Of course, this does not just pertain to physical and financial considerations. Sometimes it also applies to relationships.

There are relationships – long-term ones – that cannot move beyond the baggage that bogs them down. Often we see this in marriages, where people grow wildly apart, or accumulate years of pain and hurt that cannot be overcome. This also happens between friends.

Friendships can become toxic. A relationship that was once affirming and uplifting becomes draining and stagnant. Friends move in dissimilar directions, need different things, have diverse expectations. Lack of communication can be a contributing factor. It is tough to stay friends when a pattern of emotion-snuffing becomes the norm. Every interaction becomes heavy with words unspoken; every encounter is, essentially, a lie. At times, these patterns can be disrupted and a healthy dynamic restored. But alas, there are instances when the damage runs too deep. When the kindest thing you can do is sever ties.

Does this mean the friendship wasn’t real because it did not weather all storms? Must fault be assigned? Need it become hurtful and backstabbing, or all tied up with a neat and tidy bow, each person knowing how they fell short? No. The urge to make someone know what they did, how they failed, why they can no longer remain connected to your life is the urge of a child. Grown-ups most often know what went wrong. With maturity comes self-reflection, and the ability to admit one’s own complicity in conflict. Between adults, hurt feelings do not by necessity lead to “knock-down, drag-outs,” as they often did in high school. Simple recognition of shared blame is all that is required.

Absent a major betrayal, it does no one any good to allow a dying friendship to become a battlefield.

Appreciate what was, mourn what can no longer be, and move on.

Cut your losses.

Darkness brings wondering:

Have I done,

Will I do,

Am I good

Enough?

Have I wasted too much

Been too afraid

Let anxiety enfold

And shackle me?

Darkness brings sadness

Over time unfilled

Mourning of goals unmet

Self-doubt and recrimination

Tearing down and mulling over

Things that cannot be changed.

Dawn brings a ray of hope

For what the new day may bring

Who can I become

What can I do

Can I be better

Can I hold the chatter at bay

That defeats me?

Oh, night falls again

Darkness enfolds

Not with a comforting cocoon

But with recrimination:

Another day wasted.

Another chance squandered.

Who do you think you are

To take tomorrow for granted?

Wrap snuggly

Kiss softly

Cuddle gently

Hold close.

_

Caress the cheek

Sing sweetly

Smile fondly

Tuck in safely

Hug tight.

_

Wipe away tears

Cheer loudly

Clasp warmly

Support wholly

Raise up.

_

Tousle the hair

Teach wisely

Love dearly

Listen closely

Stand by.

_

Watch the mistakes

Help nimbly

Speak deftly

Guide cautiously

Back off.

_

Know to give way

Step aside

Let them fly

And wave good-bye

Let go.

So why am I agonizing over this moment?

I said goodbye to him in the fall. No problem. I was actually surprised at how easily I adjusted to a new reality without him. He was going where he needed and wanted to go, and I was happy for him. I did not worry because I thought it was time. Time for him to fly. To spread his wings and start building his own life. I thought he was ready.

He spent the next few months running wild, seemingly trying to kill himself – skateboard accidents, all-nighters, chain-smoking, bar-hopping. Oh, and he never went to class.

So home he came. For all of us to attempt to figure out what happened. At first, his dad and I worried that he had gotten into something really bad – - drugs, perhaps? Or maybe he was depressed? Or had some other mental illness or quirk that inhibited his success? But while we tried to figure this out, he needed to be home – how could we send him back? How could we let our child, our baby, return to a situation in which we had no way of measuring the risk?

So home he stayed. We laid down ground rules. He followed them.  We ruled out all the bad stuff, one by one, and began the work of daily life in a regular, even-paced, meet-your-responsibilities way.

Six weeks ago, he asked about getting an apartment with a couple of friends. Two young men who seem quite responsible. They had a plan. They’d pay their own rent, share expenses, drive to school together. His dad and I decided it would be a good step toward independence while still close to home – - maybe he could learn to regulate himself better this way? After all, he needs to be able to take care of himself, right?

The closer we came to this day, the more anxious I became. I have always been his biggest advocate – ALWAYS believing that he was going to get it together, that his moment to shine was just around the corner. As a somewhat classic underachiever, he chipped away at my persistent hope over the years. A kid who got a nearly perfect score on a college achievement test finished high school with two F’s and two D’s – graduating by the skin of his ass. Yet he has always been a nice kid. A respectful kid. One who looks adults in the eye when he speaks to them, has a firm handshake, is never rude. The most common statement we heard in parent/teacher conferences over the years was “he is such a nice kid.” This usually preceded the discussion over what to do about the fact that he never handed in his homework.

