for Gracyn

On April 30th, my granddaughter, Gracyn, will celebrate the birthday that’s traditionally marked as an adolescent’s coming of age, a transition from the innocence of childhood into the realities of adulthood. Culturally, we mark the 16th birthday with an official driver’s license and all its ensuing freedoms and responsibilities. I think we can say this about coming of age: it comes–a little or a lot, sooner or later–to all of us. But it’s an entirely different experience when you’re not coming of age but rather witnessing it.

Before Gracyn was born, I made the decision to leave my full-time high school English position to take a position as a literacy consultant. After decades of devoting all my evening and weekend hours to grading student essays, I wanted to devote them to her. I wanted to be a grandma who could say, “Yes, I’m free! I can babysit–whenever and for however long you need me. I’m absolutely available!” I wanted to be a grandma who turned her dining room into a playroom, who was always scouting garage sales for dolls and dollhouses, books and puzzles. I wanted to be a grandma who singlehandedly perfected the Slime recipe that had gone internet viral, one who knew when and where to find the newest Squishmallows (and would wait as long as it took for the weekly delivery truck to pull into the Walgreen’s parking lot). I wanted to be a grandma who was always up for “recreational baths” that lasted a full 60 minutes, that required several “warm-ups” to keep the water at least tepid and involved a legion of plastic mermaids with shiny, pastel hair. I wanted to be a grandma who’d spend the better part of a morning or afternoon on her knees beside the tub or in front of the dollhouse and who could eventually stand up with little assistance and some feeling still present in her legs. I wanted to be a grandma who was a joyful regular at the Dollar Store and made semi-annual trips to the outlet mall, returning triumphantly with bags of new summer or school clothes. I wanted to be that grandma.

I wanted to take a lead role in my granddaughter’s life, standing straight and true on center stage. As the years have gone by, however, I’ve seen how much life goes on beyond me, and I’ve realized–as parents and grandparents inevitably do–that I’ve become more of an understudy, waiting in the wings, ready and willing to take the lead again if called upon. I know the part so well. I’ve played it for years: the playmate, the helper, the confidente, the mentor and protector. This is a once-in-a-lifetime role, and I’m continually astounded that I’m a grandma to such an incredible human being.

During the pandemic, I was fortunate to homeschool Gracyn, a sixth-grader, and her brother, Griffin, a second-grader. I planned lessons for her, sat beside her as we read and discussed, marveled over science experiments, and laughed as we attempted to speak the Spanish we were learning. I will never again have this dedicated time with her, and I count this as one of my greatest blessings.

When I received word that I’d been awarded a 3-week writing residency in another state, I prepared weekly packets of work for both grandkids and made plans for my husband to take over their schooling. On the morning of my departure, I moved my suitcases from the bedroom to the foyer and mentally reviewed my checklist of things to do before I left. When Gracyn pushed open the front door at 8:00 A. M., her face fell as she surveyed my suitcases. While I gave last minute instructions and made one last sweep through the house, she was painfully quiet. Finally, when I turned to say my goodbyes, she couldn’t even look at me as tears spilled down her cheeks. In that moment, my heart broke. All of my false bravado, my cheery assurances I’d be back before they knew it, left me in a violent sob. Neither of us could speak as we desperately tried to gather our wits. And for a few precious moments, neither of us moved, rooted as we were to the familiarity of the kitchen and each other.

The March wind buffeted my car as I pulled down the drive. I stopped by our mailbox and wondered if I could actually leave. When I finally pulled onto the highway, I knew I’d always remember this moment. And I have. In this moment, Gracyn and I both came to understand how we’d become more than grandmother and granddaughter; over the course of that pandemic year, we’d become true friends as we homeschooled and sheltered in our rural neighborhood. Saying goodbye was terrible–and wonderful. Parting was, indeed, such sweet sorrow.

Coming of age may be a universal rite of passage, but it’s also uniquely individual. As we watch those we love grow up, we understand their days will be fraught with challenges which will shape their lives. These challenges may be similar to or very different from our own. As we watch others take on these challenges, we recall the times we were knocked down and struggled to begin again, the times we were hurt and deceived, the times our optimism was tempered or destroyed. As witnesses, we’d like to prevent loved ones from pain and disillusionment, but we can’t. Too often, we can only stand on the sidelines and wait to pick up the pieces.

I can’t say much about the poignancy of a child or grandchild’s coming of age that hasn’t been said and felt before. I am just one grandma in centuries of grandmas who’ve lived and loved fiercely. And most days, I’m without words to describe the tsunami of emotions that crash over me. As Facebook memories pop up with photos of and sweet posts about the little girl who stole my heart, I find myself wishing for a “do-over,” just an hour or two with the Dora the Explorer dollhouse or an afternoon of slime-making. But then as I see her take the track to begin the 3000 meter run, I find myself marveling at the young woman whose dedication and discipine during the winter months has prepared her for this moment. I watch her round the far curve, blond pony tail streaming behind her, resolve evident in each stride, and I think it can’t get much better than this.

But it can–and it will. This, too, I know. For it will be a pleasure and privilege to witness her growth through each season of life. And so, on the occasion of Gracyn’s 16th birthday, I wish her many blessings–now and always.

Why I Am Without Words
 for Gracyn

Rooted to the kitchen floor, I stand before you
as sobs crash against your tight-lipped resolve,
your tongue useless to stay the flow
of something dark and cold that rises within
and threatens to undo you.

I’m leaving for three weeks,
and you’ve just helped me load my suitcases for the trip. 
We can’t bear to look at each other,
and shoulder to shoulder as we close the car door,
we quake, our fragile souls quiver.
It’s not for long, I say, just a couple weeks.
But the March wind seizes my words 
and whips them away like chaff.

