I have figured out why they call it an empty nest–because it sounds like emptiness. This occurred to me the other day as I moved my son into college across the country. How had I never known this? I of course have heard about Empty Nest for years. I’ve seen the tears on parents’ faces, watched them shake their heads in bewilderment… but no one said a word about emptiness. They said things like, “It’s hard. It took me a week of nonstop crying, a month, a year…”
Empty Nest-Emptiness.
So, let me get this straight–we create nests to nurture new life, to create a soft place for our littles to grow, protected from the wind and rain, from predators, knowing all along that the entire point is for the nest to be abandoned once they are strong enough. What is this madness?
I have them in my body, on my hip, in my arms, all day every day– worrying, loving, laughing, drying tears, running a hand over a soft forehead after a nightmare or a bad night of the flu- every waking moment focused on them- are they safe? Are they going to be okay? Are they kind? Are they getting enough sunshine, enough food, enough love? How close can we hold them while still allowing them to grow strong?
All knowing the purpose is for them to grow their wings and fly to their next adventure, abandoning the nest I spent decades building, while I wave from the branch they just left.
If nests are vessels of growth, rebirth, and learning, they are also ephemeral.
Imagine that–the entire point of parenting is loving while KNOWING abandonment is on its way.
It’s life. It’s right… it’s good?
Is it?
They learn to strengthen their wings.
We learn the terrifying knowledge that keeping anyone safe is an illusion.
They learn how to build their own nest.
We learn, as nests around us are exploding, imploding, torn apart by unpredictable storms knocking down trees and leaving destruction in their wake, that our little ones might be okay if we are one of the very very lucky ones. My own nest has been torn apart more than once and I rushed to rebuild it, still trying to protect them.
But now they are both gone and the house feels too empty. I remind myself nests were never meant to be permanent–and really, what is? Nothing is permanent. Even actual “permanents” like the ones my sisters and even my brothers got every 6 weeks in the 70’s and 80’s to try to turn our fine straight hair into curls weren’t permanent.
And there’s nothing I can do about any of this but love love love, encourage, and try not to break down in front of the children.
“You are going to grow so much! I’m so excited for you!”
All spoken from tattered twigs and the oppressive silence of an empty nest.
Walking into a silent house and knowing he’s not going to come running in with a group of friends, shouting, laughing, one friend heading to the piano to play “Come On Eileen,” another spinning a basketball on his finger, my son disappearing into the pantry while asking me to make him chocolate chip protein pancakes. I call him the “Joy-maker” of the house. Wherever he goes, he leaves a wake of joy, asking me if I want to watch a movie, dancing around the kitchen, lifting me 5 feet in the air to “crack my back.”
I can think of only one thing to do–I’ll expand my empty nest and into a big invisible one– I’ll make it out of love and they will know that wherever I am, they have a soft place to land, a nest I carry in my hair ready to welcome them home any time.
That made me feel better for the 10 seconds it took me to write it, and then the empty nest came hurling back and knocked me in the head.
Sigh.
I guess if you see me stumbling around airports as I plan endless travel as a way of running from the emptiness, with twigs and grass sticking out of my hair, just know it’s not because I’ve lost it- though I definitely have- it’s because I’m busy building a bigger nest with my mind- so I can pretend I am still holding them, keeping them safe, warm, and wrapped in my wings.
