THE HIDDEN ARTIST
Screw this Syndrome
I wish
I’d known the significance of the hummingbird nest I saw built right before my
eyes outside my bathroom window this spring. In-step with every awesomeness
those birds possess, I watched the mama weave and wind twigs and spider web
threads around the tip-top of my wine bottle wind chime. When she finally
finished, she sat quietly on top her creation–that is until I blinked and she’d
be gone. Blink again, and she returned. This
went on for a week or more until the theater changed. Mama no longer sat atop
the nest because two needle thin beaks now poked up straight into the air. Blink.
She hovered over them with magical motion and fed their opened mouths. Blink. She’s
gone. She flitted back and forth for maybe two more weeks until I could sense a
restlessness in that nest. One beak up, the other missing from sight. Two beaks
again, then none. It had gotten tight in there. I could only imagine the two of
them twisting and turning to get more comfortable. I had heard that hummingbird
babies finally leave the nest after it becomes too small for their tiny bodies.
They drop to the ground, but mama continues to feed them there until they are
ready to go on their own. Kinda reminds me of our own babies evolving into
adolescence and then the big adult “beyond.” Wouldn’t you know it, it is. And
Me-Mama-Big-Butt-Humming-Head is having a big bad case of empty nest syndrome. Honestly, those three words hadn’t occurred to
me until I sat down just now to write this post. I knew something was brewing
inside of me, but I hadn’t a name for it yet– pride, confusion, elation, or
grief? Turns out it’s all the above and a syndrome, no less. Makes it sound
like you’re going insane. Well, you are.
My son’s
launch off to college was only a mere twelve hour drive up to Northern
California. The thought of not having him anymore in the next room drove both
of us crazy. We eased the transition by designing his new portal at his
apartment with young-manly stuff, grays and blacks being the main color scheme.
We brought strands of light, stuff for the walls, and pots and pans that will
probably never see the light of day. We met his roommates (and in a couple of
cases, their obnoxious Republican families) and talked positive about the
school, the beautiful grounds, the great town, and the future. But nothing
could escape the underlying sadness or apprehension of a mama and son’s
girlfriend leaving to go back home while son stayed to start a new life. Yup,
the silent, droopy-mouthed, and glassy-eyed trio seated at the table amongst a
crowd filled with laughter and Italian sauce was us. I’ll tell you, it was
almost impossible to say something upbeat while blowing snot into a restaurant
napkin.
Personally,
I can’t imagine what it’s like to go to college because I never did. My second
generation Lithuanian-American parents hadn’t gone so they didn’t know how to
push their four girls into it. No. Instead I left my folk’s nest out of rebellion.
It was the 70s after all. Not wanting to make the same mistake as my parents
had, my ex-husband and I encouraged my son to continue his education, although
I have to say I still approached the subject with their inherited ignorance. I
hadn’t the first clue how to pick a college let alone pay for one. As it turned
out, it wasn’t my choice anyway and due to heavy influence of my son’s friends,
he chose Humboldt University, in the middle of nowhere-near-the-house. So I got
ready. Ready for the change, the departure, and the separation. “He’s going on
vacation,” I said a million times to myself. “We’ll plan our visits in increments.
Why Labor Day and Thanksgiving are just around the corner!” But after looking
at nine-hour flight schedules to travel in just ONE state when it took merely
ten to drive straight through and up, the prospects of seeing him as often as I
wanted started to look unrealistic. Bite the bullet. This is going to be a
tough one.
