Honored to be her student

Exactly two years ago, my daughter bounded out the school doors with balloons in hand, after a goofy middle school awkward social after school event back then with helium in plastic orbs sent home and kids suddenly loved balloons that day.

She brought them home and held them low for our dog Ranger to sniff and he swirled through them, his fur static with the thrill. He nipped at them but she wouldn’t let them pop; she kept them in her room to watch —floating at night.

We were maskless then, unmuzzled, more free to hug our friends or eat lunch or linger over coffee. How little did we know how much would change that day, that Friday the 13th when our world shuttered. Such paradigm shifts are startling to consider — those moments irrevocably altering the mind and perception.

My daughter verbalizes her hopes, and gathers we will once again smile into the sun, our laughter spilling forth unfiltered, the world open to travel and unburdened living. I want to say yes — quite soon! — but cannot lie to my hopeful, quiet girl. The one who observes with compassion and gather others into community.

Will we forget the lessons forged in trial?
Will we maintain such a close pace with those we love?

This past August, her gaze turned to high school. She loads into the car with her sisters each morning and we drive 5 miles to spend our day learning and teaching. She’s reading Harry Potter for the first time — choosing to wait and savor that experience for Now. My girl holds such patience and fortitude and persistence. She saved those balloons until they were tiny shriveled forms on the floor of her room.

I want to tell her I notice everything — those holy moments she takes care of the trash or folds laundry or easily offers a hug. How she lives with humility and intention and meaning. I wonder where she has learned how to feel a poem and eat it and digest the beauty and pain of the world without becoming cynical. I know she is one of my greatest teachers and I’m honored to be her student.