I have grandchildren visiting, the best of summer. We have been swimming, riding the neighbour’s paddle boat, kayaking, roasting marshmallows, applying sunblock like a responsible grandparent. But I noticed something about myself that I was only mildly aware of, and an old memory surged to the surface. I am a worrier, I confess, a worrier with an active imagination and… it got me thinking.
Abby is eight and wanted to walk down the road to a neighbour’s that is about 500 steps away. I have counted them because I am a counter, but that’s a story for another day. Roo lives at the neighbour’s house, in fact he thinks it is his house alone, and he lets the two people live with him out of the kindness of his heart. Roo is a miniature long-haired Dachshund with a very quick tongue. Off Abby went this morning to knock on Roo’s door. His pet (as he would so refer if he had a grasp of the English language) had been notified of Abby’s pending arrival and was watching for her. Linden, age eleven, was on standby to walk down and meet Abby when she was on her way home. And I was lurking somewhere in between.
I remember being Abby’s age and being allowed to fetch ice in a hotel all by myself. It was a pivotal moment, when I felt joyfully independent with a manageable amount of fear and trepidation that I might get lost. I never feared getting snatched, as that was before we were aware of such things, not that snatching wasn’t happening, just that it wasn’t being talked about. As Abby walked to visit her pal Roo I felt anxiety, which is ridiculous, I realize, as I live in a small community with only the rarest of strangers driving by. I followed behind Abby, a safe distance behind, pretending to be occupied in bird watching or merely on a leisurely stroll. She lost her confidence for a second or two and I waved her on to her destination. I couldn’t help wondering in that moment if I robbed my children of those glorious independent experiences. Was I always a worrier? Probably.
I do recall the memory of watching my three-year-old Samantha while she played in the snow. Mother Nature had covered the snow with a slippery layer of ice and Samantha was engaged in a serious challenge to get from A to B. Kippy, the family dog, was on duty, trying to assist Samantha in her effort. I knew in that moment that I could easily lift Samantha to her planned destination, to scoop her up in my arms and release her from her struggle, which I did. But I was aware that life is full of lessons if we are open to them.
When I was a child, my sister and I rode our ponies out the driveway and weren’t seen until we were hungry and that could have been at the end of the day. Only once did my mother come looking for us, her face stern, her voice sharp as she told us to gallop home, which we promptly did. We had a lot of freedom and only survived by good luck I suppose. We swam with our horses in the river, yes, that one, the mighty Rainy River with its very strong current. We climbed trees and jumped on our horses backs when they walked beneath us, which had a considerable dose of risk to it. We galloped wildly, loving every moment of the wind in our hair, our bare legs holding on tight. With all that freedom, I still grew up shy and afraid to ask questions of adults. My grandson Linden is comfortable asking questions of adults and I admire that quality of his. His mother gave him opportunity to flex his sense of self and to know his voice was legitimate and was meant to be heard. I think there is no greater gift than to know we are to be heard, each one of us.
I recently re-watched an interview Stephen Colbert had with Anderson Cooper about grief, both of whom suffered considerable loss as children. “Pain is part of being alive,” said Stephen, but that pain can provide us with a deeper understanding of ourselves and those around us. It is our suffering that shapes how we “show up for others”, he said. Every one of us has or will experience pain and loss and grief and while we are struggling, we are learning. I don’t equate Abby walking down the road on her own with losing someone we love. I merely recognize that to be fully human we will at times be afraid, doubtful, make mistakes, make more mistakes, feel lost, ache for the past. But there was a time when we walked down the road, filled with hope and a little fear, when we stepped out from the safety of that which was familiar, and … it was glorious.
wendistewart@live.ca
