sweeping out the bird poop

Rather by accident last weekend, we began small but significant upgrades in our home. Somewhere around 21 years ago, shortly after we moved into and furnished this small 3-bedroom town house with our 18-month old son, we began collecting stuff and stopped any conscious or creative nest building, focusing on raising the kids, working the jobs, tracking the craziness in the wider world, and maintaining a modicum of personal sanity. Household renovation was low down on the priority pole, and changes were mostly made to accomodate the kids and their evolving needs. This led to exponential accumulation of items both precious and junk, to decreasing personal space for the parents, and to the primacy of function over aesthetics. As the young child of a neighbor once asked me, "Kalei's Mom? why is Kalei's house always so messy?" As it turned out, the family of this bright but impertinent child had bigger fish to fry, namely a father who used and dealt ice. Even so, I'd be dishonest if I said the words did not find a soft spot somewhere in my psyche (gee, maybe if I smoked crytal meth, I too could have a neat house).

Anyway, it seems that over the years, anytime Mark and I talk about ideas for better use of our limited space, we would run up against our differing ways of going about things, and I would get overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. This time, after kicking a few ideas around, I proposed a first step that I felt motivated to attempt, which Mark immediately deemed "brilliant". Bolstered by such positive reinforcement, we proceeded for the first time, working as a team. Much dust was raised and removed, a goodly number of books culled, an old desk removed, workspaces consolidated, and more light and white space created. Art pieces were dusted off and places found for some, so the "livingroom" became a place for the eyes to rest upon lovely, interesting and/ or meaningful artwork.

I was reminded of the the suddern desire to re-create the home that happens during pregnancy, often during the energetic 2nd trimester, and remarked to Mark that perhpas we were expeiencing empty nester nesting behavior. "Or, more like sweeping out the bird poop" said he. Whatever we name it, I'd call it satisfying, nay, liberating, to find we are capable of accomplishing a few small steps along the Martha Stewart continuum.

I will always cry when you leave

"Don't cry, Mom…don't cry" she says as we stand hugging next to the brightly lit gas station, once more at a crossroads. She will go right and return to her college campus and absorbing new life there. I will go left and walk 2 blocks to my Arcata B&B, the next morning flying to San Francisco, and a few days hence home to Hawaii. It has been a good visit and a rough one. It began with us meeting a couple hours and several phone calls later than she originally said. Her first words after greeting me reflected her shock at seeing me here in this place where she's become so immersed and enmeshed. "Wow, it's going to be strange when I come back to Hawaii—this feels like home now".

Should a parent visit a freshman at college?

In retrospect, I don’t know if I’d recommend visiting one’s offspring at college early in the freshman year. I would, at least, recommend a short visit, rather than the 4 days and 6 nights I haunted the town of Arcata. I missed the HSU Parents Weekend scheduled a weekend earlier partly due to my work schedule, and partially to honor the non-joiner in me who does not enjoy attending football games and other structured activities, but I can now see the advantages—at least if your kid ditches you, there are others in the same boat. I’d advise visiting with a spouse or friend (or a spouse who is a friend) because you may end up with plenty of free time at unexpected moments. Bring lots of money so you can treat starving students to meals, purchase clothes for your darling before winter hits, and replenish her mysteriously low bank account. And should you have issues with your family of origin, a preparatory visit to your friendly neighborhood therapist wouldn’t hurt either.

Don’t get me wrong; I am very glad I made this visit. Important communication, as well as mis-communication, transpired between mother and daughter, I got to explore the only town in America run by the Green Party in a beautiful and blessed part of the country, I met Kalei’s circle of friends, and some good times were had by all. Plus, I returned with notebooks full of writing fodder for my blog.

The stages of adjustment stuff I’ve read says that this period just past midterms during freshman year is often a post-honeymoon time when the realities and discomforts of academics and communal college life begin to set in and homesickness rears its head (see blog entry “Advice from the parents network” below). Well, my daughter showed no such signs, which is good, right…right? Was the experience that follows unique to us, was it universal, or a bit of both? You be the judge, as you read the epic novella that follows.
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True Confessions

Sitting on the wood floor of my flowery bedroom at the Victorian B&B, she sighed. "Ok, I don't want to hide any more, I hate keeping secrets...ok, I smoke cigarettes". I had suspected as much before she left for college, but was still shocked to hear her say it. Why is it always a shock to realize our kids keep secrets from good old progressive us who did most everything under the sun back in the day. Hearing her words, my heart sank, but I knew from experience this was not the time for lectures (it never is but does that stop us?) but rather to listen and gather information. She has smoked for 3 years (yikes!), smokes “less than a pack a day” (yikes!!), and rolls her own cigarettes using Drum tobacco. It costs much less this way and “if it makes you feel any better, I roll good for a girl". All I could do was laugh at this. Auwe! Is this the new feminism? Some, but not all of her friends smoke tobacco; she’d like to quit, but not now, and "when I have a child, I'll definitely quit…and probably be a bitch for 9 months". I eventually responded that I wasn't happy she was doing this, but that I was very glad she trusted me enough to talk about it. She asked if I minded her smoking around me. Yes, I do mind, I said, but definitely prefer to be with her when she smokes rather than have her run away from me so she can smoke. She did roll and smoke cigarettes around me a few times, but I think, having made her statement, she decided she wasn’t comfortable smoking around me.

