Category: Love, Friendship, Family

Hanoi

1 Feb 2011 – The day before Tet.

I’d been looking forward for many hours and many days to seeing my son. He’d been working in Vietnam, away from family, for months. He was homesick, and I was homesick for him as well.

The last leg of flying happened at night, from Tokyo to Hanoi, and I slept on and off most of the flight. Arriving at the airport in Hanoi, we spent a bit of time working our way through the visa and entry process, then went and claimed our luggage, and headed out toward the public area.

It’s funny how – when you’ve been separated from someone for a while – your mind creates its own image of that person. I didn’t really think about that as we were headed toward Hanoi, I just knew I was looking forward to seeing Jesse. Frankly, I was really working hard to suppress any potential that my eyes would tear up when I saw him.

Walking out into the public area, it was impossible to miss Jesse. In a country and a region where most folks are short and slim, a six foot tall broad-shouldered American towers over everyone around. Add to that our habit of big bear hugs with loud back-slapping, and I suspect our greeting drew some attention.

Not that I noticed – I was focused on Jesse, and how different he looked to me. Different from what? I wasn’t sure. I suppose different from the image that my mind had been creating over the past days and weeks as I’d looked forward to seeing him.

The difference, I’m just now realizing a month later, was how much man I saw in him. Oh, he’s been a man for a good long time now. At 29, he’s been on his own for a lot of years.

But it’s a long process to start seeing a son as a man, and to let go of the image of the little boy you raised. I had no idea that I still held on to scraps of that little boy image in my mind. But looking back on that moment, and realizing how much I was surprised by something I was seeing in him, I’m thinking it was grandfather time resting his elbow on my shoulder, and showing me a strong and intelligent man who just happened to have been a little boy in my house many years ago. It was a new lens grandfather time was allowing me to look through.

The next day was “New Years Eve” in Hanoi, and preparations for the Tet holiday were in full swing. We spent the day walking all around Hanoi. I lingered often, taking pictures and marveling at a culture so dramatically different from my own. But only part of my lingering was to take pictures. I also found that I liked hanging back, and watching Jesse walking Peggy around the town. I’m not sure what it was that I found so touching about that, but I marveled at it many times.

Traffic in Vietnam (as in most places in the world) is far less “orderly” than it is here in the states, or in Western Europe. To a westerner, the traffic looks completely chaotic and terrifying, with folks just going in and out and left and right with no real order. But under the terror there really is sense to what’s happening, and you just have to play by their rules. You start in a direction, and you keep going in that direction, and you make no sudden changes. Traffic around you adapts.

I watched as Jesse offered Peggy his arm, and walked across the street with her. It was a five-points intersection, and the traffic was absolutely crazy. But they walked slowly and calmly across the craziness, looking ahead, keeping the same pace and direction. The traffic moved around them seamlessly. I was sure this would terrify Peggy, and watching her be so calm while she held Jesse’s arm was a real marvel for me.

The day was full of great sites – we were quite lucky to be there on the day of preparation for Tet – the Chinese New Year. All day, Jesse was the perfect guide, helping us understand the culture and how things worked. He fit in like it was home for him, and he navigated his way around town like it was his own town. It might have been the first time in my life that I felt completely dependent on him. I trusted his judgement and guidance completely.

I’m learning that some of the most arresting moments in life happen when you open your eyes and see the kids you raised in a whole new light. We’re always evolving and reinventing ourselves, aren’t we? It makes sense that as we do this, the folks who’ll be most taken and shaken as we grow and evolve and reinvent ourselves are our parents.

As the parent, I love the shakes and jolts my kids give me as they grow. Keep it up kids!

 

Ha Long Bay Cruise Junks

There are places you can end up in the world where you can’t seem to get your eyes to close for fear you’ll miss the next spectacular turn. Halong Bay in Vietnam is one of those places.

A couple days ago, a boat sunk there in the bay, killing a number of people. They call this type of boat a “cruise junk”, and they’re quite common in parts of the bay. We took a 3 day cruise on one of these “junks” last week, so I’d like to talk a little about the junks themselves and what the tours typically look like. Then in my next post I’d like to talk about my experience on the tour last week, and what the bay left behind in my heart and mind after the 3 day tour.

The Ha Long Bay Cruise

There are several “piers” in both Ha Long City and Hai Phong city where junk cruises depart from. The two cities seem to have the bay “divided up”, so that they stay out of each other’s territory. While I’m sure there are “day cruises” as well, it seemed to me that the overnight cruise was what nearly everyone purchased. The level of “luxury” seemed to be widely varied, though generally the price for a 2 day, 1 night cruise seemed to run from $200 – $500 per person.