Yet still, I always believed in him. Right up until we visited him at college last October. It was then that I knew something was not right. He didn’t know where the printing center was and his own printer had no paper. He did not have a job yet and got surly with me when I asked about his application to the bookstore. He did not know what the library hours were. He was skinny. He had a big infected wound on his arm from a skateboarding accident. Worry knocked the wind out of me; I came home from that trip a wreck.

Yet still I held out a smidgen of hope that he was doing what he needed to do to stay in school. That light was not snuffed out until the conversation in December that began with “I have something I need to talk with you about…”

So now, 6 months later, we are jumping off again. Excuse me for not being excited. In truth, I am terrified. What kind of stupid shit is he going to do this time? Is his apartment going to be “party-central” for all the kids home from college who are stuck at their parents’ houses? I imagine non-stop “fun” – all in a filthy, bug –infested, pigsty that my husband is co-signer on. Super. Sounds great.

I am pissed about all of this. Really mad. I could spit, I really could. And he is happy as a clam, pleased as punch … giddy with excitement. He actually kissed me goodbye tonight when he left. Unprompted. Sorry, I can’t share in all this fun. My baby is leaving home again and as much as I know that it needs to happen, I can’t help questioning this step and worrying myself silly.

I remember so clearly his little dark-haired head peaking out of the newborn baby blanket in the operating room, when his dad brought him over to meet me. How strange it was to see his little face for the first time after all those months imagining what he was going to look like. There he was in front of me, a tiny stranger, just cut from my own body.

I can see his first smile, his first roll over (assisted – by me, of course!), his first steps, his resistant potty-training. I see him holding each of his three baby sisters: the first, grudgingly, the second, coyly, the third, proudly. It seems like only yesterday that he started school, that he played soccer, then football, then golf. Then all of a sudden, he was walking up for his high school diploma. And he was gone.

The truth is, even though he was home again for a while, he was still gone. He is a near-man. He does not share much of his life with me anymore and hasn’t for quite a while.

He is a beloved stranger, in much the same way he was when he was first born. And I have to accept that I cannot control how things are going to go from here. Maybe that is why I am so mad. I brought him into this world, holding him as close as a human can – - inside my own body. Now, I have to let him go into an uncertain future, made all the more scary by the weight of the past. Oh, I hope it will work out. But I have a pit in my stomach. He is gone and all that is left is his messy room. And a sore spot in my heart.

When she struggles, I am certain that it is ME and only ME who did this to her: whether genetically (which I cannot help) or environment (which I helped create). When she blossoms, I relish those parts of her that are better than me. More. Where I was a so-so athlete, she is effortlessly athletic. Where I was not ugly, she is straightforwardly cute. She likes math; I am a classic math-o-phobe. She has a big brother AND a big sister; I had a big sister. Her little sister is her best friend; my little brother would not play dolls with me (at least not once he got past the age of 5). She has a great, deep, contagious laugh. She has fashion sense. She’s got more freckles. She is new-and-improved. A performance-enhanced mini-me.

But while I waited until my 30’s to have my first official panic-induced emergency room visit, she can actually make herself physically sick with worry, and has done so from time-to-time since she was very young. Her anxiety can be debilitating. We have shared many late nights when she is unable to sleep, working through the nagging fears that plague her. Holding this destructive tendency at bay is an ever- evolving work-in-progress.

So there she is in a nutshell. My “little raw nerve.” My sweet, (largely) compassionate child who possesses great potential, great gifts, and great worries. How I hope that she will appreciate all she is – sooner rather than later; that she won’t handicap herself. I know what that looks and feels like. And there is not a much larger waste of promise and possibility than the fear of failure that keeps you from trying. If I can succeed in helping her resist crippling self-doubt, then any lingering guilt I feel over her distinct legacy – be it acquired, inherited or both, will be put to rest.

The moorings that tether it,

To outdated proclamations

Based upon tribe and outcast?

If not,

What can we hope for as a nation

Of diverse gods

And people of certainty?

Arguments

We cannot end;

Persecutors

Claiming persecution;

Outreach to the broken

That breaks others?