Humboldt County is the marijuana capital of the nation, so of course I raised that question, noting she did not have to answer. Later in conversation she volunteered she is a regular user of the weed. She basically believes her use of tobacco and cannabis does not significantly harm or impede her, as the young always do, as I once did. "She reminds me of someone,” responds Mark with his usual, sometimes annoying, equanimity when he hears from me of the confessions. In college, he also used Drum and enjoyed the ritual of rolling his own cigarettes. He quit tobacco just before meeting me at the ripe old age of 21. Yes, she’s always been like him, and has become more so with each year, "except” he adds, “she's much happier at this age than I was". Indeed, this may prove to be our saving grace. Kalei may be using these substances as social ritual, perhaps as distraction from responsibility, but it does not appear she's using them to numb deep inner pain, which is when one worries the most. She loves her little world on this beautiful campus with its redwoods, coastal views, and lovely accessible spaces to hang out with a group of compatible new friends. While she may not be academically challenging herself, she appears to be handling business enough to make good grades on midterms. Equally encouraging, she seems to be intellectually engaged in some classes. She spoke at length about her “Econ” class, with its depressing but accurate concepts for describing the rules that run the world. She reports finding her English course introductory and tedious, yet she admires the teacher, and went on at some length regarding the intricacies of iambic pentameter.

Meeting the Friends

She very much wanted me to meet her friends--- a sign of trust, though at times I felt she needed them as a protective shield against too much motherload. All seemed bright, caring and tolerant, though not highly intellectual. Some were athletic, some volunteer with troubled youth or care for children, and some are hapa, like her girlfriend Rena who is part Hispanic, part Jewish. Only one, Matthew, native of Ivory Coast in West Africa, is reported to "study all the time"—and perhaps for that reason I did not meet him. We ended up spending short bursts of time together--3 hours seemed to be the max before she became restless and ready to return to her other life. So we'd meet in the afternoon, usually a couple hours and several phone calls after the time she suggested the day before. One morning, I poked around the cornucopic, circus-like Arcata Farmers Market while she spent hours searching for her lost key card; other times she was busily engaged in reaching and rounding up friends to accompany us. In my rental van, I drove places they wanted to go and treated them to food they usually can't afford. At Target in the nearby town of Eureka, I bought Kalei warm boots, clothes and a down comforter while two friends, Rena and Solomon, patiently tagged along. We then walked around picturesque Old Town Eureka looking at massive Victorians and stopping for a snack by the waterfront where Rena crews with the HSU team. On another day, accompanied by two other friends, Dan and Hank, we drove up the coast where we climbed down rocks, walked across beautiful black sand beaches, and then stopped at a cafe in a nearby town to meet and eat with another friend, Brett, who'd just gotten off work. Kalei mentioned to me over dinner one night that when Hank’s parents drove up to HSU to celebrate his birthday recently, he had queried his friends: “Would it be really terrible of me to say I don’t want to have dinner with them on my birthday?” and they had responded unanimously: “Yes, it would, now go eat dinner with them”. Yet here he was hanging out for an afternoon with someone else’s parent, apparently happy as a clam. Kalei was anxious to hear what I thought of her friends, pleased when I noted things I liked about them, and reported that her girlfriends thought I was “awesome”. All my daughter’s friends were amiable, easygoing, and appreciative companions; it seemed that only she could not tolerate much time in my presence.

Ambivalence and Conflict

My 18-year-old woman-child was often conflicted, loving me dearly, needing desperately to escape, believing she should spend more time with me, sometimes cycling through these emotions within a few minutes. And I was taken by surprise--somehow I hadn't expected us to pick up our conflicts where we left off. "You plan everything and I don't live that way" she exclaimed one day. I did not expect to spend all the time with her. I had plans; scenic coastlines to drive, cute towns to poke around, coffee shops to visit. Yet it seemed to me I spent lots of time on hold waiting for her, shifting gears and trying to be patient, reminding myself that I was in her world and there to visit when she was available. Our last day was the hardest. We met after her class around noon, deposited money in her bank, and picked up some sandwiches for a picnic in the Arcata forest. Unable to reach her friends to join us, she reverted to escape mode, suddenly feeling sick, needing to do schoolwork, and unexpectedly I had an open afternoon. Dang airlines, my original plan was to spend only 4 days in Arcata, but the free United mileage ticket required traveling a day later. Still, we might have just hit this rough patch a day earlier. Maybe we just got as close to honest open conflict as we could. It reminds me of the cycle I go through with my mother when she visits--oh God, can this be true? ---where I do all I can to accommodate her for days, finally snap and fight, and then we're at our best after that. So, here Kalei and I found ourselves; after a bruising ending to our afternoon, we retreated, both feeling shitty-- with plans to meet that evening for dinner. I felt sad, rejected, heartbroken. She called to apologize, and I had to say "This is natural, these mixed feelings between mothers and daughters, but it just seems that you keep needing to escape from me" and she replied "Mom, don't say that. Don't take it personally. I love you. I just feel tired and sick and I haven't done any school work". So I tell her "ok, if you say you're feeling sick, and that's the reason we need to cut short our afternoon, then I believe you". But I don't truly feel that way-- I am taking it personally. As I drove up the coast to the fishing village of Trinidad and looked out at magnificent coastal vistas, I let it settle, hung out with the sadness, and with notebook in hand, staring out to sea, wrote my way out of the fog. I was ready to try again at dinner.

