And I thought I knew everything about Spring, but a deeper cup of kindness waited, one I hadn't allowed myself to expect.
I hear myself saying to my lit class: These stories are seeds; our lives are seeds. And they need the closeness of the earth, the darkness and the weight of soil, the warmth of water, the pressure of the world, the kind of light that blinds. Pain. And at last: the breaking open. All our struggling:
. The seed that falls among rocks.
. The one that falls in shallow ground.
. Among the choking weeds.
But these are gentle words that break the seed open whispering: Breathe. Grace. And arrive home safely.
I meet with them individually, and this one I've watched through his first year. And I am amazed by the way he has allowed himself to be moved. To tears. To laughter. Shy. But so willing to hear. Tonight he read a poem at a poetry slam on campus. And it stilled the room. He sat down with tears in his eyes and whispered to me, "Did you hear all those people sniffling?" He's humble. And amazed at the moment. I'll say goodbye to him tomorrow knowing he'll continue in this way. When I told him he'd taught me so much, he said, almost shocked, "You mean, I taught you something?" Yes. You did.
Last night, when we had worked through the last poem, we didn't stand up to go, holding the space we'd made for a few minutes longer. Recording it. This is the season of letting them go. And I give thanks that this still hurts, still feels like the right thing to do, still flies them on after resting for a moment on this particular windowsill. I move the memory in my heart around the table: Rachel, Liz, Jaimie, Stephanie, Takota, Patrick, Heidi, Jacquelyn, Alicia, Allison, Mallory: fly. And love you.
Nora wrapping her arms around my legs at preschool. "I'm not letting you go." And soon, she won't have to, the summer calling us into rhythms entirely other.
Her rocking on the front stoop. How she will grow. How she will grow!