growing older and growing up

When I was a kid, the very fact of time passing ensured that I would become a better me. I just had to bide my time. Everyone knew fourth graders were infinitely cooler than second graders; high schoolers far more sophisticated than middle schoolers. Seniors in college dropped the right names and flashed knowing looks - so to a freshman, all that seemed necessary was to keep on keeping on, and then one day one would also arrive in the land of cool. The very act of waking up again in the morning, one day older, made me one day smarter, one day more capable, one day more independent. How very reassuring! All you have to do is wait. You'll be able to do that when you're older, they told us. When you're older.

I remember the moment I realized that getting older was no longer the equivalent of getting cooler. It was during my senior year of college, waiting to go into a dance class. The accompanist was chatting with the teacher outside the studio and I could hear their conversation. They were both probably in their late 40s or early 50s. The teacher was a small, spare woman with copious amounts of salt and pepper wavy, frizzy hair that ended midway down her straight back and she was listening to the accompanist with her entire body, nodding with empathy and kindness as he talked about his troublesome mother and not knowing how to communicate with her about his current relationship. He looked lost as he spoke. He had a terribly sad face. I watched them, trying not to watch them, and I realized that I very well might be agonizing over my relationships and feeling lost and unsure of the right path to take thirty years hence. It doesn't change! It is always hard to be a person! We are mysteries to ourselves, and at least in adulthood, the simple fact of growing older does not provide much illumination.

I have long thought of the process of growing up as one of becoming more and more ourselves - more and more true to who we really are, more and more able to clear away the junk and express that person with honesty and love. Having the courage to let go of the fear, insecurity, and resentfulness that twists up and perverts our true selves - this seems a mark of maturity. Have we not all encountered people in our lives, especially older people, whose eyes shine with that light - a light of unencumbered being?

And here we are, at the end of a decade; the first that I have lived entirely as an adult. These ten years mark time in which it was up to me to keep growing and becoming; to cling less and trust more, and hopefully shine a little brighter for it. I couldn't rely on the older-as-better rule of childhood. These past ten years included extraordinary change and major life choices. Becoming a parent was surely the most earth-shaking and complete transition of them all.

What I am wondering today, on the cusp of a new decade, is how did becoming a parent impede or facilitate my shining forth? Becoming a parent sealed the deal and turned me forever into a real grown up. But how did becoming a parent impact my actual growing?

This is complicated, isn't it? Do we - especially the mothers among us - become more honestly, truly ourselves while caring intensively for others? It's not just the physical care we provide; it's the total shift in our centers of gravity. I used to worry about me. Now I worry about them. (Okay, I still worry about me - just not as much!)

A few months after Frances was born, I remember realizing with some surprise that I felt gratitude for the way this small person took all my worry and care. Much of my twenties were spent trying to figure out what to do with my life - what kind of work would be most meaningful, where to live, how to balance marriage, work, friendship, and family - and suddenly I was completely wrapped up in someone else's flourishing. I found it exhilarating. I found it to be a welcome respite from myself. I couldn't agonize over a decision for weeks - I didn't have the energy or inclination anymore. It was pretty nice.

Four and a half years later, I still appreciate the ability to focus on someone besides myself. But while I was paying attention to others, I haven't gone anywhere. Living with small children sure does make it easy to ignore problems of my own. Or rather, to put them off until they become so big they demand attention in a forceful way. Raising my children has been my work these past 20 months and there have been times when I wasn't sure who I was - or what I was good at, or good for. Immersed so completely, it can be hard to remember who I was before, what I thought about, talked about, offered to the world outside my kitchen. I am so rarely alone; it can be hard to hear my own voice.

Okay. So there is a challenge - the shaky confidence that undermines the expression of who I really am. But. There are many things my children have given me that I feel deep gratitude for. These gifts connect to the deep down me, and the deep down in all of us. That is why they are precious.

During endless hours spent with my children, I have rediscovered wonder and delight in the natural world, creative expression of all kinds, the joy of music, the beauty of language, a vivid sense of connection to the past and the future, renewed sensitivity to the world around me, the value of simplicity, the presence of the sacred in daily life. I get to play. I have become less able to tolerate dishonesty, violence, cruelty. I experience both rage and joy most days, and countless emotions in between. Who knew domestic life could be so intense?

Being a parent affords a glimpse of the world through a child's eyes. Some of the best parts of us are rooted in what is still childlike about us, and the reminder of this is a pleasure to receive. What's more, my children accept me and even delight in me, in my mistakes and messy hair and bad jokes. I suspect I don't fully appreciate the healing power of this radiating, simple love. As I search for meaningful work outside our bubble, I can only hope to carry my children's gifts with me, lending me courage to be who I am. And with grown ups, too.