Last Supper

She came over to my B&B early, after taking a long nap. I massaged her neck and shoulders and she said she felt 10 times better. Monkey-mom to the rescue...harmony restored via the ancient ritual of grooming. Our dinner together was lovely, warm, satisfying, comfortable, loving…and short :) She was really ono for Japanese food, and as the miso soup warmed her tender throat, I said knowingly "That's your comfort food, Kalei", and she nodded in recognition. And when it was time for her to leave, I cried. One thing I know for certain about us is that I always will.

why cats?

wondering why there's this cheesy kitty photo on my blog? well, it's all about me trying to learn how folks make money with blogs and websites. If you click on this photo it takes you to a youth-oriented site that I heard from a reliable source was just sold for millions of $--and it's mainly a bunch of cat photos overlaid with hip-sounding anti-grammer that makes $ from ads and merchandising the "icanhascheesburger" branding.

Waikiki weekend

The Royal Hawaiian Hotel had 3 white weddings in progress at high noon on Saturday. Couples in formal white and black posed for professional photographers on the bright beach only a few feet away from crowds of sweaty, sandy, slathered sunbathers. Most beachgoers were oddly incurious, oblivious and self-absorbed, yet Mark and I laughed at the same moment, simultaneously struck by the look on one young woman’s face as she stared at the bride from her beach towel. No sisterhood in those eyes, she seemed to be performing a thorough critique of person and packaging. The scene reminded me of Shrines in Paradise, a multi-media show we saw staged at Honolulu Hale. A spoof on Hawaii’s tourist industry, the show featured, among other things, multiple brides continuously entering and exiting, including one elegant mahu who calmly turned cartwheels in her white wedding gown. We don’t spend much time in the heart (or is it the liver) of the tourist industry, so we were a bit surprised to find life imitating art, and so closely too.

Thanks to Mark’s cousin and the many years she’s put into the legendary industry, we had a lovely room on the 19^th floor of the Waikiki Sheraton where we gazed down at the stately Royal Hawaiian, “the Pink Lady”, one of the two original Waikiki hotels still standing, with salmon pink fresco walls, green shutters and aqua tile roof, its large grassy lawns fully utilized for events for first one demographic and then another, from the weddings, to jumping houses and organized games for kids, to a Bacardi Pool Party for the young drinking set. Entitled “Skin”, the event featured a giant inflatable Bicardi bottle bobbing in the breeze surrounded by red, green and black tents like some African American solidarity gathering co-opted by www.booze.com.

A breathtaking view from our hotel lanai featured a sensational sandy coastline cutting a wide curve eastward around the large protected peaceful turquoise bay of Waikiki and heading towards Leahi, the exploded volcanic crater better known as Diamond Head. Peaceful, however, does not mean quiet. This ocean is nothing like the ornery old gray-green Atlantic of my childhood. It is vibrant, young and high energy, swarming with flocks of fellow humanity, pumping out set after set of waves which head inexorably towards shore carrying hundreds of surfers and thousands of swimmers and floaters in tow and enthralled.

Mark and I brainstormed ideas for our future, schemes and dreams of creative entrepreneurial ventures to gain independence from The Man before we die. We tried out window seats at a coffee emporium or two, ate overpriced food delicious and otherwise, imbibed drinks of demon rum, checked out a hot new nightclub where we were absolutely the only ones over 29, walked Waikiki’s bacchanalian streets at midnight, and yes, I’ll say it, had great you-know-what. Normally futon-on-the-floor sleepers, we now know why people like beds.

Along with 50,000 others, we visited the Okinawan festival at Kapiolani Park. Bring that many people known for their longevity to a park at the end of summer, and anyone our age has a hard time finding a spot of shade. In the cultural tent, we found his mother’s family name, Arakaki, on the genealogy trees and listened to kimono-clad samisen players. Mark wandered off to watch a martial arts performance, as I laboriously folded a crane to be sent to the Okinawan Peace Center. A patient young woman by the last name of Tamashiro guided me through each step. Tall poster boards featured stories of wartime oral histories of Uchinanchu, the indigenous name for Okinawans. I read one of these oral histories in full, the recollections of an 8-year-old-girl. She is the one shown in a famous classic photo of a skinny young girl waving a white flag at the conclusion of the Battle of Okinawa. Her family became refuges in the final months of this battle, living in caves. She describes a litany of horrors: Her parents were killed; she saw a mother exiting a cave with a child in her arms only to be shot dead by a Japanese soldier. Shrapnel killed her brother as they slept in a hole in the ground one night. She and her sisters buried him and moved on. She describes her panic when she somehow became separated from her sisters; then how one crazed Japanese soldier with a machete chased her, and later by another who said he must kill her “because it is too dangerous”. She escaped, but only by falling off a cliff and landing in a bush. She recalls seeing a Japanese soldier commit seppuku and his commander decapitate him. Amazingly, she had the good fortune to find a cave where she was able to live with a “grandpa and grandma”. It was they who gave her the white flag she carried as they emerged from the cave after being told it was safe to come out by an American of Okinawan ancestry.

