Letting the Eagle Fly

Last August, at a freshman orientation, a bald eagle was released in the chapel at Oral Roberts University.  The plan was for the eagle to circle the audience and come to rest on the stage. Instead, mistaking a pane of glass for the great outdoors, it slammed into the window, and fell to the ground.

I was reminded of this earlier this week when I almost lost my youngest daughter.

Elizabeth has my spirit for adventure, and her father’s penchant for solitude.  She had the day off from work and decided to go for a solo hike around a nearby lake.  The day was sunny but cold- less than 20 degrees- so she pulled on a hooded sweatshirt, a Columbia shell, leggings and a pair of Doc Marten boots.  She grabbed her cell phone and drove to the lake.

eliz sunLeaving her car in a parking lot near the woods, she took off through the snowy trails. This year New Hampshire has seen consistently cold temperatures, so she wasn’t surprised to see snowmobile tracks in the snow that covered the frozen lake.  She considered walking across the lake to visit a small island, and then changed her mind, and headed down a trail toward a less familiar wooded area.

As she walked she snapped photographs with her cell phone. The stark New England landscape was blanketed in granulated snow that glittered like diamonds in the brilliant sunshine.  She spied a large uprooted tree and trudged toward it to get a closer look.  Suddenly, she heard the cracking of ice beneath her feet and realizing that she was not on firm ground, sprinted back in the direction from which she had come.  About six feet from shore, she fell through the ice into the frigid water below.  Soaked to the waist, she struggled to find her footing.  Ice and water scraped her legs like daggers and for a split second she panicked.  Remembering a lesson Bear Grylls taught on a television show about survival, she forced herself to calm down, and waded to shore, breaking the ice in front as she went.  It took her several attempts to get out of the water and then, hoping to keep hypothermia at bay, she jogged the half mile to her car.  Miraculously, her cell phone still worked and she called her brother, who sped to the lake to help her.  She then called me, so out of breath and cold sheeliz legs was barely able to talk.  I kept her on the phone until Gabe arrived to bring her home, and then met them at home to help her out of her wet clothes and into a warm tub.  Although cut up and bruised, she is none the worse for wear, and perhaps a little wiser about embarking on solo winter journeys.

When things like this happen, I find myself torn.  The mother part of me wants to lecture and admonish, telling her she should never go off by herself, that hiking in unfamiliar areas, especially in the snow can lead to disaster, and that she should count her lucky stars that she is still alive.

eliz snowman croppedBut then there is the part of me that understands.  Elizabeth has always been a free spirit.  She has always craved solo adventures.  As a little girl, she played in the snow for hours, trudging home only when the street lights came on.  I would help her take her snow-filled boots and mittens off, warm her red little hands under my arms and “tsk, tsk” at her for staying out long after she was cold. Her eyes would sparkle with delight as she told me how she explored in the wooded area by our home, and how she imagined herself to be a lone soldier struggling to survive against the elements.

As a teenager, Elizabeth thought nothing of taking long runs by herself.  Running cleared her head and helped her sort the myriad responsibilities that mounted as she grew.  In college she explored underground tunnels and drove to secluded areas to think and unwind.  And last summer, when the pressures of life began to close in on her, she hiked and ran the trails by the lake, because putting one foot in front of the other with nothing but trees, grass and rocks nearby sorted chaos into small manageable bites.  All of this she did alone.

So it came as no surprise to me that she had been at the lake alone.  It also came as no surprise to see her Twitter post a little later that afternoon :

“ Top 3 life experience thus far: fell through ice into deep water, remembered s***  from Bear Grylls and eventually pulled out on shore, stumbled half a mile to my car and adrenaline… realized survivor instinct is innate, incredible and **** glorious to experience.#humans #strongerthanwethink #thrill #moved #universe #conspires# ALIVE  ****I love nature.”

And now you see my dilemma.  For I know that trying to hold Elizabeth down is like tethering an eagle, trying to keep it safe.  It can be done, but wild creatures will always soar to the sky.  We cannot deny them their nature, and if we do, the consequences are far worse than we can imagine.  They lose their fire.  Their essence.  That which makes them what they are.  And if we do that, they may be alive, but they are not really living.

Am I grateful that Elizabeth survived her ordeal?  Of course.  Do I hope she learnedlizza mom to be a little more cautious?  Indeed.  Will I tell her to never go hiking alone again?  Probably not.

