This morning I watched my 22-year-old daughter Ruby, and her 22-year-old boyfriend Anton, pull out of our yard, their car packed to the roof, as they headed out for their new life together in Seattle. They also had a surfboard tethered to the top of the car. Tethered with twine. Yeah.
They had so much stuff in that little car that they couldn’t see to the right and the left side of the road, and they could barely see out the back, which, as the mother, you understand, I needed to point out. It was going to be a 12-hour-ride, and not being able to see wasn’t optimal, I told them. In fact, it was bad. All those lane changes, cars zooming out of nowhere, not to mention fatigue and night driving.
They said they’d be fine. They said they’d work together. Two sets of eyes on the road.
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I shrugged. I’m that kind of parent. I have to believe that everything is going to be okay, plus, I’d been there. I’d been that 22-year-old kid driving away from her parent’s house in L. A. with an over packed car and limited visibility. I couldn’t wait to get to the Bay Area, and I believed that the stuff my parents worried about didn’t apply to me. And of course, all sorts of crazy shit happened over the next 35-years, things I couldn’t even imagine as I was pulling away from my parent’s house.
As I watched Anton and Ruby pack the car, the metaphor wasn’t lost on me. We make these plans in our lives, we’re so bent on setting out, even with limited visibility. We have to. There’s no other way.
When Ruby left her room behind, it was empty.
An hour earlier my ex-husband Mark had called.
He’d been re-reading his journals from our nearly 30-years as a couple.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “there was just so much pain in those years – for both of us.”
“Forgive me,” he said.
Watching the kids shove more shit into that car, Ruby with her hands on her hips, Anton scratching his head, I said, “Hey honey, we did the best we could. We were as conscious as we knew how to be at the time.”
We had meant well. We had meant to love each other. We’d committed to it during a 20-hour drive we took to New Mexico before we had kids. I was 34 and he was 35. We’d been married for a few years, we were thinking about babies, but we were concerned because we’d already run into some trouble with each other and what if we broke up? We didn’t want to be those parents.
As we drove, we realized that we could make big promises to one another – “I’ll never leave you, we’ll be together forever,” – but the fact was, we might still break up. If we could promise anything it was that we would try to be good to one another a day at a time, and if today was good then there was a pretty good chance we’d make it to tomorrow.
And because we loved each other – even with the snags we’d already experienced – we said Hell yes. Let’s do it. And we eventually had Ruby and Zoe and our lives were gorgeous and chaotic and painful and bright.
We did the best we could, and after 23-years we did break up. Now we’re the poster children for most loving divorced couple. In fact, I never loved Mark during our marriage the way I love him now. I had to back the hell away from the domestic front to appreciate the guy. If someone had said, “you’ll be married for 23-years, but will only learn to love Mark after you leave him,” would I have married him? Probably not. I guess that’s one of the benefits of not being able to see the road ahead.
It’s all so much dumb beauty. I just want to shake my head at all of it.
And nothing has changed. I’m still moving into things a little half-cocked. Excited, bullish, sometimes clunky, but always well meaning. I’m leading a workshop at the house this weekend and I still don’t know what we’re doing on day two. There’s a man I mean to love, but he may not be right for me. My left leg hurt all night, and my response is to run on it today. My plan for my business is simply to have more fun – though I’m not sure what that looks like.
A big life with limited visibility.
Ruby and Anton were finally ready to leave. I opened the wooden gate so they could pull the car out. As they started to drive, I began to wave. I couldn’t see the details of their beautiful faces because I didn’t have my glasses on, but I stood there in my pajamas, waving my arm like crazy so that they could see me. Whether my love will get them to Seattle in one piece, well, why not? Crazier things have happened.
As they drove off, Anton’s surfboard bouncing in the wind I thought, what isn’t tethered with twine in this life?
A new session of Wild Writing is starting in September – live and online. Seats are limited and many classes are nearly full. If you want a seat, take it now.
Right?! Twine, frayed shoelaces, or on a good day a fragment of used dental floss. Takes one helluva wise woman to write beauty this dumb. I love this Laurie. Every word rings true. Thank you for helping me feel less alone in my gorgeous, chaotic, bright and painful life.
I could cry.
All of it. So true.
Oh yes. Twine and a little bit of spit. I just walked past the car in our driveway with a split bumper and a crumpled hood that won’t open. The boy says when the oil light goes on his friend will drill a hole in the hood to change it. He’ll be fine, he says. He’s got this. And I have to trust that he does, somehow, have this or at the very least he has that kind of youthful blind belief in himself and his own survival. No small thing, that kind of faith. I’m going to have to wave goodbye in a few weeks when I leave him to navigate his new life in Chicago. I’ll be clutching this post in my hands as I turn to leave. Thank you, as always, for putting it all in beautiful words.
Wonderful as usual Laurie!! Just what I needed to read this morning!
