First I have to say, Happy Anniversary to Me and Dan. 3 years. We’re going out to dinner tonight. (Beats our last two celebrations; colonoscopy prep and spending the day in an airplane.) Being Saturday, we each have our own little things to do that bring us joy in the morning hours. He typically wakes early and takes the dogs for a hike up the mountain behind our house. High peak. I sleep in and sometimes stay in bed, reading, writing and resting. But today, I had a ticket to a women’s competitive dive event. So, I roused myself and made it over to UCLA to check it out.
Going on my own, I managed to snag a good seat. What a show. Such gorgeous bodies in complete command, flying off the platform, bending, twisting, rolling into the water. Watching was a mix of euphoria and stress. To see a successful dive is to breath a sigh of wonder. The stress comes as they waver at the top and edge of the platform. Either facing backwards, or upside down, they have to spring up and away from the concrete edge, and I worry they won’t clear it. But they always do.
To my title, I was trying to take a picture just as a souvenir of such a satisfying event. The first one I took captured a guy perfectly horizontal, even with the platform. The perfect picture, from my cell phone, which almost never takes perfect pictures when you want it to. But, I couldn’t save it because I didn’t have enough memory. (oh Iphone, I’m comin to get ya). And I knew that I’d never be serendipidously lucky enough to get another pic just as good.
I spent the first few rounds trying. Sometimes the divers weren’t even in the frame by the time the shutter clicked. Other times I just got feet, or arms, or blur. I realized, I was trying so hard to capture the perfect image, that i was about to miss the whole show. So I put my phone in my bag and watched.
Take a picture. It lasts longer. Not always.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Off to College
Off to College
My oldest daughter is about to head off for college. I get asked a lot, “are you just devastated?” or “oh, I’ll bet you’ll cry won’t you?” Up until a year ago, I’d have laughed both of those off with a rallying cry of “no way. I’m so excited for her. I’ll be happy for both of us.”
But sometime last year I ran into a friend at Starbucks, who I would have gauged to be as sensible a parent as myself. She was stirring her coffee, gazing into space. I said “Hi Robyn. What’s up?” She sighed, and said she’d just seen her son off to college after his winter break. I assumed my usual cheerfulness and inquired after where he was going, and how it was going. She slowly turned her gaze back to me, and said “it’s so hard to see him go.” We talked a bit and I learned that she had been as excited to have him have his college adventures as I am for my daughter, but the reality of his leaving home, and the reality of those emotions threw her for a loop. She was happy for him, but deeply touched by his absence. I thought a lot about that over the coming months.
As my own daughter’s senior year approached, i found myself in a delicate balance of joyful anticipation and respectful consideration. I knew that I couldn’t know how I’d feel when she actually had moved away, but I could pay close attention to this, her senior year and treasure it and be conscious of it. And that’s what I did.
This year has been great. We’ve done things together, just she and I, and she and her sister and I. I don’t beg her to stay home ever, as her achieving independence is exactly what she should be doing, but I make myself available to her whenever she wants to hang out. I am making a conscious effort to treasure this particular chapter of the book. After all, this is still part one; the part where she lives at home.
I am thrilled that she found a college that she’s excited about. I love that she’s ready to move on. Will I be sad? Of course. Will I cry. Most likely. Will I gaze into space while stirring my coffee at Starbucks after winter break is through? Who knows. But I do know that I am ready to read the next series of chapters in this book. And now, she’s writing it on her own. What fun.
My oldest daughter is about to head off for college. I get asked a lot, “are you just devastated?” or “oh, I’ll bet you’ll cry won’t you?” Up until a year ago, I’d have laughed both of those off with a rallying cry of “no way. I’m so excited for her. I’ll be happy for both of us.”
But sometime last year I ran into a friend at Starbucks, who I would have gauged to be as sensible a parent as myself. She was stirring her coffee, gazing into space. I said “Hi Robyn. What’s up?” She sighed, and said she’d just seen her son off to college after his winter break. I assumed my usual cheerfulness and inquired after where he was going, and how it was going. She slowly turned her gaze back to me, and said “it’s so hard to see him go.” We talked a bit and I learned that she had been as excited to have him have his college adventures as I am for my daughter, but the reality of his leaving home, and the reality of those emotions threw her for a loop. She was happy for him, but deeply touched by his absence. I thought a lot about that over the coming months.
As my own daughter’s senior year approached, i found myself in a delicate balance of joyful anticipation and respectful consideration. I knew that I couldn’t know how I’d feel when she actually had moved away, but I could pay close attention to this, her senior year and treasure it and be conscious of it. And that’s what I did.
This year has been great. We’ve done things together, just she and I, and she and her sister and I. I don’t beg her to stay home ever, as her achieving independence is exactly what she should be doing, but I make myself available to her whenever she wants to hang out. I am making a conscious effort to treasure this particular chapter of the book. After all, this is still part one; the part where she lives at home.
I am thrilled that she found a college that she’s excited about. I love that she’s ready to move on. Will I be sad? Of course. Will I cry. Most likely. Will I gaze into space while stirring my coffee at Starbucks after winter break is through? Who knows. But I do know that I am ready to read the next series of chapters in this book. And now, she’s writing it on her own. What fun.
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