“Had my mother stayed in Okinawa”, says Mark’s mom, “she probably would have died in the war”. Lately, she has been telling more stories about her family and childhood. Mark’s father passed away 7 months ago, and it seems as though she is calling up and sifting through these memories, re-integrating them into her identity, a self that must of necessity re-form itself in light of changing circumstance. She speaks often now of her mother, born in Okinawa, who insisted upon coming to Hawaii as a picture bride, something “all the girls were doing”. This was how she met and married Peter’s grandfather, with whom she had a difficult relationship. She even left him at one point because he kept a mistress, returning with the two oldest children to Okinawa, where she lived with her husband’s family. She was eventually convinced by the family to return to Hawaii and her marriage, which she did, but without the children, who followed years later. Hearing this, we are left wondering those butterfly questions: who and where would we be had her mother taken a different turn at any bend in her life.

Yet, against all odds, here we are, Mark and I, children of fortune, spending a peaceful empty nest weekend together perched on this hotel lanai flying high above our hometown Waikiki jungle.

Yes! good e-communication

Maybe we're getting the hang of this, after all. The day after Jonah's birthday I sent some photos and the message below; and look what a sweet and informative response I got back... yee-haaaa!!

Kalei,

We had a lovely evening, and it was strange not to have you here, and it was wonderful that you called in. Lily is now back in her house and it is peaceful--well, until she started barking at something out there in the dark rainy nightime haze. Milo was wild, wild, wild for a while and then settled down and was sweet and sleepy. Woke up and chased around the temp gun laser point tirelessly. He and Lily look the same size to me, though dad says no. Jonah says Keawe and Lani are getting married December 2nd in Kona and that Lani is pregnant. He's in the wedding party and will go over early to go hunt and gather a'ama crab and such. We'll send them a small gift--they are nice folks and I know Lani was always good to you. Hope your mid-term went well. We love you very much.

Mom

Awesome pictures, thanks for sending them! It was great talking to you all, it sounded like it was a good meal. Tell Lani and Keawe congratulations! That's so wonderful, I'll try and send something as well. What a beautiful baby they'll have too : ) My midterm went really well, I'm pretty sure I aced it. I was done in fifteen minutes because I filled in all the answers while the teacher was farting around with the slides. I knew all the material pretty well, I answered a lot of them even without the slides to go with it. My midterms next week won't be quite so easy, but I have plenty of time to prepare. Love you guys, take care!

Kalei

e-missed

So this weekend, my sister-in-law forwards an email she got from my daughter at college. It's a nice chatty, informative and affectionate note, the kind I wish she'd send to me, except for one thing. She says "Hey Aunty R! I'm looking forward to seeing you all for Thanksgiving, a friend of mine lives in Portland and they are going to be driving back for Thanksgiving break so as far as I know I have a spot in the car..." Aside from the usual fears (is the spot in the trunk, does the trunk have a seat belt, will this car get smashed like a pumpkin on the highway, what friend from Portland? male or female?) this message reveals that Kalei never read an email I sent 3 weeks earlier informing her that I had bought an airline ticket for her to Portland for Thanksgiving and that Aunty R generously offered to pay for it. What's more, Kalei and I talked about this before she left for college and she even told me her preferred dates. I see now that she handled this inquiry, along with a multitude of others, by tossing answers my way hoping to keep me occupied and at bay for the moment. Then I recall how in those early weeks, as Mark and I fumbled our way towards the best strategy for communication with the girl, we (Mark and I) decided that email was the best medium for business items, so there'd be a record (ha!) and so she could deal with it when she was ready (Ha! ha! Ha!). And so I sent her maybe 4 or 5 emails around that time, which in Kalei-land is apparently parental overload. So, strategy be damned, I called the ungrateful wretch on the spot, and of course, waited, frustrated and fuming, for a return call. When we finally talked later in the day, about 75% of our time was spent in full blown miscommunication over which medium to use for communication, and the balance defensively trying to untangle how we got so jammed up. Then Kalei called back to apologize, thank me for buying the ticket, and yes, as much as she hates the airlines who will without a doubt lose her luggage again, she will fly to Portland.

The next evening, an email arrives bearing photos of her friends, with captions listing their names. She calls shortly after to talk us through them. The photos show fresh-faced youth, boys and girls, hiking across dunes with skim boards to the coast, building beach bonfires at night. They appear to be a decent crowd, not highly hipped out, no dreds or obvious piercings (though one has a cigarette). The girls live in her dorm (her age), the boys are "transfer students" (older).

Now if we could get academic detail I'd be in heaven (chimes in the perennial worrier and wanter). But (saith the wiser letting go-kine parent on my left shoulder) ... this is a lot; a thoughtfully crafted gift of a glimpse into her new life, something to savor and celebrate. Mazeltov, mama! a good omen for the new year (Yom Kippur).

advice from the parents network

There's this parents listserve at Kalei's college which I signed up for. There are days it's overwhelming--when I come home to 30 emails from the network, or when a round of scolding breaks out about, of all things, too many emails from the parents network-- but for the most part it has brought useful and friendly information and experiences. Here are a few resources offered in response to my question about stages of adjustment that college students (and their parents) go through during the first year:

Freshman year in 5 stages:

from Champlain College website

http://www.champlain.edu/portals/parents/five.php

(cut and paste this into your browser, can't make it a live link for some reason...)

