And two minutes later, here comes another big idea. Totally different idea, but same process. Elation, excitement. Hold it. This is good. And the ideas came faster and faster and I could not hold them. They went back out to sea, and I knew they would be lost. Just as I was frantically trying to hold on, I knew they were lost.
I could take the practical approach. I’m sure there is an app that could help with that. Voice pages maybe? This would probably really help me. Let go , that is. I do a version of this when I am writing. Often I keep an open Pages document, and just jot ideas as they come. Sometimes, if I am writing intensely (I will just include the thought in parentheses and move it when I edit later. If I edit.) However, surprisingly, I rarely go back to these notes. And if I do, I often have no recollection of where that seed came from. And if I do remember, there is no water for that seed, no energy in my mind. But, the voice app would help me let go, would quell the anxiety of the loss, because it would be stored, not lost.
Or I could take a different approach. Frame it differently, as I read earlier today. These fleeting ideas, that I feel so passionately about, could be used as a lesson in trust. If I have these great ideas, there will be more. Ideas are not finite. I have room for many more. There will be more, just like those.
I am not always mired down in sentimentality, but sometimes I am. Some days (quite possible certain days of the month) a pool of tears just sits behind my eyes. I fear I can’t take one more beautiful sight, I can’t be thankful for one more thing, lest I burst with the fragility of it all.
Last night, my youngest daughter had her second to last game at the little kids soccer fields. They are quaint fields on the grounds of a Catholic Church. We often bike to the games, soccer balls and water bottles strapped to our backs. We have been doing this for 6 years, since my oldest daughter started soccer. Sally rode in the baby seat of the bike until last year. This year she rides her own bike. There are woods all around for siblings to make forts or bug hunt or play hide and seek. Often there are nuns strolling the grounds, temporarily lulling us into our little safe bubble where all is well. The six year olds smile and run and try hard and do group hugs. They rarely get mad and have no idea who wins. Some of them don’t even know yet that you can win or lose a soccer game.
Last night after the game, my co-coach (yes, I coach even though every thing I know about soccer is from my 8 year old) and I sat in the grass and watched every one leave and let the kids run barefoot and play. This is our second year with this gig. We did it because no one else would and learned that we loved it. We work well together, and we did it again this year only because the girls give us so many hugs. We talked about many things, more breadth than depth because every few sentences was interrupted by kids. We lamented that this would be our last year doing this -- because the girls need more than we can offer. They need someone to teach skills, and teach them that there is winning and losing and some kids are, actually, better soccer players than they are, and some kids will be mean and say things like we don’t want you on our team because you aren’t very good at soccer. We will leave these for the next coach, because, really, it is more than we can bear right now.
Another reason we won’t coach together next year is that my friends little girl, less than a month younger than my daughter, will have to repeat Kindergarden next year. This decision tore at my friends heart for months, hoping that her intuition was wrong. It isn’t fair for me to focus on my sadness around it, or my daughters. The fact that they won’t ever be in class together again, that they won’t graduate together, that this dear friend will not be as close as we had thought. Yet, the loss was coming in waves last night.
I must remember it comes in waves. If I have been given these great people and great moments in my life, there will be more. People and moments are not finite. I have room for many more.
|P's sweet hands on my daughter's shoulder (tears pooling)|