I have been watching my very indepedent daughter walk away her whole life. Up the path to nursery school in Gobabis, small legs going faster than I expected. Into classrooms, friendships, experiences.
It’s pride laced with something that has no clean name. Grateful-sad. Bitter-sweet. The particular ache of wanting exactly what is happening.
The quilt depicts Lisha walking up Sheba’s Breast, the mountain that towers above our home in Eswatini. She is eighteen. She is unplugged. She is walking towards her future, towards great summits, and I am behind her, watching.
October: Imphala
Impala give birth during this season.
Bitter-sweet, I cherish childhood and the together years, knowing I must let go more finally now, unplugged.
When you go
Will you leave crumbs
On the path of life?
As I watch you scale heights
Up your mountain?
Woman now
Eighteen-year-you
Unplugging
Will I let go?
Unplugged.
Will the crumbs lead me to you?
Will the crumbs lead you home?
Climb high, loved child
You were made to soar
High, up your mountain.
I promise
To let you go
Let you go
Unplugged.
The word that kept returning to me was unplugged. It’s a promise, a reminder, a discipline to give her the space to grow and reach great heights. But there remains a cord — not of dependence, I hope (though I needn’t worry because that’s not like my daughter), but of connection. Like the colourful teabags strewn on her path, I hope that the colourful memories will keep our family connected, even when we are physically apart.
As I complete my master’s, it has been a year since Lisha flew the nest. It has been wonderful to see her embrace life with confidence; work in a ski-resort, backpack through Europe and settle into her studies in the States. I am glad that the love and nurturing she received at home has helped her to explore the world. I watch the photographs arrive and feel both things at once, in equal measure — the joy of seeing her inhabit her life with confidence, and the feeling of missing her.
There are two things that parents should give their children
Roots and wings.
Roots to give them bearing and a sense of belonging,
But also wings to help free them from the constraints and prejudices
And give them other ways to travel,
Or rather fly.
Johannes Wolfgang von Goethe
The end of an era is the beginning of a new one, and in these transitional spaces reside both grief and joy, the ambivalence of anticipation mixed with a sprinkling of angst.
I can only hope we’ve given our children strong roots and wings.
The impala born in October are running within hours. Their indepedence gives them a chance of surviving and thriving. I’m only glad to have had Lisha for longer than a few hours.