Regarding safety precautions and western style public safety, you’ve to to realize that this is Vietnam, not the West. In the West our judicial systems seem less corrupt than those in countries like Vietnam, and we have judicial codes that hold parties responsible for damage to other parties. This doesn’t seem to be the case in Vietnam. Compounding this is the “value” that we seem to put on human life in the west, vs the value in countries like Vietnam. Keep in mind that if you’re a lucky average worker in Vietnam, you’ll earn $5/day. If they lose a worker on a job site – through poor practice or just plain accident – there’s another one ready to take the job, and I suspect there’s little (if any) inquiry into the loss of life, assuming the right bribes are placed.

On our 3 day tour, I saw nothing that made me want to return to shore in terms of safety. However, I also lived on the “passenger” side of the boat, so have no idea what the engine room or other areas “below” looked like. In fact, after spending several days on the streets of both Ha Long City and Ha Noi, the boat seemed relatively safe. That’s more a statement, by the way, of the streets and traffic than of the boat. That’s another post…

Regarding general “maritime safety”, I’m no expert, and my opinion is given for free – take it for what it’s worth. That said, it seemed to me that there was a reasonable degree of “maritime professionalism” on the bay and between boats – at least as it relates to interacting with one another, and maintaining safety between each other.

It seemed that the cruise lines had all agreed on a few “highlight spots”, where they would all stop for passengers to visit. These spots varied from fishing villages to beaches to caves. At each of these “stops” it can be madness, as hundreds of tourists from various boats all clamor ashore to enjoy the remote beauty amid the throngs of others enjoying the remote beauty.

In this respect, western style tourism has arrived in full force in Vietnam…

Having offered this critical little quip, I have to say that even amid the throngs, the beauty of the places the cruises took you to was breathtaking.

While English is accepted as the Lingua Franca in Vietnam as in most of the world today, the English spoken by most in the tourist industry there is very limited. For those accustomed to traveling, and accustomed to finding ways to communicate with limited overlapping language, the language is not an issue really – you can figure it out. However, most folks in the US have never had to deal with this, and really struggle when someone speaks only a little English.

In Vietnam, (as in most of SE Asia), Western tourism dollars have become absolutely critical to government coffers, local economies, and local workers. Most of the individual workers that we interfaced with – once you asked and learned a bit more about their life – considered tourists to be the delivers of manna in an economic blight. One of our “guides”, for example, grew up in a coal mining town close by. His father is 60, and sounds close to death with lung issues. He felt lucky that his father got him a job at the coal mine, but was able to leave that job to work as a tour boat guide, where he earns much more without the health risk.

So, while my Western eye might look at this guy, and feel bad at the long hours he works and the poor working conditions, this job is almost the lap of luxury to him, compared to the life he’d have without the tourism industry. This is important perspective for the Western observer, because it underpins an extreme dedication on the part of the people in the area to make sure their Western visitors are pleased.

There are no surly waiters in Vietnam…

In fact, it’s almost embarrassing sometimes how much folks fawn over tourists. I particularly enjoyed how they had adapted what they believed to be humor. They would tell jokes or word-plays that could probably have been carried off within the context of a Western conversation, but that was comically flat when they said it. Of course, once the tourists realized that this was an attempt at humor, most would laugh dutifully. I found this particularly enjoyable to observe, and you could see the keen eye of the worker watching the crowd to see how well he was learning the language.

Which brings me to my final observation – the dedication and hard work of the people of that area. During the civil war of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s – the one that America participated in – this area was bombed repeatedly. It’s likely that millions of people died as a result of the bombing. Cities and culture were destroyed. To survive, people hid in the many limestone caves that riddle the small islands of the area.

The region survived that brutality, and they continue to survive under the yoke of totalitarian style government. Yet, my interactions with individuals never left me with a feeling that there was resentment of the US for the bombs we dropped or the people we killed. I was always left with a feeling of welcome and genuine personal friendliness. People there often work much harder than we in the West can imagine, and make far less than we can fathom. If I were in their shoes, I would feel great resentment toward Westerners – especially in light of the propaganda I am sure the Communist regime feeds them.

Yet, I never saw that or felt it from anyone. Surely it must exist, but must remain hidden. Even with the incentive that Western tourism dollars represents for folks to hide their resentment, I would still have expected to see some of it exposed. Perhaps with enough time in the right places I would see it, but based on what I saw, these people seem among the hardest working, most dedicated, and friendliest in the world.

