The wetlands called to me this morning at 6:30am. I pulled up to the bass of the frogs and the brass of the birds.
The air and grass were still damp with morning dew while a breeze made the temperature perfect.
I am greeting by my blue heron and smile. The swans with their cygnets are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they are learning to fly.
As I am trying to let my daughter do. She will be 21 in less than 2 weeks and is in her own place with five roommates. It’s so hard to let go, especially when you’ve already lost a child who was on the verge of flying himself.
Not one part of me wants to let go. She doesn’t want me to say, “I’m proud of you,” anymore. When she got her wisdom teeth removed she recovered back at her apartment instead of our couch. Our nightly chats are now a few minutes on Facebook every few days.
Thankfully she still wants to go to the farmer’s market, plays, walks at the wetlands and even requested to go on the writer’s retreat with me.
I am not letting go of her. I am letting go of how I’ve been mothering. A new stage. So she can fly.