I am now, officially, less lame at driving the tractor. I mean this exactly and I'm proud of it. I am less lame than before. Progress is exciting.
H got his drivers license and can drive his sister around, without me. This has been our first week of liberation. I go to work, come home. They wake up, eat lunch, go out. I stay behind and cook in solitude. Suddenly, I have a renewed interest in the kitchen, a return of creativity and willingness. Apparently, all the quiet in the world is not the same as being alone, for an introvert. The people arrive back here at dusk, in time for dinner, which we eat on the couch. Which is extra nice for lingering after dinner and chatting. Then I go to bed.
At 4 this morning I was tiptoeing down the hallway, making my way silently toward the kettle when I paused because R's light was on. My yesterday blending into her tomorrow seamlessly, she was up reading. I peaked into her room and our eyes locked together at a time then called now, and we smiled. She was rereading: Just Listen by Sarah Dessen, one of the more important works of fiction for young women in the United States. I bet she gets more out of it the second time round. She was a bit young the first time she read it.
Is it difficult to adjust to seeing the children walk out the door? Not really. I trust them both. H is a solid good driver. And I've said from the beginning of our unschooling life, Americans do this backwards. Adults shouldn't leave crying babies behind as they walk out the door. Capable kids should walk out smiling as the adults are left behind nostalgic, humbled, brushing off tears of gratitude. And so it is. My heart is breaking with gratitude, astonished freedom, and an expansive wonder-filled faith in these two impossibly dear and smart people I love as I watch them go. Godspeed, sweethearts.
Can it be? I have but a few short years left. This sweet and gentle shot across the bow brings to my heart momentary fear, surrounded and buffered by the example and real presence of faith and kindness, and yes, gratitude. You say it will be okay. Since so much else you go through comes true, I have no choice but to believe, and breathe. Really? Oh how I fear I will not stem the tears. Is it? It's a sweet quiet? New creative ventures rise up? I suppose they do, horses and cows and kitchen creations. That's good to hear. The fear would have a life of it's own, it longs to grow tall and shadow my heart with the threat of a joyless future, but Love and faith won't let it grow. They kindly say, "let go, dear fear, and float downstream; release to the dream, because that is what's real and will come true." Since you wrote this note, now I know. Thank you.
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