These are letters I’ve been writing to my son Will since before he was born.
As the days dwindle down to the end of your 2nd grade school year, I reflect back on how precious I hold the memories and unique experiences we’ve forged together in our morning routine, especially at drop off time. I truly struggle to find words that properly describe just how powerful these memories are.
Today perhaps, will stand out more significantly than the others.
I’m pretty sure you’ll remember this later, without me noting that for three years now, every morning, we arrive early to school to prepare for the day. This time, the ride to school, the 15 or so minutes we share on the playground, is holy.
On the drive, we share music. This is when we get to choose a song that fits the mood or explore new artists. This is no small thing. It sets the tone of the morning for us both so we choose carefully. No Red Headed Stranger to start the day, but maybe some Zeppelin or perhaps Bowie or even Sabbath will start our engines.
Today we played a new release from Bon Iver, Awards Season. It’s a bare but beautiful vocalization over minimal instrumentation. The song seems to explore the idea of self forgiveness, of being overwhelmed (an anvil), reaching out for help, and the pain and pressure of personal evolution, the cost of growing.
My God.
Sometimes your voice is so direct.
I suppose at this stage I shouldn’t be surprised at how empathetic you are, but we both sat quietly in the parking lot as the song ended. Justin Vernon, who writes the songs, left almost 30 seconds of silence at the end of the track, yet neither of us spoke or even really moved as the profundity of this prayer washed over us. When the time did expire and another track began I shut off the engine and after some moments we talked a bit.
“How’d you like that song?”
“Good.”
“Yeah, that was a lot.”
“Why do you think he left so much blank space on the end?”
“Quiet time, perhaps. Breathing time. I think that song needed to give the listener a moment after all that. We all need breathing time once in a while when things in us shift.”
“Yeah………..breathing time.”
That would be enough for me. More than enough. We both spent some spirit navigating all the emotions of that bonding experience. But our morning was not over and we can’t always throttle the spigot. So in the spirit we strive to embody we followed through in our routine and just like everyday we hit the playground together where we practice “handling more than we can handle, reaching for the handle.” The monkey bars.
For weeks now we’ve worked daily on skipping a bar. Reaching farther than our reach. It’s not easy for you but you’re able.
And now I must get to the point of this note and just tell you — explain to you the strange facts of what we’ve made, doing this together.
Almost every day, you look to me, often with tears welling in your eyes, pleading with me to help you as you reach. You and I both know you’re able to do it alone but you’ve become reliant on my touch, even if it’s just a reassurance.
But today I stood back.
Three times you did it, but each time, on the last bar, you tired and gave up, doubling your hands there rather than skipping. So I demanded another. This is where it gets tricky. I want you to understand how much I wanted to simply reach out and help you reach your goal. I love helping you. Touching you. Being there for you. I wish I could see perfectly and know the exact point, the exquisite balance, of tough love and tenderness. Of teaching independence and confidence and character, without losing the sacred trust of father’s son. I will tell you now, I agonize over these lessons. I want so, to get it right. For you. For me.
For now, I’ll leave this letter off, leave your school’s parking lot. It was a big morning. You and I both discovered a beautiful new song — a prayer really. We pushed through some goals, together and individually. We both broke down a bit and felt some deep emotions, some pretty, some sad.
“And you know what’s great?
Nothing stays the same.”
But I will always love you, and that will never change.
— Dad