Unvarying faith

Grows from coercion;

Killing the spirit in search of the Spirit.

In a nation of many,

To be uniformly godly

Breaks us apart;

Sacrifices our collective soul.

A patchwork nation frayed into

An unwholly alliance.

Sun warm upon grass

Crocus reaching up toward sky

Balmy breath of wind

II

Flashes of color

Split desolate dreariness

Gently conquering

III

Feathery fingers

Stretch achingly toward sunshine

Verdant insistence

IV

Pregnant to bursting

Delivering vivid hues

Birthing into sky.

For a while it was hard not too, with all the coverage that was rightly given to him and his heroic actions.   In an era when a baseball player is “heroic” for hitting a grand slam in a big series, I do not use that word lightly.  Through his actions, he showed us what heroism is – facing down fear (and really big guns) to protect those for whom he was responsible.  Captain Phillips sacrificed himself to save his crew.

Unfortunately, we don’t see this too often. Perhaps it is because our culture does not honor many people like him anymore. We value superficial indicators of “value -  like cars, houses, wrinkle-free faces, and bling, and these are what we obsess over.  We are impressed by flash, not common decency.

Or maybe it’s because the media does not cover stories about everyday goodness.  Those stories are not usually as “sexy” as stories of fraud, deceit and raging self-promotion.  We watch leaders who act with unwavering bravado and misplaced certainty.  Who are more concerned about feeling right and righteous than behaving with decency.  Who are perfectly willing to let their underlings take the fall or the heat.  “Might” sells better than quiet, purposeful, thoughtful strength, and CYA rules the day.

So I am struck by the contrast between the actions of Captain Phillips and those of our “Captains of Industry,” and “Public Servants,” whose actions have put us in such a precarious economic spot.  These were the Best of the Best; we trusted them to lead us to the Promised Land of Permanent Affluence and Security.  We were told we could have it all, and we believed.

And why wouldn’t we?  Economic products are full of words like “security” (think “mortgage-backed security) and “bond” (think “treasury bond”).  Strong, reliable words that represent a strong and reliable system; the engine of American prosperity for generations and a system we want to succeed.  So we believed.  We put our heads down, did the work, invested.  We trusted that those whose job it was to run and regulate our economy would to do right by us.

Well they didn’t.  The lock came off the candy drawer, and while it was open, these “leaders” grabbed and gobbled all they could.  And those in their crews – those hard-working men and women who put their faith in the system – were left to face the guns on their own.  Even worse, these “captains” were the pirates – successful ones.  They snatched all they could, then got even more when the economy floundered.  “Too big to fail,” they held our economy hostage.  They didn’t use guns, but they were no less reckless or dangerous.  We were left with an empty lifeboat and no way to row out of the danger.

What if our “leaders” had put the well-being of our system – and the American people – above personal enrichment?  Would sacrifices on their part have saved us from economic upheaval?  Perhaps not.  But we’ll never know, because instead, our “captains” acted like either negligent parents or children.  So we are stuck marveling at what the Wall Street/”K” Street leadership void has wrought.  The solutions don’t seem very palatable, nor the agents very reliable.

Then Captain Phillips comes along, and we are reminded of how a true captain should act.  And we realize what has been missing.

Perhaps there can be a happy ending in all of this.  After all, someone did have Captain Phillips back.  Navy SEALS stormed in and saved him, just when the situation was at its most dire.  He saved his crew and others saved him.  We can only hope that we now have leaders in charge who are willing to do the hard work.  Who are willing to face down the figurative guns and do what is necessary to protect the system from the pirates who would pillage it.  But we cannot simply sit back and watch.  We need to recognize leaders when we see them and then make sure we have their backs.

Then do not listen.

Don’t even pause

For anyone else to be heard.

Just talk and talk

And talk, talk, talk.

If you think it, it’s right.

If others don’t agree, they’re wrong.

It’s simple.

You worship at the altar of your own notions;

Your thoughts reign supreme.

Enamored, captivated, awed

With yourself.

Shout, yell, scream,

Bellow, holler, screech.

If you just keep roaring,

You don’t have to listen,

And everyone becomes numb.

Pregnant.

Filled to full

With meaning.

Is it for you

As it is for me?

Or is what appears clear

Muddied, muddled

Puddled with meanings.

Or twisted around

To wring out substance,

And pare the spaces hollow.