Jonah is stretched out on the couch napping, foreboding music from the History Channel blaring in the background. Yesterday, two weeks before his 25th birthday, he left behind Waimea town on the Big Island, arriving in Honolulu for a short visit before departing for an open-ended trip to Australia, Indonesia, and beyond. Ah, to be young and setting off to see the world!…with a travel medical insurance card in your wallet to help assure parental mental health.
As we renew our familiar family dance of support, interference, independence and pride, Jonah alternates between frenetic packing and last minute travel arrangements, short bursts of significant communication with us, and long naps on the couch as the TV pours out ambient white noise.
Once again transition lives up to its multi-layered meanings. Our son is back in the womb and pushing to get out, while we find ourselves immersed in an intense, painful, delicious stew of preparations for his departure, aware that just around the bend waits that mysterious next phase of life, his and ours. For 48 hours, our immediate lives are intimately intertwined again—our full attention focused on supporting him, waiting on him, waiting for him. At moments he is appreciative and loving, at others prickly and protective, flashing his independence banner. This is not your business --“I do it!” as said over and over at age 2.
One moment I am patient and wise, dispassionately loading up a tray of options: medicines, snacks, and other protective totems -- for him to choose what he will take in his single large back pack. The next, a fissure erupts in these best of intentions, and I hear myself pointing out that he has not chosen any of the alcohol based hand rub products and presenting the evidence-based case for use. His single word warning tone draws a line in the sand, and even I am amused at myself. At another point, I am carefully channeling my need to be near and his for distance by quietly doing Internet research concerning country entry requirements and US State Department advisories, and other such reassuring information. Suddenly, I cannot contain my worries and must “share” what I am learning. Real casual-like, I remark, “Hey, did you know that…?”, and he lets me know perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn’t, but that’s for him to figure out, thank you very much.
Over dinner, Mark attempts to engage in conversation regarding earthquakes in Indonesia, but Jonah does not want to go there. He feels we too often focus on our fears, dwelling on negative side of life, and about this he may be right; still, he suspects fears crouch behind our words even when they are not there, hearing perhaps the echoes of his own inner voices, a jungle of the conscious and unconscious sprouted from seeds we planted long ago.
The evening after Joel departs, when I try to get Mark to debrief with me, he says, "I don't debrief so fast", disarming me with my own laughter. Yet shortly after, he comes up with this eloquent and accurate description of our son: “Jonah” he says, “doesn’t yet appreciate the fact that time does not repeat itself. Because of that he's often not really here in the moment with us. When he chooses to be here, he's incredible company, filling the room with a brilliant presence. And when he's not, he's a lump on the sofa, sucking the life out of the room like some intense black hole.”
In the dark before daybreak on the morning of departure, we are all up. Jonah is in high spirits as it dawns on him life is moving, his dream trip a reality. Together, in our small kitchen, Mark and I make a bento box of musubi with ume, preserved forever meats, and a few hardy veggies for our son’s 12-hour no-frills plane ride to Sydney. I am by turns anxious, excited, envious, and grateful. It is our good fortune once again to be turning the corner together, even as this transition carries him far, far away.
I watched you underwater
