A High Perch and Even Higher Hopes

"I cried off and on all the way home."

 

My mother told me this piece of information a few years ago. Her tears came after she and my dad had dropped me off in Morris, Minnesota, where I began my freshmen year of college in 1985. My own sadness was momentary, of course, as I was about to embark on a fantastic four years of freedom, fun and friendship.

 

Fast forward 28 years from that late September day and press Play . . . again.

 

My son left for Boston University one week ago. For most of this summer my thoughts of his looming departure bounced back and forth between excitement and concern - excited for him to begin this next chapter of his life, but understandable concern for his safety, health and well-being so far away from home. Sure, I also expected a measure of personal sadness, but incorrectly assumed this would center solely around his absence. Dead wrong.

 

In the days and weeks leading up to his exodus, a noticeable agitation and preoccupation settled over me. He wasn't even gone yet but previously stored and archived memories were tumbling out of the corners of my mind - all the way from infancy to near-adulthood. They appeared in no discernible order, yet each one sent a flutter of emotion across my chest, nestling uncomfortably on that exposed, vulnerable area just below the rib cage.

Not surprisingly then, these moments of remembrance only intensified with our parting. Hearts really do ache.

For the next three inconsolable days I selfishly moped around, staring off into space  - as if I had food poisoning and was waiting for a fresh wave of nausea to send me reeling into the bathroom. Only time I knew, not to mention frequent (and undoubtedly annoying) check-ins with Drew could ease these initial pangs.

 

By Sunday a certain amount of numbness had settled in. A phone call or two and texts helped a little; hearing the anticipation and excitement in his voice helped a lot. To return to some semblance of normalcy, time on Lake Calhoun was prescribed.

 

As I have written previously, the sister lakes - Isles, Calhoun and Harriet - are my three favorite places (whether I see an Imperial Stormtrooper or not) in Minneapolis. But before last Sunday, their singular claim to fame was to make good days better. I never  could have imagined that a randomly placed Adirondack chair at the north end of Lake Calhoun would symbolically transform my outlook from a sense of loss into a clear view of limitless possibilities ahead.

 

But this was no ordinary Adirondack chair.

 

The usual Adirondack lies low to the ground and implies a sense of relaxation. Reclining in one comes complete with a droop-eyed sense of easy conversation and laziness. A person's mind can't be too active while his or her butt hovers just inches above the ground. How could it? No, the only effort or gumption involved comes when the sitter attempts to hoist themselves up to a standing position. No easy feat.  

 

But not my Adirondack chair.

 

This chair was huge, raised and upright. And totally awesome. Tin Fish - a casual outdoor restaurant on the lake - has a collection of these chairs scattered around their lakeshore property. And from the moment I stepped up (yes, up) onto one, I felt lighter.

Sounds weird, I know. But before I was consciously aware of it, a small smile had crept across my face and I was nodding my head slightly. I was happier than I had been in days. Was it all because of a high Adirondack chair? Is that even possible?

 

I'm not sure, but whatever calmness settled over me was due in some small part to my higher perch in that magnificent chair. Maybe I was able to get above and over my own lingering sadness to see a better view of a bigger picture. This new, sharper panorama was not what was behind me, but instead, what was laid out before my son, Drew. And as I swapped my past nostalgia for his future horizons, I began nodding and smiling. Nodding and smiling.

 

"He'll be fine," I told myself, "and I will be too."

 

I won't forget that chair, or the fresh, positive outlook it provided me. When I'm feeling low or negatively self-absorbed again, I know exactly where to go (or what to purchase and install in my living room - no joke). You should try it too - find a high perch that allows you to see your world just a bit differently. Soon - before you know it - you too will be nodding and smiling, nodding and smiling.