A wonderful piece of writing..”.A big life with limited visibility” I love it, Laurie!! 💕🤓
Lordy. Lordy, lordy, lordy. A big life with limited visibility. Exactly. Tethered with twine. All that bouncing. And the whole time, doing the best we can. That’s what we’re here for, yes?
So darn true–and so resonant in so many ways. I, too, came out here when I just turned 22 (on my grandmother’s $89 senior citizen ticket, no less—they didn’t check I.D.s at the time) to visit my aunt and see California for the first time. Little did I know that I would stay…
The thought of your daughter not only leaving, but also clearing out her bedroom (at the same time your ex-husband calls) is particularly poignant. I can relate all too well to this vagary of life…and commend you on your bravery, your outlook and your insights. Such a beautiful, spot-on piece.
Beautiful.
This: I couldn’t see the details of their beautiful faces because I didn’t have my glasses on. Wow. Says so much.
wow
I’m so happy that you did a recording for this, that there was the option to have you read it to me, tell me straight. I love this so much. I love you so much. All of it, all of it tethered with twine, gorgeous and chaotic and painful and bright. xo
So perfect today as I celebrate my beautiful, very messy 19 year anniversary and all that we didn’t know and all that we think we know now. Your words always hit a chord on my heart. Love you
It’s all there. Thank you again, Laurie.
Beautiful and moving Laurie. As ever. Will now tell the hairs on my arms to stand down…
That’s a perfect last line to a beautiful piece, Laurie. I hope I get to see Ruby in Seattle!
I love this.
Oh Laurie. As you always do, you pulled exactly the right words out and laid them down in the right place at the right time to create pure beauty and love. Simply gorgeous.
Beautiful. You sent my memories swirling!
Lovely and truthful. Thank you, Laurie.
As always, beautiful truth.
Oh man, that was beautiful. Thank you. I miss you. See you soon!!!
Oh my goodness. I have tears after reading this. Dumb beauty and twine…the two common denominators for us all. Big hugs to you as you navigate this next chapter.
You go right to the heart of the matter- as you always do. You are so good at letting your kids find their own way. I learn so much from you. Thank you Laurie. This was a great way to start the day.
So true, all of it. You have made me cry today…good tears. So wise and eloquently expressed. Love you and your writing. Huge gifts in my life 💕
My heart is all yes. Thanks for this connection this morning.
Tears (mine) and twine… band name;)
So beautiful and true. I’ve never read a more beautiful treatise on the art of perspective.
Beautiful. I’ve never read a more eloquent and moving treatise on the art and practice of perspective.
((delete that first one please!! And this one!))
Beautiful. And some days it’s just the illusion of twine that holds it all together.
So lovely and well put… I completely identified with this. I like the previous response that “some days it’s just the illusion of twine that holds it all together”… So true…
If I could read a post from you everyday I really would be a happy woman. Your writing is deep, wild and always provocative. Thank You
A big life with limited visibility.
Ain’t it the truth! And are we the fortunate ones! Loved being able to hear your voice as well as read you voice.
Delish!
XO
So much love for all your writing — this piece included. Thank you for sharing so much of yourself, Laurie — and reminding us all to do the same. Big hugs XXXOOO
Oh. My aching heart…..lately I keep wondering ‘How? How did I get here?’ I thought it would be so different and I thought I would be so different. And by different I really mean better. I thought it would all be so much better than this. I can still find daily joy but I’ve had to make so much room for sadness too.
Sorry, Forgive, Thanks, Love…
“Forgive me” yes, forgive me is love. I could feel you in your pajamas waving…..that moment is the epitome of a mother’s love. You are a good mama, the kind we all hoped to have. Thank you my dearest.
Oh, my heart is so full it is leaking out my eyes! Thank you for this, so beautiful.
There’s so much beauty in how your words fit together.
I love this whole piece. Every word.
Thank you Laurie.
{{{Laurie}}}
Oh dear, whatever will they do with a surfboard in Seattle?
What a lovely lovely essay.
Beautiful! Love you Laurie!!!
It is both a blessing and a curse that we cannot peek into our futures. I think none of us would have the courage if that were the case. The fear would be too much but it is people like you (and so many of your students and friends) that can articulate so beautifully the delicate nuances of life so that we can feel less alone and less troubled by what is so easy to worry about. Thank you for giving me yet another moment of “leaky eyes” as I read this piece.
So moving and honest. I loved listening to it, hearing the story in your voice, although your writing is so vivid, I always do hear your voice. Thanks
Duct tape. My life is held together with duct tape.
I am gearing up to watch my 19 year old drive away, soon. Reading this post at this time felt like a good omen, thank you.
I absolutely loved this-
Especially the choice to be able to listen-
I’ve had Seattle on my mind for weeks now. And here it is again. (never been there) I cannot imagine the feelings to watch your child packing & then driving away… We did the best we could at the time- Wise words. Don’t we always- this was spot on perfect timing for me to read this today. Thank you so very much.