Today, you’ve sent me a photo of the hyacinth
blooming in my garden.
Because I know you were waiting for them to bloom, you say,
because they might die before you get back.
Miles away, you think of how I’ve waited for these first blossoms
and how I might be missing you as much as you miss me.
Best friends do such things.
For eleven years, you’ve been my granddaughter,
but now—

Now, I’m without words.
I have no language to speak this mercurial joy that washes over me
each time I think of you thinking of me.

What can I say but that the blossoms here are lovely enough;
that time crawls on as it must;
and that even if all the hyacinths wither and die,
my best friend is watching the road
waiting for me to come home.

Take a walk with a turtle. And behold the world in pause. –Bruce Feiler

As I walk at the nature preserve, I play a shell game. In the western corner of one pond, a dead limb has fallen into the water, and turtles happily sun themselves here. Each time I pass this spot, I hold my breath and try to walk so quietly, so unobtrusively that not a single turtle panics and dives for safety back into the pond. So, this is my shell game: to keep each algae-slicked shell in place on the limb.

I’ve counted as many as 14 turtles shuffled across the limb in neat stacks. And as I walk by, I smile recalling one of my favorite Dr. Seuss books, Yertle the Turtle. Although there’s a heavy moral in Seuss’s book, one reminding us of the follies of pride and the consequences of climbing to the top (literally and figuratively) at the expense of others, as a child, I was originally fascinated with the illustrations. Seuss stacked turtles on top of each other, creating a pyramid of shells reaching into the sky. The turtles at the base of this pyramid were selfless souls, for they bore the weight and responsibility for maintaining the entire structure. In preparing to teach poet Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese,” my father had written these notes:

Oliver says we can become good—or better—by giving ourselves up to the natural family of things, to things in nature who are vitally celebrating themselves, calling us out of our loneliness and despair to join them in a sacrament of elemental communion. We only have to give up the unnatural and enter the world of the natural, and in the words of Romantic poet William Wordsworth, to “come forth into the light of things and let Nature be your healer.”

The nature preseve turtles are”vitally celebrating themselves” each spring. As members of the “natural family of things,” they’re holding their weight in our environmental structure and doing their part to help us maintain our natural health.

Too often, we walk through the world carrying a big stick. We mark our territory and leave indelible footprints. Today as I walked the trail, I shuffled through remnants of a bridal shower held in the community barn over the weekend. Artificial flower petals in every pastel color had blown from the tables onto the trail and into the meadow beyond. Plastic bags littered the pond’s edge and flew like banners from several branches. So how do we walk so softly that we leave little footprint, softly enough that we might slip–like a breath on the breeze, like a ray of sunlight between the reeds–without notice? How do we join “the natural family of things”?

Perhaps this is the greatest shell game of all. We work to sustain and protect one environmental element, and invariably we impact another–sometimes a little and sometimes a lot. We lift the shell under which we’re certain the solution lies only to discover we’re wrong and must look again. This is often a frustrating sleight of hand. For example, as we build up grey wolf populations in Rocky Mountain states to restore environmental equilibrium, we also face inevitable losses in livestock, elk, herd dog, and pet populations. We implement CRP (Conservation Reserve Program) to prevent soil erosion, improve water quality, and create wildlife habitat. Despite the obvious benefits, however, there are potential drawbacks. Planting native vegetation and protecting wildlife habitat aren’t requirements of the program. Farmers may choose to plant introduced species that provide little to no benefit to native wildlife. They can actively farm adjacent fields–a common practice–leaving smaller wildlife who live in the CRP ground vulnerable to predators. Years ago, a neighbor sold her farm to an individual from the East coast who wanted to create a “deer refuge.” Anyone familiar with southeast Iowa understands the folly (and tragedy) of this, for our deer population is more than healthy. Iowa routinely manages this population through regulated hunting. Chronic waste disease spreads more quickly through larger populations, which also reduces the numbers. All of this is to say that it may sound virtuous and environmentally kind to create refuges for deer, but it’s unnecessary and ultimately detrimental.

Today, I zipped my jacket to my neck and braved the blustery April wind as I took to the trail. I counted a dozen turtles on the fallen limb as I rounded the corner of the pond. Fifty yards out, I slowed my pace. I watched where I stepped, avoiding sticks and rocks on the path which would signal my approach. I willed my shadow to cast its long body to my left and not my right over the water. Finally, I held my breath. But to no avail. All but three turtles dove back into the pond in a choreographed move that looked much like synchronized swimmers leaving the pool deck for the water. Bummer, I thought. Not a good day for my shell game stats.

But each day as I walk with my turtles, I “behold the world in pause.” To the extent that I can, momentarily I become more of the natural world and less of myself. I think about a world without turtles. I’m grateful for this nature preserve and its 2,000 acres of protected land. As I consider efforts to preserve and maintain our environment, I’m painfully aware that this is a kind of shell game. We find one solution, only to find we have to mitigate its effects. And so, we keep searching for better, more environmentally beneficial solutions. Although some contend we’re not winning this shell game, others argue we should be playing the long game, one marked by a lot of misses and near-misses. They insist we keep up the good fight. As a self-appointed turtle advocate, I couldn’t agree more.

Spring

After a long winter’s grimace,
the pond parts its lips—

in a whisper of algae
below the surface;

in a sigh 
of spun sugar over dark water;

and then,
in a wide smile, the slick backs of turtles 
stacked along fallen logs like mossy teeth.

Now, gluttonous hours that refused
to leave winter’s banquet have retired, 
sated,

and light stippling the undergrowth
releases its breath.

Everything exhales.

Turning our faces to the sky,
we purge our winter bowels.
We tease our thin, cold pages
into sunny sheaves.

And calling our winter vapor to matter,
we let the March wind spirit us brightly
into green fields and beyond.

         Shannon Vesely