Stages freshman go through during their first year (or so): Advice to college professors on the subject. article is 20 years old, but it still seems timely to me

http://72.14.253.104/search?q=cache:XmsPeL3j76IJ:www.irc.uci.edu/TRG/PDF/02_%2520Meet%2520the%2520UCI%2520Student/Adjustment_Stages_for_Incoming_%2520Freshmen.pdf+stages+of+college+adjustment&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=3&gl=us

For parents on letting go:

http://www.greatschools.net/cgi-bin/showarticle/ca/670

Empty Nest Syndrome: a British doctor's advice to mums...love the lingo.
http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/womenshealth/features/ens.htm

On stages parents go through, one parent wrote:

I was thinking......broke, poor, destitute for the parent stages! :)

Recommended Books: I'm currently reading Letting Go, and it's great...recommended by multiple sources; haven't read the others.

Letting Go: A Parents' Guide to Understanding the College Years, Fourth Edition
Karen Levin Coburn & Madge Lawrence Treeger (bought used on Amazon.com). Note: Be sure to order the 4th edition.

Empty Nest ... Full Heart: The Journey from Home to College
Andrea Van Steenhouse

Don't Tell Me What to Do, Just Send Money: The Essential Parenting Guide to the College Years [Paperback]
Helen E. Johnson & Christine Schelhas-Miller. Note: this one has scripts to help parents through every kind of issue, concern, emergency, not just
with freshmen but also older students.

anything to add, dear readers...?

dog dragging you down?

Slept in this morning and perhaps that's why I remembered this dream:

I'm flying. As it always is, flying is fun and exhilarating, and a bit precarious-- although I know how to stay up, I can easily decsend quickly--it's like I can never quite take it for granted. So this time I was practicing flying, there was some effort involved, and I was doing ok except this little dog kept grabbing onto a piece of cloth and pulling me back down.

Yesterday, Jonah joined Mark and I for breakfast at the Hau Tree Lanai, and spoke of his desires to move to the Big Island after he graduates, to work at the new restaurant in Waikoloa that Sensei, his current employer, is opening up there, to live on our property in Waimea, to get a teaching degree, to travel for extended periods, to teach English for 3 months in China...what to do with his stuff...what to do with his puppy, Milo?

We puppy-sat Milo for 5 weeks over this summer. He is adorable and loveable and a rambunctious handful, not predictably housebroken in our house yet, chewing everything he can get hold of in his pug/bull-dog jaws, needing to run and rough-house, jealously demanding attention, and making life plenty busy for his more sedate elders, ie: our dog, our cat and us.

So, pretty straighforward symbolism: Here I am, starting to take off, or at least doing some practice runs, and I don't want this little dog (hey, I typed "god"--s'pose that means anything?) or anything else to be dragging me down.

look it up on line, mom

Jonah called today at 10 am in the middle of my workday, the sounds of voices and dishes clanging loud in the background. He's at breakfast, post-surfing. Says he's talked to Kalei and agrees she's doing well, is immersed and engaged in the life there. "Look it up on-line, mom" he advises, "there's stages kids go through when they go away to college: first stage is immersion, next they get homesick, etc". Yeah, good idea, i say (surprised) I haven't done any reading on this for some reason. So cute, this isn't the first time he has advised his mom on how best to cope with his little sister, combining a college education with his powerful intuitive insight into the workings of the human psyche.

full

I feel full tonight. We had our first long and satiating phone conversation with Kalei tonight, somewhat reminiscent of the long rambling conversations we often enjoyed over dinner BC (Before College) . She called just before 8 pm, our usual dinner hour. Peter answered the phone and when I came downstairs, signalled me to pick up another phone. Guess he didn't want to get scoldings from me like he did last Saturday when he hung up from a short conversation with her before I could say hello. What a long two weeks this has been in all our lives. I can hear it as she speaks with detail and intensity about classes, teachers, assignments, readings and powerpoints on line, difficulty in locating fast and compatible printers, the cost of textbooks purchased used, walks through the redwood forest to a friend's dorm, the gorgeous weather she's trying not to take for granted, berries for the picking on the side of the road, the amphibious pet she plans to adopt, , the music on campus, including upcoming performances by the likes of BBKing and John McLaughlin. wow. Just today, upon hearing of my too-silent cell, a friend at work described how her daughter asked for less frequent phone calls when she first went away to college, but now, as a recent graduate, calls mom everyday. I don't expect this every day, but on this day Kalei called when she was ready to talk, choosing a time she knew we were usually ready to talk. So, tonight I am sleepily enjoying the sensation of being full and yearning for nothing more.