Next, my own personal experiences on a Junk Cruise last week…

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Parenting From The Spectator Section, and Vacation 3.0

Apologies for the blogging silence for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been trying out a new style of vacation – one focused primarily on visiting children.

It’s not that I haven’t been doing the things I’d generally do on a vacation – I have. The difference is that the primary focus has been on spending time with my son, and finding ways to do things with him.

He’s been working in Vietnam for the past several months. While he likes traveling, enjoys the work he’s doing, and loves having new adventures, he’s still a guy who’s firmly anchored to his home.Vietnam is a long way from home.

While we get to talk on Skype most mornings for a good long bit, (isn’t technology wonderful?!), he’s still struggled with being away from home for such a long time. I’ve felt the homesickness from him often when we’ve talked.

It’s one of the hardest parts of being a parent – seeing your children struggle in some way, or hearing pain in their voice. My instinct is always to fix something, to make something go away, to vanquish a monster someplace. When they’re young, you can generally find a way to do that.

But as they get older, and move on to a life of their own, there’s less and less you can do. And frankly, less and less you should do. If we’ve done our job as a parent well, then we’ve prepared them to fix things themselves, and to vanquish most of the monsters on their own.

I’m a spectator now, not a player on the field of battle. I’ve had to learn hard lessons over the years about listening carefully when my kids tell me about their battles, and to understand they aren’t asking for my sword – they’re asking for my ear. They want to know my sword is there if they need it, and that my counsel is there if they ask for it, but mostly they just want me to listen.

It’s hard sometimes to just listen, to not step in with a sword or an axe or a shovel. I think I’ve gotten better at it over the years as they’ve taught me. Now I’m learning to keep my counsel to myself more often as well, to watch carefully for the signs that they might actually want to hear my advice. The more I keep my mouth shut and my ears open, the more they come to trust that they can ask me for advice when they want it.

I’m not good at it yet, but I’m learning.

This trip has been about being there at the hotel when he comes home from work at the end of the day, and asking how things went. It’s been about listening to his stories of the dragons that he battles every day, and being proud and amazed at how well he wages those battles. It’s been about enjoying his expertise of this new world he lives in – the best places to find amazing food, the best places to get a foot massage, and how to get around in a world where you don’t speak their language.

Sure we’ve done some fun and amazing things together. We spent the Tet holiday at the ancient Angkor ruins in Cambodia, and spent time on a cruise boat in one of the most amazing bays on earth. But mostly, we’ve shared a glass together at the end of the day, and laughed about the quirky sense of humor we share. We’ve wandered slowly through fish markets and night markets, enjoying the wonder of a culture I could only have imagined.

But mostly I’ve listened. And I’ve enjoyed his company more than he can know, and more than I would have imagined. As I type this, it’s just beginning to get light outside my hotel room window. It’s the start of our last day together before my 34 hour trek back to Colorado. I’m sure we’ll spend more time in markets today, and probably a good bit of time just hanging out together. Then we’ll hug each other and say goodbye.

And I’ll do the hardest thing a parent can do – go sit in the spectator section.

I’m not good at it yet, but I’m learning…

Princess Has A Birthday

22 years ago, I stood in an operating room and watched a tiny little messy baby girl emerge into the world. There was a stereo playing in the background as the docs and the nurses worked. It was an Eagles album – I’m sure it was a tape as CD’s probably weren’t invented yet. Desperado was the song that played as the little baby pulled that first lungful of Mother Earth into her lungs.

“…

You know the queen of hearts,

Is always your best bet…

And some fine things, have been laid upon your table…”

That little baby is all grown up now, celebrating her 22nd birthday today. She’ll always be the Queen of Hearts in my book I suppose, or maybe the Princess, though everyone else seems to think she’s all grown up.

I look at her sometimes, and listen to her talk, and wonder at the beautiful person she’s become. How did this happen? It seems so sudden. It seems only a short while ago she was 8 years old, and we’d race upstairs at bedtime, and negotiate how many books we’d read together before the lights went out. She’d fall asleep cuddled up to me. I’d fall asleep too.

While I miss those wonderful times a little bit, I also burst with pride and joy at the beautiful person that keeps emerging into adulthood. We banter now and then, and tease each other a bit, and I suppose in another 22 years I’ll look back on today with nostalgic longing, while watching in wonder as that little princess continues to emerge into yet another stage of beauty.

Happy Birthday Princess.

