Learning to Grow Up

Lessons in letting go and adulting

I’m asking in advance for your forgiveness - not only for the delay of this week’s newsletter but for the sentimental and nostalgic overtones of what you’re about to read.

Chalk it up to the mawkish content I’ve consumed recently (repeat viewings and readings of ONE DAY, followed by the heart-splitting, gorgeous memoir TRUTH AND BEAUTY by Ann Patchett), or the hours I’ve spent digging through boxes of old letters, photos, and mementos in my mother’s garage, but the notion of time has occupied many of my waking thoughts. Time is an elusive thief, passing and fading without signal, marching forward without consent. No one grieves this fact or recognizes it more than parents (even those who look to their own parents as the true “adults” in the room).

On Tuesday I helped my mother move out of her house. It’s not the house I grew up in, nor the house I was born in (a spooky and fabulous Civil War farmhouse in upstate New York, a story for another day), but it’s the house that’s served as a home base for the last 11 years. And, boy, were they an eventful 11 years.

When my mom first proposed building her dream beach cottage on the narrow strip of land known as St. George Island, we all thought she was crazy. The island is a trek, one of the southernmost points of Maryland, and no wider than the length of a car in some places. It’s not easy to get to; it’s prone to heavy flooding and tenuous hurricane conditions; it’s 35 minutes from a Starbucks (I could go on).

And yet, the outrageous demands of its geography are matched only by its natural beauty. It is home to nests of ospreys, soul-affirming sunrises, and serene quiet. It’s been the perfect counterpart to our loud, busy city life. We’ve escaped there many times: during the doldrums of virtual learning, following the insanity of January 6th, and after we realized the wild dog we brought home from the Caribbean was better suited for island life stateside than he was for Capitol Hill (a cautionary tale I’ll one day write about). Most importantly, it’s the place we brought my father at the end of his life. A place that, after years of crushing hospitalizations, restored his dignity for his final days on earth.

Now it’s time to say goodbye and I’m not ready. This change comes on the heels of a few others. In the past year, nearly all of the parental figures of my childhood have moved from the houses I considered home. Houses filled with memories. Houses that anchored my own existence and marked the sacred passage of time.

Growing up, I moved a fair amount. It’s made me incredibly adaptable to change but perhaps overly dependent on these few physical anchors. When my mom announced she was moving, I looked at my husband and said, “Wait a minute! Where will we make the memories? What will serve as our next home base?”

My questions were followed by a haunting realization: “Are we the grown-ups now??”

For a moment, I saw all I could not have imagined before: my own children as adults, returning to our house on the Hill. Their attachment to the very memories we created just this week (middle school awards ceremonies, elementary school plays, celebratory burgers at our neighborhood pub). All of life is a cyclical pattern we’re already imprinting on the next generation. Today I am the adult in the room. Tomorrow it will be them.

To add to the well of big feelings this week, I discovered a document for which I’ve been searching for years. It’s an astrological report written for me in 1984 by a woman who lived in the small village where I was born. I’ve thought about this document often over my life, remembering small premonitions: “You’ll wear glasses one day,” (True), or, “You’ll get married later in life” (False).

What a trip, to have someone outline and forecast the rough edges of your life when you’re barely old enough to walk! And yet, it was an affecting experience to read over these words again, now in midlife, and recognize how many of her predictions have come to fruition. Not only did she foretell my three greatest passions as education, writing, and speaking, she identified the potholes and personality flaws I’d have to work to overcome - a fear of mediocrity, impulsivity, a need to listen better (all things I’m working on, people!).

I share this not to suggest that we live and die by the science of astrology, but to suggest that our life paths are relatively stable, even in the face of major upsets. The hurdles and catastrophes rarely end us; more likely, they bring us one step closer to who we were always meant to become. Perhaps this is an overly optimistic view (a tendency also named in my astrological report), but it’s one I choose to believe.

We were meant to survive change, to bend with it, to let it stretch and grow us. It doesn’t mean we have to scream, “Hooray!” in the moments that change is forced upon us. However, we can let go a little and trust in the moment. We may not feel ready, but we’re traveling with everything we need.