often lagging). 

The signing of checks, scrounging for cash, mailing of cards, represents work that I gladly complete, enjoying the thought of our family member opening the letter or spending birthday money on a favorite treat. But it does constitute effort and take up mental space, which is at a premium these days due to age and busy-ness. I was delighted when I saw the New York Times article on kinkeeping, lending a name and weight and honor to these tasks.

In my family it's true that women do the heavy lifting of kinkeeping, organizing Zoom calls, sending the cards and gifts. It's work that was not assigned or explicitly recognized in our house, but I wanted to do it and so it fell to me. I have excellent role models in my mother, mother-in-law, aunts, and good friends - they illustrate the means by which a large family, geographically dispersed, can stay connected.

Rob does a fair amount of kinkeeping, himself. He remembers gifts and anniversaries, particularly for his extended family, and created a family tree for both sides. He even printed out enough paper copies for each family to hang a tree in their home. In this joint effort I am blessed; I married someone who rates family connectedness as high as I do.

I think kinkeeping also refers to dear friends and chosen family. Graduation cards and gifts are part of recognizing important milestones for this wonderful group, and attending graduation parties a piece of being present to witness this moment in the life of a young person - and their parents. Though my introvert heart skips a beat when I see the calendar for the upcoming week, I remember that this work is old and hallowed - and important. 

By the Numbers

Three hundred and forty-five days. That was the length of my Apple watch "move streak" which started in June of 2020 and ended yesterday, courtesy of my sinus infection. My goal was to meet the goal every day for a year, and I thought I would be sad to fall twenty days short, but in the end I didn't really care. Exhaustion and a craving for rest took precedence over a meaningless number, and I took the watch off at bedtime with nary a regret.

Though my goal of 365 days offered motivation for daily workouts and a thread of continuity in the long, empty days of the pandemic, it's no longer useful. As I lay in bed, trying to breathe, trying to stop my head from pounding, I thought about what the 345 days really meant - how lucky I was to be healthy for so long and to have space to exercise during the pandemic. Absurdly lucky, incredibly fortunate.

Numbers don't adequately express our lives, our feelings, our personhood. William is my second child and my first son and those descriptors don't do anything to explain how proud I am of his high school achievements, how sad I am that he will move out in August. The second departure doesn't promise to be any easier than the first, the second round of graduation events, prom, and parties no less exciting and tearful.

In this culture of numbers-obsession, where likes and followers are tracked relentlessly, I need to remember that quantity does not mean quality. Streaks are distractions, sight-views are missing the point. What was it Dr. Seuss said? "To the world you might be one person, but to one person, you may be the world." I want to treat every interaction, every workout, every day like it's one-of-a-kind, not focus on stringing things together or accumulating numbers but on appreciating each unique circumstance. As the days fly by, even in these waning days of the pandemic. each moment is a treasure.