Shifting Winds

I’ve got a special fondness for bike rides that let me have a tailwind on the way home. This week here in the Flint Hills, I’ve had some great out and back rides in the wind, where I get to work hard on the way out into the wind, then turn around and ride the wind home with a smile on my face.

I find that very satisfying, getting the hard work out of the way first, then enjoying the easy half of the ride.

If only everything in life could be so predictable and plan-able.

Like kids. We have ‘em, and we figure we’ll get the hard work out of the way early, then things will get easier as they get older, then they’re grown up and the work’s all done. Right?

Spoiler alert: If you have young children stop reading now while you still know the above statement to be true.

My kids are all grown. I’m not changing diapers anymore, so that sort of work has certainly stopped. (Of course, I suspect there’s a time coming when I’ll be doing that again for their children…) I’m not getting calls from school principles in the middle of the day, so that’s an improvement. I’m certainly not getting calls from the local constable late at night asking me to come down and pick up a son, so that certainly feels like a bit of a tailwind.

But I still know what 3:00AM looks like in a quiet house, worried about my kids. They’re out in the world on their own now, (well, mostly…), and there’s nothing at all I can do to help as they journey down their path. It’s them against the world, and all I can do is send love from my heart and prayers from my soul.

The wind shifted on me…

Or writing. I’m working on my next book these days, and finding the same thing I found with the first – there isn’t that turnaround point where you get a tailwind. I would have thought that once you get the first draft done, you get to turn and get a tailwind, but that just doesn’t happen for me. Sure, the first draft of the first draft is done, but oh my does it need improvement. Reading through it makes me doubt what I was trying to say, or doubt that I’ve said it well. Pretty soon I’ve rewritten most of it several times, and while I hope it’s an improvement, I’m not convinced. Soon, I’ll have to give it to the editor, an then I’ve got not only a headwind but a hill to climb…

When I’m riding the bike out and back, I find that when I’m working against the wind – on my way “out” – my head’s down and my focus is on producing work. Then, when I make the turn and get the wind at my back, I sit up and enjoy the ride. I take lots of pictures, and notice all the things I missed on the way out.

The mind and body are open and receptive. Beauty is more apparent. I find lots of little side trips to explore just for fun.

Maybe, for me, writing is the opposite of how I like to do a bike ride. Maybe the tailwind is the first part of the ride, when I get to just let ideas flow out onto the keyboard – sort of like I’m doing right here. I’m enjoying it, I’m open and receptive, I find lots of little side trips to explore just for fun. (If you read much of what I write, you know I find lots of side trips…) Then the early part is done, and it’s time to start the real work – time to turn back into the wind and put my head down.

I wish it were the other way around…

But today, if it clears up, I’m gettin’ on my bike and ridin’ into the wind ‘til my lungs and legs are beat, then turnin’ ‘round, puttin’ my back to the wind, and screamin’ my way home on the crest of a tailwind!

Portals of Passion

Photo by Larry Schwarm

Put some soup in a pan and heat it up, you’ve got the makings of lunch. Put a tight lid on that soup while you heat it up, and you’ve got the makings of a mess.

Take a good, smart dog – one with strong instincts – and give him lots of opportunity to express his intelligence and energy, and you’ve got a happy dog who’s a positive and productive part of your life. Keep that dog bottled up all day with no way to pour out his energy or express his intelligence, and you’ve  got the makings of a mess.

You and I are souls dressed in vessels that have designed themselves in this life to be tools of expression for the creative energy and passion that comes from inside each of us. There’s a harmony between the soul within, the vessel that wraps that soul, and the path in life that we wander along. That harmony defines the shape of the expression, and the pressure to express it.

It’s a harmony that’s unique to each of us.

Like the dog who’s kept from using his instinct and intelligence in a positive manner and ends up in mischief, we can end up creating a mess in our life when we fail to keep our lives “in tune”, allowing expression to flow from us in a shape and intensity that matches our design.

I’ve learned this the hard way throughout my career, as I’ve sometimes ended up in “jobs” that required less of that creative energy and passion than needed to flow out of me. Early in my career, this was sometimes a frustrating experience, as I’d continue to try and pour myself into something that just didn’t have the space or desire for it. Sometimes I was lucky, and the job could take every bit of passion and energy I could give it, but sometimes I wasn’t as lucky.

The real maturity came in understanding that the problem wasn’t with the job, or with me. The problem was when I tried to pour more of myself into something than there was capacity to take. No blame. No right. No wrong. It’s just the way of it.