Our Bodies, our Cells

I have a changed relationship with my cell phone. It seems silent these days. I rarely look at it intensely wondering when she will call, or if I should call (Hi Kalei, just checking in...). I don't pick it up at the end of the day before leaving work to see if she's catching a ride home with me or taking a bus home later. I no longer take it to bed with me as I did religiously on the nights that she slept at Jonah's house; I would change the ring tone to soft, place in next to my pillow, and sleepily awaken when she called to report she'd arrived (safely) at his house (me: You're at Jonah's? Anyone home? Kalei: Uh, Jonah's at work, his roommate's up, Milo's here. me: Ok, good night, honey. K: goodnight, mom. I'll call you tomorrow). These calls were sold as for her safety and my peace of mind, and she must have decided they were a small price to pay for freedom, because she was consistent. When Kalei lived at home (oh how strange it is to write these words) this cell was my connection to her, like some small silver surrogate daughter, and now it feels a bit like the phantom limb one reads about. I know I can pick up my silent cell and call anytime, but the daily expectations and rituals of contact we set up are no more. And that is how it should be. It seems oddly natural that she makes the call about when to call...at least some of the time. I had an urge to call at the end of my work day today, but then thought, nah, it's already Friday night there, not the best time to talk with your parents. So tomorrow, I'll pick up my quiet little sidekick and give the girl a call... after Mark and I come back from early morning snorkeling at Shark's Cove on the North Shore. Yeah, this empty nest thing has a few benefits after all.

sleep on it

okay, this entry won't make any sense if you haven't read the two before it--start with the entry titled "disconnect".

My first thoughts as I awake this morning are of Kalei. what time is it there? what is she doing right now? did she send me an email? Before leaving the house for work, I check. No email from her. I'm not really surprised, but still a touch disappointed. Mark and I are commuting togther while one car, our old grey van, is in the shop. This vehicle, which transported us through our family's most active ozone depleting years, days of hockey, camping and remote control car racing, is clearly aging--along with our cat our dog and yes, good old us. In our first empty nest week, we unexpectedly emptied our wallets of $1000 between the garage and the vet. sheesh!

During the morning commute, we listen ambivalently to an NPR morning edition story on stricter laws regarding cell phone use while driving and bascially how unenforeable they are. As one man said "I'm always complaining about people driving while talking on their cell phones... except when I'm driving and talking on my cell phone". I drop Mark off at Ft Shafter, and as I'm exiting the base, my cell phone rings. It's Kalei; safe-cell be damned (but Officer, I had to take that call because it was from my daughter who just left home after 18 years and is thousands of miles away and I had a fight with her last night and wouldn't you do it too if it was your baby girl?) In my own defence, I will add that before turning onto the freeway, I switched the phone to "Speaker" and plunked it on my lap--two hands on the wheel!

Kalei said she got my email and called to say she was sorry about last night, she was tired... and then launched into a pre-emptive and satisfying description of her classes and credits and how she's handling her money, new friends she's hanging out with, food she's eating. The best thing we taught our children is to apologize, forgive and move on.

So as dark as it all seemed last night, things can sure look better in the morning.

new day, ok?

last night, post-blogging to y'all, I sent this email:

Kalei,

I feel so junk about our call tonight. I've enjoyed your emails, really appreciated your lovely text message this morning and was looking forward to talking with you tonight. I know it was late and you were tired and I didn't mean to start an inquisition in my eagerness to hear how things are going for you. I also didn't mean to question your judgement about the classes you have chosen. I know you have been through an intense time taking in lots of information and advice, but we really haven't talked to you about any of this, and would like to hear more about it (if you are willing--and at a better time). I know we were both frustrated to find ourselves looking across this chasm of miscommunication when we really called each other for a few words of comfort and kindness. I'm sorry for my part in this. I hope you didn't go to bed angry at me, or at herself. And I hope you have a good day tomorrow with your (easy) (challenging) (whateva) college classes! wow, college..damn, Kalei's in college...(still absorbing).

Love, Mom

disconnect

I feel so junk. Today I get this lovely text message in the morning from Kalei: Got done with my 1st class, will call later. Love you. I text back to call after 7 and with my primitive 2-finger typist style it takes forever. So I'm looking forward to this call tonight. I put in a call about 7:10 and she calls back about 8-- or 11 pm her time. She sounds a bit tired, it is late there. A few minutes into the call I ask about her first class; she replies, "oh, it was easy, this will be an easy class"; I reply (oh so predictably) "I hope the others will be more challenging" to which she instantly reacts defensively and we're off to the races. We've done this a million times, and at home we'd be over it a few minutes (or hours) later. Both of us really tried to struggle back from that chasm of differing priorities, frustrated to find ourselves here at such a tender time. We managed to end the conversation with well meaning goodnight's and I love you's. Still I suspect we are both left licking our wounds (I know I am) when we really called each other for comfort and kindness in this strange world. This is new, this is hard, I don't want her to go to bed angry at me or at herself, both of which I heard in her voice. This too I will have to learn to live with--the bitter with the sweet and no quick resolutions.

today is the second day of the rest of your life

well, it's not exactly an empty nest-- Mark's mom is visiting from Hilo and we're puppy-sitting Jonah's rambunctious dog Milo who still has accidents and competes for territory and attention with our sweet old dog, Lily, and grouchy Jade-the-Cat, as the neighbor kids call her.

One of Kalei's bags, the new LBean rolling duffle, the one with most of her clothes, and assorted personal valuables, did not arrive in Arcata with her. I squelched the desire to google the CEO of Alaska Airlines and make repeated calls to his home and office, and practiced my mantra over the phone "Sounds like you guys are handling it well". oi vey!

