Linda: Here … and Gone April 21

Here … and Gone

She’s here!! My dear and lovely daughter is here. Tired! But here. Oh, the woes of motherhood. I was determined to not worry until it was time to worry, but I was watching the clock from the first minute of when she “could have” arrived. A slightly agonizing hour later, the agony made tolerable through fiction, I could breathe again. She wore the face of a woman who has grown, who has thought, who has decided. Not sure what. Something. The days at the orphanage and her time traveling on her own, as she really led the way, have been good. Very good.

She came. We talked – beautiful talk. And she learned that there is a 10 retreat at a renowned Buddhist center halfway up the mountains. It is a beautiful place, surrounded by tall pines and steep slopes. (I have gone up every day to a special place further up, surrounded by monks’ hermitages and two gompas. High, high above the town, embraced by the forest and enclosed in silence and safety.) 10 days of lecture, discussion and meditation. And, except for the lecture and discussion, complete silence! (That part has her worried.) No cameras, no cell phones, no I PODs. No books. Immersion in the mountains.

The morning after her arrival, we walked up to the retreat center. She had not completely decided if she was going. She thought so. Her thoughts became certain as she approached. The class was full. Yes, they’d make room. It was the beauty of the mother/daughter, the joy everyone has in seeing a next generation, the compassion toward her sincerity. I took her and the woman she had been traveling with up to the special place on the mountain, where we sat quietly for an hour. Eleanor was vibrating with change. “Well, this has ruined college for me! I really won’t be able to go to parties and enjoy them.” Our friend, Hama, said, “Don’t worry. During the time when you would have gone to parties, you will find others who think like you. It really will be nice.” Right thing at the right time. And, she knows there are other ways to be with friends – ways that they have always enjoyed and, perhaps, always will. She turns to me and says, “I love you, Mom. I am so lucky. I've had the best childhood ever.” (The gratitude expressed by this statement was directed toward all those who have made it so. I was lost to her at that moment of remembrance.) We walked down the mountain, hand in hand.

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Today, I watched my daughter walk away. I saw her, with a backpack on her back, walk up a mountain, alone. Some of her last words were, “I’m not ready to leave (India). I want to be home. I’m so confused.” And that, I think, is a good place to begin. It is honest. It is a beginning. I watched, with pride, with wonder, with joy. A moment of the inexpressible. The end of a journey. The beginning of a life.