Leaving in a few hours for the airport. Flights to Chicago, then Beijing and, later, onto Yushu.
Thanks to all for the love and support (and the donations!). This trip, this work– providing relief in an earthquake-stricken area–has already changed me.
I’ve always been moved by the chirrup of katydids. Early morning, rising and falling, it’s always said two things to me: Summer is here and summer is ending. That twining of sadness and joy is exquisitely, uniquely painful; not unlike parenting.
There’re just a few hours to go before we head off for a road trip to Nashville from New York. Our daughter Emma is due to check into her dorm room at Vanderbilt on Saturday; her classes a week or so later; and the rest of her life just after that.
It’s hard to describe the combination of intense pride, joy and sadness all rolled into the act of packing your kid’s belongings and sending them off to the next phase of their life. Harder, too, to do justice to the unique and exquisite power, joy, and brilliance of Emma.
I’m flooded with memories of her clinging to me as a baby, dancing with glee as she sings out the name of her older brother Sam, and the eye-rolling that’s been a part of life since middle-school as she watched her goofy dad be his goofy self. (“Dad, you are NOT going to cry again, are you?”).
Emma is the kid who speaks her mind, who stands up against injustice, who argues for what is right, who works harder and with more determination than nearly anyone I’ve ever known. As the katydids sing, I wish you could know her.
I know she’ll do well however this next phase of her life unfolds. (And honestly, I’m more worried about how Vandy is going to handle Emma then how Emma is going to handle Vandy.) But still, she’s my little girl. And I still feel her entire hand wrapped tightly around my pinky. I hope I never lose that memory.
When I was a boy, I read a Dick and Jane story about katydids. In her guilt over some silly mistake, Sally, Dick and Jane’s little sister, was convinced that the katydids were actually saying, “Sally did it.”
Silly Sally; I always knew better. Even then I knew the katydids couldn’t care less about our stealing some cookies. They celebrate and mourn the passing of time.
PS…I once promised my kids that I’d stop making them the subjects of my blog posts. Sorry Em, I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve a friend who, several years ago, wrote a book the basic premise of which I disagreed with profoundly. His notion was that life, especially in business, has sped up to such a degree that the older ways of doing things no longer applied. The book, in essence, was a paean to multi-tasking. Sure, he dressed it up as otherwise: raiment of “new economy,” “conversations with customers,” and “social media.”
But it was really about that very human tendency to, when faced with fear or stress, speed up.
Driving up to Vermont on my way to a retreat the other day, zipping along I-91, listening to David Whyte speak of the ways we speed up, lose our presence, I remembered my friend’s book. And then David shared a poem.
The poem, said Whyte, is a translation of the wisdom elders gave young men and women of the Pacific Northwest who, in preparing to wander into the redwood forests to find their adult selves, would ask what to do when lost.
Lost
By David Wagoner
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
And I thought, “That’s also great advice for what to do when your hair is on fire.”
Hair on Fire |he(ə)r ôn fīr|
noun
1 a state of mind where everything and/or everyone makes you crazy and where nothing is working.
2 informal: every day life at a startup
I love that first line: “Stand still.” For me it evokes the image of the kindergarten teacher, walking into a room filled with screaming five-year olds. “What’s the best way to get the five year olds to calm down?” I’d ask. “Should you scream louder?”
Of course not; the right thing to do is to shut the lights. And, if they’re especially rambunctious, make them put their heads down on the desk for a nap. It works for five year olds. It works for your employees. And, most importantly, it works for the crazy thoughts in your head.
PS…my China trip is on. Thanks to all those who gave. Between us, we’ve raised nearly $40,000. We’ve also managed to get a discount on the tents, so with some luck, we’ll be distributing 150 tents and food, water, and clothing. I leave New York on August 30 and back after September 15. I’m blessed to be able to do this. Blessed, grateful, and humbled.