I’ve grown up a bit in my jobs these days. I’ve learned to understand how much the “job” needs and wants of me, and that’s what I give. I end up with a very good and balanced relationship with my job, the people around me aren’t frustrated by me, and I’m not frustrated by the job. Life works out well.

Getting to this point required that I learn to see and feel passion and creative energy for what it is, and to find positive and productive places into which I can pour that energy and passion. Trying to slow it down or bottle it up only leads to mischief and mess. For me, the real revelation came in coming to understand that solving the problem didn’t necessarily mean leaving the job, but just coming to peace with what I could do or be within that job. I only needed to leave the job if I wasn’t willing to accept the form of the relationship that would allow the job to work in my life.

There’s a wellspring of creative energy and passion inside each of us, driven by the source of all such energy. If we look carefully at the frustrations in our lives, there’s a pretty good chance that there’s a mismatch between the output desire and the intake capacity of some expression of creative energy and passion. It might be in a relationship with a friend or lover, a job, a marriage, school, a child, or any number of other relationships that we maintain in our lives.

At the end of the day, there’s nothing we can (or should) do to stem creative energy and passion that boils out of us. To stay healthy and happy, we need to make sure we tune the relationships we’ve got in our lives so that we’re pouring into each relationship enough, but not too much, and that we’re making sure that we’re surrounding ourselves with the right sorts and numbers of outlets (relationships) to allow that energy to flow at the pace it needs to flow.

Grandma’s Glue

I watched a generation slip into memory the other day. She was 101 years old. She’d outlived all her friends, and some of her children. Every bit of evidence I ever saw made me believe she savored every moment life blessed her with. In the end – for the last few years – she was increasingly tired, and ready to go home.

She’d lived life to its fullest, and she was tired now. While she was happy to continue to savor those little moments that life continued to give to her, she looked with increasing longing toward the next transition.

Her soul had left the wonderful vessel that was her body, but we gathered around that vessel nonetheless last weekend, and bid her goodbye. While we were sad that we’d not have her smiling face with us now, we continued to rejoice at the smile that her soul left within the heart of each of us.

It meant a lot to me that I could help to carry the casket within which the vessel that was my grandmother would now rest. The preacher said his words, and we all filed in a line past the crypt within which will rest the vessel that was my grandmother. She’ll take her place where she’d want to be – beside the vessel that was her husband and my grandfather. Her casket waited – they would put it into the crypt after we all left.

I waited at the end of the line, not wanting to feel rushed as we walked past the crypt. It was a tiny and quiet little moment standing there with my brother and sister, in that quiet place, after everyone else had left. We knew we’d walk away soon, and leave behind the deep and penetrating quiet. I took in a breath, pulling the quiet deeply into myself, and let in out slowly, hoping to leave behind a tiny shred of the love I hold for her, hoping it would rest with her through the years.

We left the cemetery, and drove past the house where she’d lived. The house where she raised her children. The house where she raised her grandchildren. We drove past the old house several times, savoring the memories with each pass. Memories of popsicles in the freezer on the back porch, memories of a fresh sweet corn in the summer, and a chicken coop converted to a garage. Memories of warm summer evenings under a giant willow tree in the back yard. Memories of covert bicycle rides down the gravel road to the river for a cool swim on a hot summer day.

The house has belonged to someone else for years now, and it’s a lot less neat and tidy than it used to be. There’s probably not a freezer on the back porch any longer – or at least not one with homemade popsicles. The willow tree was taken down many years ago. The road is paved in asphalt now, and the place we used to swim in the river is silted-in.

But none of that stopped the wonderful memories from wrapping themselves around me, and filling my heart with the warm love that Grandma leaves behind with us.

We talked about whether we’d ever be back to look at that old house again, or to visit with family that we’ve not seen in years. One last time, Grandma had brought us together to say goodbye to her, and while I desperately want to believe that we will, there’s a part of me that wonders if we’ll ever come together again, now that the glue that bound us has moved along.

Makes me stop and think. Where am I the glue? Where is it that I hold people together? In this world where the media and the hate mongers work overtime to push us apart and convince us that “the other guy” is evil, it’s increasingly important for more of us to live the sort of life that Grandma lived, where we work to pull people together rather than pushing them apart.

Amen.

Best Dog In The Field

It’s a circle of life thing.

I’ve been writing quite a bit in the last few weeks about new beginnings, about seeds pulled from their origin to fall and prosper on new ground. About the need to prepare yourself in all that you do, so that when opportunity plucks you from the place where you’ve grown comfortable, you’re ready to prosper and find the blessings waiting in the new place where you land.

