From One Vessel to Many
In the spring of 2024, my daughter Molly graduated from high school. In August of that same year, she went off to college to attend Colorado State University. The last time I saw her was at a high tea that her mom had put together. All of the immediate family that lived in close proximity was in attendance. Everyone had a good visit... tea was consumed, sandwiches and pastries were enjoyed. When it came time to leave everyone took turns giving Molly a big hug. Molly was teary eyed as she gave me a hug, and I must confess, I didn't quite know why. Only after the fact did I realize that this would be the last time I would see her before she headed off to college.
In the weeks and months that followed her departure, a gloom overtook me. A few weeks passed and the realization solidified: My life is now radically different than what it had been. I felt as though my center of gravity was gone. Imagine a pitcher of water pouring its contents into a tall glass. Pouring into one vessel deeply was my nervous system's default. I was the pitcher. The water pouring out of that pitcher was all the love, energy and devotion I had to give and the tall glass was Molly. When Molly went off to college, the tall glass was gone. I didn't know how to adapt... so I started running. I reasoned that being outside, contributing to my health was a better alternative to sitting alone in my apartment.
Running was pretty challenging at first. I wasn't in the best shape in the fall of 2024. Of all the obstacles to running, I think breathing might have been the most challenging hurdle to overcome. I just remember not being able to take in enough air to sufficiently feel comfortable. The longer I ran, the more oxygen depleted I felt. Perhaps my lungs were competing for space amongst an oversized gut, or maybe my lungs needed time to adapt to the amount of oxygen I required, now that I was committed to running. Whatever the case, the first few weeks of running proved arduous.
But I continued to run. To return to my metaphor of the pitcher of water: with the tall glass (Molly) removed... the first new vessel I found to pour my energy into was running... and I poured into it deeply. I just kept running... and as I kept running, I noticed that beyond the physical boon, there was a profound mental benefit to the running. My mood improved and my anxieties lessened.
The next of the vessels I found to pour into was my friends and family. My inner circle expanded to a degree. My daughter going away to college was a cataclysmic shift for which I had not adequately prepared. I shared some of what I was going through with those I felt I could trust. I developed some close bonds with a select few who also shared with me some of the unique existential struggles they were facing. I took comfort in knowing that life is hard for everyone, and that the life I live is made better and more bearable by the sharing of struggle; becoming transparent and vulnerable with those who are equally transparent and vulnerable.
Just a few nights ago, I shared an evening fire with two friends who have become close to me over the course of the last several months. Amidst the glow of the firelight, as the sunlight faded from the sky we all shared openly and honestly about the joys, pains and sorrows of our lives. The space between the three of us felt safe... more than safe, it felt sacred; and I counted myself blessed to have been gifted a night such as this.
One of the relationships that has blossomed into something bigger than what it was for me in the two years since Molly left for college is the one with my brother, who only recently shared with me the poem, If I ever have boys. An excerpt:
If I ever have boys
they’ll be dangerous men
They’ll smile at dogs and children
and be a tonic to friends
They’ll send flowers to their mother just because
and be a shoulder for many
when the world is too much
My boys will know that vulnerability is strength
They won’t bottle anger
they’ll learn how to express
They won’t let pride be the reason they hide
wearing masks while they’re hurting inside ~ Daragh Fleming
My brother is a dangerous man. The type of dangerous man I hope to be. Though we're often separated by thousands of miles, we have taken to conversing over the phone now and then. We check in on each other. The conversations are often long, substantive dialogues. What a blessing to have such a connection with my only sibling.
I poured myself into my Monday night guy's group. We went on camping trips together and formed a book club of sorts. The first book (and only book) we've read thus far was titled, Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life. We drank a bit of whiskey, discussed the book that we all were in the midst of reading, but mostly we shared deeply of the existential struggle we've experienced upon entering the second half of life.
I poured myself into a softball team. This past Christmas, not even really knowing why, I bought myself a baseball glove. I had a desire to "play catch" at the time I suppose. I felt certain that I could convince someone to play catch with me. As fate would have it, I met a new hire at work who was a coed softball team captain. He invited me to his squad, and I played softball for a season. Fall league begins this coming Sunday.
Lastly, I poured myself into my writing. I wrote copiously pretty much from the get-go after Molly's departure to college. I've faced a myriad of existential insights, struggles, challenges and sorrows. I take a certain degree of pleasure in sitting with a particularly potent emotion; whether it be grief, sorrow, humiliation, anxiety, etc. I'll quiet myself and observe. Then I'll start writing... just trying to piece together what might be going on inside me that would bring about whatever emotion I'm wrestling with at the time. Sometimes... often times... I don't know where the writing will take me. Many times, I'll arrive at a conclusion only to question that conclusion a few days later and arrive at a different conclusion that is more honest... and often more biting than the first. I wrote privately consistently... and I still do that, but now I've taken to writing and publishing bits of what I write publicly. From the book my book club finished discussing:
All growth requires facing what we fear...If we cannot speak the truth, our truth, to ourselves, we will be unable to speak it to the world either...To deny the complex truth we embody is more than a personal wound—it is a wound to the world by our refusal to participate in it, a reluctance to add our unique aspect to the whole. (Hollis, 250)
I still pour myself into my daughter's life... as often and as deeply as I am able, but her departure to college required me to adapt. I was pouring myself into one vessel deeply and that outpouring kept me full. I've now transitioned to pouring myself into many vessels. The transition has been difficult. I don't know that I've arrived at a place that feels like the clear, contented purpose I had known; but I feel as though I'm on a path that leads to promise.
Works Sited:
James Hollis, Ph.D., Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life, Avery, 2005
