It is September, a time of new beginnings for college students and new endings for their mothers. 

When my daughter Elizabeth went off to college in September of 2005, we grieved the painful gap in our family circle. For me personally, her loss felt like a hole in my heart, and the end of the mother-daughter relationship we had known.

I knew that Liz’s departure was what Judith Viorst calls a “necessary loss”, one of those times when in order for growth to occur, there must be loss. 

But knowing that I needed to let Elizabeth go did not make the pain any less.

That September I wrote the following poem, to capture both the pain of loss and my hopes for our future relationship.

***

September 27, 2005

She is one month into her first year at college.

Happy, working hard, sailing away on a sea of laughter, new experiences, Belgian waffles, and late-night talks with newfound friends.

There is a hole in my heart.

Not long ago I watched her walk up the aisle in her cap and gown and my heart nearly burst with pride and a grim joy that said, “Nothing, nothing on earth could keep me from being here to celebrate this milestone with her.”

I remember when she was five the highlight of her week was going sledding with me.

I remember when she was four we colored together and she confided in me all the events of her day.

I saw, a month ago, that she had to be the one to put everything away in the drawers of her dorm room.

She needed to be the one to organize her closet shelves and I let her.

My mother (smiling and active at 84 years of age, and rich with the wisdom that comes from weathering many storms) says to me, “This is the beginning of a wonderful new relationship with your daughter. Through the years you will get to see her grow and develop.  Trust me, you will have a wonderful relationship, in the future.”

And I let go.  

My mother also says, “If you let them go, they come back.”

And I let go.

When I pray, I am reminded that if plants were not broken apart, there would be no new gardens.

And I let go.

I remind myself that all this past summer, my daughter has been like a young eagle, flapping her wings in a nest that was suddenly too constricting… I remember the  jostling, the uncomfortableness, the spatting as all of our family members struggled, crammed into a space that had suddenly become too small….

I know these things.

I weep, but I also smile. 

I let go.  I wait for the joy to come again.

And, while I wait, I work in my garden.

I have never thought to apologize to the iris, when I spade them up and break apart their connectedness with the sharp blade of my shovel.

I know now that when  I hold the overgrown clump of daffodil bulbs in my hands, gently breaking apart the corms that have grown so tightly knit, so constricted,

I will whisper to them that new life is on the way and pray that somehow, in some language they will  know

that there are new gardens out ahead.

***

September 24, 2020

My mother was right.  

In the 15 years since Elizabeth went off to college, I have had the privilege of seeing her grow from a talented teenager into a talented, mature woman, taking the adventures of being a Fulbright scholar, lawyer, advocate for affirmative action, gardener, writer, wife and mother in stride. And as Elizabeth has grown and changed, our relationship has grown and become enriched, with an ever-increasing love, respect and appreciation for each other.

A few days ago, when Liz and her family were standing in the front entryway of my house, getting ready to leave after a delightful visit, she hugged me hard and said, “I love you so much; I am so grateful for who you are.”  And I hugged her back and said the same thing to her.

I did not know, fifteen years ago, what my mother knew, that our necessary losses (if we embrace them) become doorways, not dead ends.

My mother is gone. Now, I am one of the older women in my family. It is my turn to reach out to the younger mothers who are hurting through those necessary losses, and say, “I know your sadness, your grief when your children walk away from you into adulthood… but take heart. There really are new gardens out ahead.”