The Compass
In "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning" John Donne wrote:
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff stwin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th'other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home."
I am the fixed foot of the compass. I have reached the time of life when my children have begun to leave for their own adventures. It was, of course, inevitable. When they were small we wandered together, barely aware of those forces that "leaned and hearkened" after us. Cheyenne and Savannah were once fluent in Dutch--or as fluent as their six- and four-year-old vocabularies would allow. Savannah could order the neighbor boy around in Czech from our yard in Zdice. We camped with four little girls in the Vienna Woods. Cheyenne was once almost alone on a subway in Prague, except for the arms that reached out to hold open the doors and pull me in. We've laid awake at night and listened to the traffic in New York City. We've watched buffalo wander through our campsite in North Dakota.
And then it was time for stability. The children and I picked up the pieces of a shambled marriage and moved to a small town in northernmost Utah. We've stayed in the same respectable but aging neighborhood for seven years. I determined that despite the things I could not provide--a loving two-parent home, financial security, nice cars and computers--that we would make our own opportunities. This is where I became the compass and the children have learned to work for what they would have. They have found their way to trips and music lessons. Our premium on education has given them opportunities for scholarships and travel. Their experience with paper routes and discipline has given them other job opportunities. And poverty has helped them understand the need to work consistently, not only at paying jobs, but at balancing their lives and finding their own joy. And I am the compass end, as they make their own worlds, leaning and hearkening after them. I yearn sometimes for the adventures that are no longer mine. I shop for the formal dresses, but I no longer attend the prom. I keep a box in a room in my house that I slowly fill with things Cheyenne would like so I can send them in the next package. And I carry my phone with me, because we still talk. We talk about her adventures and her discoveries. I lean and hearken after her.
Next year Savannah will leave home, and I will still be the stationary point of the compass. Two more years and Annika will leave. Then Faith. Then Seth. This is what I've raised them to, and this is the way it should be.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff stwin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th'other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home."
I am the fixed foot of the compass. I have reached the time of life when my children have begun to leave for their own adventures. It was, of course, inevitable. When they were small we wandered together, barely aware of those forces that "leaned and hearkened" after us. Cheyenne and Savannah were once fluent in Dutch--or as fluent as their six- and four-year-old vocabularies would allow. Savannah could order the neighbor boy around in Czech from our yard in Zdice. We camped with four little girls in the Vienna Woods. Cheyenne was once almost alone on a subway in Prague, except for the arms that reached out to hold open the doors and pull me in. We've laid awake at night and listened to the traffic in New York City. We've watched buffalo wander through our campsite in North Dakota.
And then it was time for stability. The children and I picked up the pieces of a shambled marriage and moved to a small town in northernmost Utah. We've stayed in the same respectable but aging neighborhood for seven years. I determined that despite the things I could not provide--a loving two-parent home, financial security, nice cars and computers--that we would make our own opportunities. This is where I became the compass and the children have learned to work for what they would have. They have found their way to trips and music lessons. Our premium on education has given them opportunities for scholarships and travel. Their experience with paper routes and discipline has given them other job opportunities. And poverty has helped them understand the need to work consistently, not only at paying jobs, but at balancing their lives and finding their own joy. And I am the compass end, as they make their own worlds, leaning and hearkening after them. I yearn sometimes for the adventures that are no longer mine. I shop for the formal dresses, but I no longer attend the prom. I keep a box in a room in my house that I slowly fill with things Cheyenne would like so I can send them in the next package. And I carry my phone with me, because we still talk. We talk about her adventures and her discoveries. I lean and hearken after her.
Next year Savannah will leave home, and I will still be the stationary point of the compass. Two more years and Annika will leave. Then Faith. Then Seth. This is what I've raised them to, and this is the way it should be.