Fly, my little eagle.  Fly.

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The Secret’s Out

When I was in sixth grade, my sister Martha-Jean and I agreed that we would reveal what we had gotten each other for Christmas before the big day.  We stole to our bedroom and she showed me a gold bracelet with an iridescent heart charm that dangled from one of the links.  I thought it was beautiful but some of the thrill was gone.  I realized that part of the fun of giving and receiving gifts is the anticipation and surprise and I vowed never to peek again.

baby cubSo when my daughter Abigail and her husband John announced that they were to find out the gender of their unborn child (AKA “the cub”) I had mixed feelings.  To me it seemed that the most exciting part of birth is when all eight months culminate in the gender announcement from the attending doctor or midwife.  The memory of those choruses from the doctors and nurses in the delivery room, followed by the cries of my newborns are among the sweetest songs I know.

Still, this is John’s and Abby’s pregnancy, and I’m glad to stand at the sidelines and let them call the shots.  They wanted to know, and because they wanted to know, I wanted to know.  So Monday morning, they had an ultrasound.  Abby called me on her way to work and told me the news.

“It’s a boy!”

Now, the truth is, I would have been equally thrilled if she had told me the baby is a girl.  I adored having children of both genders and I welcome any grandchild, no matter what sex, color, size or shape.  But hearing the announcement and subsequently seeing the ultrasound pictures, made it real. 

The cub is a boy.

sailor suitI told everyone in sight, and immediately started imagining my little grand-cub dressed in one piece sailor outfits and saddle shoes.  (Yes, I know it’s cliché clothing, but baby boys dressed like that are so darned cute!)

A short time later, Abby emailed me from her office:

“WHAT THE HECK AM I GOING TO DO WITH A BOY?????!!!!!!!!!!”

abby2Abby is my firstborn.  From the moment her little blond head and blue eyes appeared, she liked everything glittery and girly.  She loved sparkly jewelry, My Little Pony and ballet shoes.  She never drooled or made a mess, or got into trouble.  She waved like the queen and grinned at strangers who crossed the grocery store to shake her dimpled hand and tickle her blushing cheeks. 

And then I had Gabe.  From the beginning, he was different.  Abby had squeaked and murmured when she was hungry, and gently sipped at my breast, taking a break to gaze at my eyes and utter a ladylike little burp.  Gabegabe2 was like an industrial strength vacuum cleaner.  He roared with hunger, latched on like his life depended on it, and drained me in minutes, belching his grand finale to the feeding frenzy.  He constantly drooled, soaking his bibs, t-shirts and overalls.  He threw his rattles and screamed if he couldn’t find his pacifier.

So when I read Abby’s email, I chuckled, but I understood.  I remember that feeling of uncertainty, that first step into unfamiliar territory.  I remember bringing home my son from the hospital, how I wondered if he, his father, his sister and I would be able to become a family.  How I feared that I would not be able to relate to him.  And then I remembered the years that followed, and typed my reply:

“You will LOVE having a son.  Sons create balance our lives.  They keep us grounded and from buying too much pink.  He will be his daddy’s mini-me, and he’ll think you are beautiful when you cry because you don’t have the right clothes to wear or your belly sticks out more than you want.  He’ll make you jewelry from macaroni for Mother’s Day and boast that you are the best cook in the world.  He’ll want you to watch him flex his muscles and count while he stays underwater in the tub, and when he hugs your neck and kisses you on the cheeks, you will feel like the world could explode around you and you won’t care.”

Abby needn’t worry.  I know what she doesn’t yet known- that the moment the little cub arrives they will bond with a love stronger than she ever knew possible.  I know that she and Johnny will figure out what soothes him, what excites him, what makes him giggle with glee and what drives him to their arms for protection.  I know that the cub will grow up to be a companion who brings them a world filled with excitement, joy, and pride.  He will pull them to their fullest height and drive them to their knees. 

And as for me?  I will try to restrain myself from buying too many cute little hats, toosaddle shoes 2 many cuddly teddy bears and too many books about pirates and knights in shining armor.  I’ll bake him cookies and read him stories and snuggle him close, whispering secrets in his ear about the antics of his momma, aunt and uncle.

So the secret’s out.  The cub’s a boy, and I couldn’t be happier.

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