I leave for Seattle tomorrow. I will be away for 10 days for my first residency as part of my MFA program in creative writing. Essentially, it is a 10-day writing intensive that takes place on Whidbey Island just outside of Seattle. Conor will turn six while I’m gone. His birthday is on the first day of spring. For awhile I tried to push away the guilt I feel for being away on his birthday. But then I decided to just feel it. Because of course I’m feeling a little guilty about missing my child’s birthday. What parent wouldn’t?
As I’ve been preparing to be away, I keep thinking about a scene from a couple years ago at the end of Conor’s swim lessons.
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It’s free swim time after lessons. All of the 4-year-olds line up to jump to Sean, their coach, and then swim to the side to get their aqua jogger that will turn them into a bunch of little ducklings paddling around the pool. There is one boy in front of Conor, but Conor is jumping up and down like it is his turn. His goggles are pulled up on his forehead and his little body is treating the slippery gray tile beneath his feet like a mini trampoline. He is a toddler Zumba instructor trying out some new routines.
The boy in front of him looks back, unsure. Conor makes the smile that hasn’t left his face since he got it line a little bigger, gives the boy a nod, pumps his fist in the air and kicks his foot. This must give the boy the courage he needs because he lowers his goggles and with Conor jumping and cheering behind him, he leaps into their coach’s arms.
It is finally Conor’s turn. Still jumping, he turns around to alert the boys behind him that he is about to go. He slows his body enough to step down to the ledge and lowers his goggles onto his eyes. He pumps his arms a few more times as Sean, who I am convinced has a second job on Broadway, sings “Juuuuuump!” in his gorgeous baritone. Conor squats so low his bottom touches the ledge, and I think he’s about to fly into the water with excitement.
Instead, he gently steps into the water and I see his left hand gripping the ladder rail to stay connected to the edge. He barely makes a splash. I don’t know what he had been visualizing during his private Zumba practice before the jump, but I don’t think this was it. I giggle. So does Sean.
“No, no, no! That wasn’t a jump, Conor!” They’re both smiling as Sean lifts Conor back to the ledge and backs up a few feet again. “To me! To me!” Sean sings and claps his hands. Conor bends his knees, leans forward to jump for a split second, and then his bottom finds the ledge and he sits, ready to lower his body into the pool.
Seans smiles again as he shakes his head, lifting Conor back to standing. He cups Conor’s small face in his large hands and says something I can’t make out, but I know it is giving him the encouragement and strength he needs for the task. Conor shifts his weight from foot to foot. A calmer dance than before.
He looks at Sean’s eyes a few feet away, lowers his body, and as soon as his bottom touches the ledge I can tell Sean knows he’s about to slip quietly into the water again. So he closes the distance between them and looks right in his eyes. “You can do it! You can do it! Jump!”
Conor gazes cautiously at the water. Then he looks up at Sean and does not avert his eyes. This time Conor’s legs spring up and his body launches forward as Sean moves back to let him splash; let his body have the feeling of going under and knowing someone is right there to pull him up. His head pops up and that ever present smile is still there. “Woo hoo!” says Sean as he throws him in the air, then points his body toward the other edge and guides him to another coach.
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Right now I know exactly how Conor was feeling on that pool ledge. I have been so excited to start this MFA program. I have cheered others on towards similar goals and soaked in the encouragement from those closest to me to pursue my own.
Now I’m at the ledge. I’m ready to jump in, and all I see is a million things that make me want to walk away. I dip my toes in the water and see Conor going to sleep as a 5-year-old and waking up as a 6-year-old without a hug from me. I slowly lower myself down and I see many afternoons and weekends in the next few months when I will say no to good things because I need to read or write for class. I make a tiny splash, still gripping the ledge as I see the very fuzzy goals I have for this program, and how they are more unclear than at any other time in my life.
But if I lift myself out and stand back up on that ledge, I also feel the overwhelming peace that comes from choosing to learn for learning’s sake and not to climb an invisible ladder. I see the people in my life who are already in the pool, holding out their arms, waiting for me to jump. I expect my head to go under at some point, and I know they are there ready to pull me up. So tomorrow morning I will board that plane. I will face time my son on his birthday and I will continue learning and telling stories. The transition from winter to spring feels like the perfect time to let go of fear and guilt anyway.
I’ll check back in sometime in the middle of spring. Until then, I hope you’re able to shed whatever it is holding you back from jumping in too.
Jodie
Here for this 💯, friend! ❤️ Also, I loved this line “He is a toddler Zumba instructor trying out some new routines.” --perfectly placed.
I love this Jodie! May you know peace and freedom as you jump in.