Simple Sadness. Blinding Births.
I’ve been trying to get out as the sun rises and go for a run. It makes me better. A better mom, wife, teacher, and friend. It lets the boiling of this time reduce to a simmer, which feels more under control, even if the bubbles are just beneath the surface.
But today, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to keep running. I felt like I was running against the sadness. The anger. The fears. Running at uncertainty that pops up everywhere just like those dang dandelions in our yard.
Last week for seniors. This was supposed to be THAT week. All the rites of passage of dances, last seasons, last papers, and final field trips were done. It’s the subtle week. The sneaking of yearbooks to sign as I dutifully play the role of teacher who tells you to put it away and listen to your last classmates‘ presentations. The week of spunky senior led random spirit days. The small hugs and important last Access conversations. Even the chasing down of failing students and lovingly trying to drag them across the finish line through sheer teacher super powers— and the relief and smiles when they turn in that last paper and know they made it. Senior luau and throwing papers. The last story. The chance for a goodbye.
I love this week. I love watching you process the changing of seasons. This is when you start to finalize making up and moving on from all those rough relationships. Where you forgive most things, and wish each other well, even if you’re secretly glad you don’t have to see them ever again. The internal tug between the old and new. No longer a minor. No longer required to go to school. Knowing you may soon be able to make all those decisions you’ve been dreaming of... and also uncertain of how you will weather this next season. Wondering if you’ve said and done what you’ve needed.
I’m running against the missing of that. Each pump of my legs over uneven ground, my lungs tighten not from the run but suppressing that onset of fresh tears for you. Tears for each stage missed. Tears for my daughter’s missed birthday and a first family trip to Disney we saved so long for. Tears for her classmates who don’t get to “graduate kindergarten.” Tears for my son missing his moments of learning and his daycare’s annual Saint Jude bike-a-thon (nothing is quite as cute as a gaggle of preschoolers on bikes with helmets). And if I’m being honest, even tears that I don’t have his amazing teacher’s help with potty training.
Suddenly, mid tunnel vision, I round a corner. I look up at the small stream where birds are chatting. I see squirrels literally fly across the trees above. The sunlight dances off the uncut blades of grass. And the reflection off a moving river mirror temporarily blinds me.
Jolted out of suffocating, I remember: Light is always stronger.
Light pulls us up short. Goodness destroys the darkness. Joy pummels collapsing chests and releases us.
And that is my prayer for you. Blinding births. Not just during this time but in all your moments moving forward. Not that you never feel sadness or don’t need time to mourn and heal, but that your joys and dreams, friendships and family, moments of peace and gratuities blind you. That those moments eclipse any claustrophobic sobs of uncertainty.
May you always wait for the sunrise during dark days. And may you move forward knowing that you are strong, resilient, beautiful, and loved by many.
Go make your mark on the world, seniors. Blind another’s life with your light. Even a small stream can impact eternity.
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