At the end of it all, the time of the reaper comes. The winter descends, and your time in this life comes to an end. Hopefully, when that moment arrives, you’ll look warmly at the many opportunities that you were able to seize, and have few regrets over fertile ground you missed out of fear or uncertainty. You’ll smile as you move from this life that you’ve lived as the gift it’s been, and embrace the transformation into something much larger.

Early last week, I mourned the passing a year ago of a dog that was among the dearest and most devoted friends I’ve ever had. Colin and I hunted many fields together, until his eyes and ears failed him, and it became too risky to take him into the field any longer. I strive to be half the man he thought I was, and I hope to have a tiny fraction of the devotion he showed toward me. He lived many years past his prime, and in his final months I carried him up and down stairs. In the end, he suffered a stroke one day while sitting in my office, and I held him in my arms as I helped him pass from this life onward.

Colin never missed a chance to hunt. There’s no doubt in my mind that he could read my thoughts most days, and knew before I ever went to the gun cabinet when it was that we were going to the field to hunt. His enthusiasm for the thing he was born to do – find, point, and retrieve birds – defined every moment of every day for him. I have no idea how the mind of a dog works, but I can tell you that if they have any capacity for thought and reflection, he had no regrets at ever missing an opportunity, at ever passing up the chance to revel in Creation.

I took a friend hunting once. He watched Colin leap from the back of the truck, canvas the field like a fiend possessed for any scent of feather, pound through the thickest of brush in the hopes of finding a hiding place, never ready to stop. He shook his head over and over, saying he’d never seen such obsession and absorption in the joy of a task in his life as the experience of watching Colin succumb to the complete rapture of the hunt.

At that moment when I leave this life – hopefully someday far in the future – I hope to look back over my life, and be satisfied that I succumbed completely to the rapture of the many moments that the path of life presented to me. I hope that I’m satisfied that I allowed myself to obsess over and allow myself to be absorbed in the joys and blessings that surround me with every step.

I was reminded of mortality again at the end of last week, but that’ll need to wait until my next post. For today, I’m remembering my friend Colin, and wishing him happy hunting in that next place where he’s become…

Seeds and Journeys

If you’ve been following my last few blogs, you know that this is the time of year I’m particularly fascinated by the finches working the seeds out of the Rudbeckia and Echinacea seed-heads in my garden. Bobbing and swaying at the end of the stalk, they’re undeterred from their attraction to the seeds tucked into the drying seed-heads.

Many of the finches working tirelessly in my gardens this time of year are migratory – stopping to visit my gardens as they journey south. The seeds they coax from my garden are catching a ride through the air, beginning a journey south. They’ll fall on new ground, and find root in new soil, and transform themselves into a new plant in the season of warmth that’ll be coming soon.

It was a beautiful growing season this year. The Rudbeckia grew well, working hard to create buds that would transform into flowers that would attract bees, in turn transforming into ripe seed-heads to attract birds. And now, the garden has done all it can do, and the seeds are handed off to the finches. The journey toward transformation begins.

I saw my oldest son off on a great adventure this week. We flew to LA together, then shared a few beers at the airport while we waited for our next flights. When we parted – he for his gate that would take him to off to Southeast Asia, and me to my gate that would take me up to San Francisco to work for the week – we hugged each other and said goodbye, then walked our separate ways. I stopped after a few steps, and looked back to watch him walk away, till he turned a corner and was gone from my sight. I turned, and walked toward my gate.

I was glad I’d kept my eyes dry as we said goodbye, but I wasn’t able to keep them dry as I walked to my gate. The wet eyes came from pride at the bright and hard-working man he’s become, from shared excitement over his coming adventure, a little from the worry that every father must feel, and just a tiny bit for the loss I feel already at having him so far away from me.

All he’s done in his life to this point has been preparation for this adventure. Like the Rudbeckia plant that worked hard all summer to prepare itself for the finch, he’s worked hard to prepare himself for this moment of transformation. As I write these words, and the finches carry the Rudbeckia seeds south to new soil, his flight across the Pacific takes him to new lands in far-away places, to take root emerge again as the ongoing evolution of who he is becoming.

How often do we look at the life we lead and the seasons within that life as a continuum of growing seasons – where part of each season is the preparation and ripening of our “self” for our next journey of transformation? When the finches come looking for the seeds of transformation, will we have prepared them? If so, will we hand those seeds over and open the doors to new soil, or turn our heads down and hide from the opportunity to take wing and become again?

NOTE: Thanks to Tony Pratt for photographs