Oh, yeah, and today is our 26th wedding anniversary!

today

So Kalei left today for college and the start of a new life in California. She left like a homeless person pushing a precious shopping cart, carrying on her person as many totems as possible. She wore one layer of Kalei-created clothes: a worn spaghetti strap top dyed dark green along with a gypsy rag-girl skirt fashioned from strips of fabric covered with tiny round mirrors. These she layered with newer store-bought items: black stretch pants that she searched for frantically at 10:30 last night, shin length long brown patterned socks, a good $75 pair of brown walking shoes, and a new warm dark blue sweater that she’s been wearing in Hawaii’s heat since the day we bought it two weeks ago on her 18^th birthday. In her arms she carried a warm maroon coat from Auntie Pua. She had enhanced the coat, as she does all her clothes, sewing on an elegant maroon and fur lined hood which when worn, rises to a point, like some Harry Potter wizard’s hat. On her slim shoulders, she carried a ridiculously heavy backpack with everything she wanted to be sure the airlines would not lose--- including her new white Mac lap top, a peanut butter sandwich Dad made for her, and her old pale green baby blanket, terribly worn, fragile and musty smelling. I offered to gently hand wash and mail it to her, but she doesn’t trust the US Post Office right now either.

Jonah solemnly accompanied her, wearing a beanie and sweatshirt, carrying only his backpack, and toting her three large bags, which contained mostly clothes, a rice cooker, and her little blue sewing machine. Jonah was sweet, compassionate and wise with her late last night as she panicked racing down the last minute packing homestretch: “Packing’s stressful, yeah?… Take a breath, Kalei…Breathe, girl, breathe”. He said he was feeling very protective of her just now. He reminded us how similar-- and different-- it was when he left home, moving into a decrepit UH dorm. “I was so angry I didn’t talk to you guys for like 2 weeks”. “I remember”, Kalei said quietly. Mark later added his recollection that Jonah did not want his help moving into the dorm, did not want us to accompany him on his first day there, although we did for a short time. His last year at home was a rough one for all of us. In the fall, he almost went through with a plan to go live with Grandpa and Grandma in Hilo and finish out his senior year at Hilo High, but reconsidered after his grandparents flew over from Hilo and a family conference on the issue was held. Still he needed to “soil the nest” that final year, and those last months were tense enough that everyone was relieved when he finally found his freedom.

Perhaps girls mature earlier; certainly Kalei was precocious. Curious, bright, observant, sweet and accommodating, she was “mommy’s girl” until about 7^th grade when this remarkable independent renegade spirit emerged with a vengeance, determined to be different. She rebelled early, prematurely, immaturely, pushing lots of limits, and scaring the heck out of us every 6 months, but these crisis (I can see now) brought us (Mark, me, and Jonah) closer, rather than pushing us away from each other. While Kalei stayed the indulged baby in some respects, she matured earlier than Jonah, and became happier and easier to live with during her final year at home. From the day she graduated until today, she seemed to grow rapidly, and became a delight to live with. We still had frequent squabbles and occasional meltdowns, but these did not dominate, and there was increasing cooperation, expressions of gratitude, and actual collaboration as we prepared for her move to college life. We do wonder if our disorganized daughter will be able to handle the myriad of requirements, forms and communication required of her up there. Will she be able to manage her money, multiple bank accounts, on campus accounts and debit cards? She’s come such a long way from where she was even a few months ago, but is that far enough? Time will tell, and faith is for sure required. As one parent in the college online parents network reminded us, be ready for some panicky and despairing phone calls, and for every thing to be just fine by the next phone call a few days later. Just listen, this parent advised, just listen to her. This will probably be, as it has always been, one of the hardest things to do. To listen to our children suffer, to resist the desperate desire to do something, anything, to alleviate their suffering (and ours), to experience and communicate our faith that they have what it takes to work their way through the inevitable obstacles they will encounter.

The last weeks of this summer with Kalei living at home had some amazing moments. Kalei and I actually went shopping together and were happy with the clothes and shoes we purchased at mainstream stores, as opposed to the thrift shops she’s accustomed to trolling. Mother-daughter shopping trips have never been our thing. I have never been a talented shopper, and finding and creating her own clothing became an integral part of her identity, values and art. And, as a very petite slender thing, Kalei had largely given up on finding clothes that fit body and style, relying on her sewing machine to make quick and dirty alterations. I told her it would make me happy to send her off with new underwear, and we miraculously found the kind she favors. A minor melt down followed one discouraging visit to the Macy bra dept where one finds oneself awash in a bizarre sea of under wire, foam and push up cups, most way too big for us little folks. It took two trips, but again, miracle of miracles, we did find satisfactory coverage.

My hair began showing strands of gray, and Kalei, hearing my sighs, encouraged me to use her hair-coloring tonic (“Brunettes! want to drive blonds wild with envy?”). To my surprise, I did. On her birthday, we had a post-shopping lunch at a quiet wooden table overlooking the watercress farm that graces our Aiea suburban jungle. There she told me ("Oh, by the way...") the test came back negative for a diagnosis we’d accepted well over a year ago as an unfortunate consequence of choices made, games played, bones laid. Halleilujah! The weekend before departing, she joined Mark and I in the last row of the Hawaii Theatre balcony for a Steven Stills concert amidst a boisterous crowd of long haired grandmas and grandpas. And in the back seat of the van, on the way to the airport, Kalei and I held hands and cried quietly.

When was the last time she wanted to hold my hand? when she was 10? I clearly remember the last day Jonah, now almost 23, took my hand to hold it as we walked in public—in a parking garage at the mall. I don’t recall the date or his age, but I remember holding my breath, thinking—this is probably the last time he’ll do this. How many times I held the hands of my children, taking their hands and the moment for granted, never knowing there would come a day when I would have to let go Time and relationships slip through our hands like sand and we somehow must learn to loosen our grip on those we love the most.

rabbit poop

Countdown-- 8 days till she leaves for college...

Ok, I know this leaving home thing is what the young have done since time immemorial -- walking off into the wilderness in search of new frontiers, mates, food…and college; I know it is as natural as the seeds of the dandelion puff balls of late summer being blown by an evening wind to the next yard, and the next, and into the dusky beyond. But knowing that sure don't make it easy...

Kalei has yearned to get away from this island since 8th grade, and has long thought California the promised land. She became happier, maturing so much in this past year, even more so in recent months. Was it sensing freedom within reach? the realities of leaving sinking in? or did her parents mature and become more secure? For whatever reasons, as my daughter moves on and out into the world, she has been able to do so kindly and lovingly, without the classic need to "soil the nest" which we experienced when my son moved out at this same age. She has moments of devolving into a 6-year old, but for the most part these days are graceful and we are grateful.

Kalei promised me that when she left home she would buy me a rabbit. Today, however, I am not sure a rabbit is the answer to my...what? a clichéd, reductionist "empty nest syndrome”? So far, this syndrome turns out to feel not so much like an empty space that needs filling; in fact, right now I do not want to fill it with anything, I want nothing to distract me from this passage, this passing, and yes, the pain of it. How it feels to me right now is this: as she pulls herself up by the roots, I am coming unearthed; a tumultuous movement of solid ground within me leaves me unsettled, on edge, and certainly not the same. It is hard to know what new seeds to sew; is this soil now barren or fertile, I cannot help but wonder as another hot flash washes in. Is it a coincidence that they remind me of (mild) labor contractions?--a wave that rises up, takes over the body, and then wanes in the course of a few minutes.

I had a flying dream a few weeks ago. It is a rare occurrence, perhaps once every few years, but when it happens it is so real, I am convinced that, in some dimension, I can fly. And it usually means I am moving to a new level. I am not sure what that level is, but I know I will be looking for new things to plow into this soil to keep it rich and loamy. Right now I’m not sure what or how-- I will need to find out, but just don’t rush me, right now I am sad and unsettled, suspended in this netherworld of almost but not quite there. Perhaps the answer is rabbit poop… perhaps not.

Haircut 12 weeks countdown

It was at the haircutters, on May 28, 2007, that the countdown really started. Kalei would graduate June 1st, and a busy week lay ahead. I stood at the counter paying for my regular 6-week haircut and looking at the calendar, booking the next 2 appointments. I set the next appointment in early July, then flipped the calendar to August and a date twelve weeks hence. I gasped "Oh, Kalei will have just left for college!" and started to cry, right there in the salon, surrounded by strangers, the smells of hairproducts and beautiful magazine models. Well, I thought, it's going to be a long summer!

July 8, 2007

I cry easily these days, and often feel “at a loss”. On the outside I do the job, the friends, the family, the yoga, the walking, the writing, the housework, the newspaper, the bedtime reading of a novel. On the inside, I am like, don’t bother or distract me, I am busy watching, I am bearing witness to the passing of an era as surely as though I was watching the sun set on a turbulent, stressful, rich and rewarding day. I am sitting here with my camera focused and ready to capture whatever comes before my sight line.

I make travel arrangements for next month, then start making them for holiday travel to Portland and home. I begin to plan my own fall trip to pay a short visit to my daughter’s new world and hang with an old friend in SF, my favorite city. I search for college dorm bedding online; I join the parents listerve and get lots of advice about weather, winter clothing and when to fly out of Arcata to avoid the fog. I edit, post and order graduation photos for the family and friends.

Why do I feel “at a loss”? it is one of those idioms we say all the time without thinking about it, and yet it is perfect actually. I am suddenly face to face with a big stop sign--- right smack up against a loss that is so imminent my feet seem frozen in place, making it hard for my usually decisive planner of a self to ever feel as though I am doing quite the right thing. I cannot discern what I want to do, how I want to spend my time, changing my mind several times before doing something with my “free time”. A big part of me wants to hibernate, to only work on these preparations, to stay focused inward. Yet, as I finally did today after some inner turmoil, when I venture out there, into the world around me, I find mirrors and companionship; my fellow humans remain fascinating complex creatures, unexpected sources of inspiration and advice.

poem when my son graduated in 2002

The Graduate

This weekend
adolescent mynahs
took flight
from their nests in our attic.
So my son
left us
in a ritual
I never expected
to bear such meaning.

A full moon rises
and presides
over the sea of leis, balloons
inflatable swim toys
whoops and cheers,
as our helium-filled
youth
float off
into their
enormous
blue sky.

We watch
clap, laugh,
hug, mug,
take a million photos
wonder if it might rain
and pray the wind stays
always at his back
carrying him back
fresh from adventure
to touch the nest
and fly away again.

May 2002