Departure - definition: the act of 1) leaving or embarking on a journey or 2) deviating from the expected path. From old French, departir.
Robert Frost wrote ' The only certain freedom's in departure.' True; you depart, you leave everything behind. It's up to you if you embrace the freedom totally. Or taste it and come back. You can return. You can always depart again. And repeat again. And again.
While recurring departures and arrivals occur every day and carry us on a roller-coaster of emotions through life - precipitating tears and laughter; elation and despair; love one minute and betrayal the next; and can-I-come-too and are-we-nearly-there-yet - forever my favourite source of pithy, heartfelt words, Winnie the Pooh, reminds me ' How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.'
Whenever I find myself saying goodbye to one of those somethings, especially if the something is one or more of my children, I (always in their case) mean goodbye in the sense of this being a good time to part and it only being for a while until we next meet; when at that precise point, I can hug the one or more of them again. I often refuse to actually say goodbye, instead opting for see you soon or see you tomorrow or see you next week as though by saying it, I can somehow ensure that seeing them again will happen.
I seldom say a final goodbye. That would be a goodbye in anger; more of a good-riddance. And I can't remember doing that. I'm sure I've thought it. Probably the last time someone was rude to me or barged in front of me in a queue for coffee and then bought the last chocolate brownie and cheerily turned to all behind him (it's almost always a perky porky him; very occasionally a pushy-but-round-butted her) to say 'bye. This is definitely not met with a flurry of good-byes; bad-byes or grumpy-byes or hope-you-choke-on-it-byes would make the un-chocolate-brownied feel better. But in Britain we don't do being rude in order to make ourselves feel better, do we? No, we grit our teeth and politely hiss good-bye.
September is a month particularly laden with goodbyes and departures. From the clammy unsure hand of the four year olds starting school and bravely saying goodbye to parents who are determined not to cry until the school door has shut, to the students leaving home and embarking on new paths; new beginnings. The newly independent fledgelings, freshly and finally finished school, flying from the nest and parental smothering and all the oddly faded, familiar family things to a world where they can re-invent, find and grow into themselves. Just themselves. Free, if they choose, to depart from life's expected path and (this bit scares parents) experiment with their idea of who they are and who they want to be? A growing-up adventure that is scary and exciting, all at the same time. Experimentation and self-discovery can be precarious. Things can go wrong. But the empty nest at home is seldom re-let. There is usually a vacancy for any wounded fledgeling in need of a rest, or a hug, or some food and a bath.
I don't know who it was who said of children 'if we love them we must let them go.' True - but it didn't stop me privately crying through much of last Monday.
Crying prematurely, before departure.
Crying many, many hours before we had to say goodbye.
The process of finding suitable accommodation had gone spectacularly wrong and then had got much much wronger (apologies for the grammatical errors. I was hearing the words inside my head and imagining the loaded emphasis one could put on much, much wronger). There had been a desperate need for somewhere to live and somewhere that looked superficially fine was found. The deposit was paid and the soon-to-be-a-student person had started packing. A life-fairy - one of those benevolent sprites who, if we are lucky, step in just before we make a mess of things - pressed the pause button on the packing activity and forced a search for reviews of the room that had been booked. Now, there are bad reviews - uncomfortable mattress and stained carpets that can be remedied and are to be expected. And spectacularly BAD reviews - broken sinks that don't drain; broken loos; no hot water; insect infestations; absence of the advertised free wifi; mice; regular disturbances and police presence at the entrance; mould and filthy ovens and dangerous cracked microwaves ... etc, etc. I am not exaggerating! There were accompanying photographs to banish any suspicion that the reviewers were purely malicious; they were very angry - well, wouldn't you be? - but not malicious. The gist of the many and recent reviews was that if they could have awarded nul points, they would have done so and that the one star rating was monumentally over-generous. Monday afternoon was a stressful afternoon. One punctuated by frustrated private tears. The soon-to-be-a-student was rescued by generous friends with space in their own empty nest and has since found private halls to move into in a couple of weeks. All calm. And all (including mother) happy and dry-eyed again.
Why the tears? It's not like I haven't done it before. This departure is the third and in a few years, there will be another, and it will be the last which will either make it the hardest to bear or by then being a veteran of students departing from home, the easiest. I think it was mostly frustration - we do everything for our children while they are living in our nest. As Garrison Keillor said, 'Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.'
It is only when they depart or prepare to depart, that we realise they can and will survive without us. Of course they will. We did our job fairly well. Hopefully. They know to brush their teeth; to eat their breakfast; to sleep ... occasionally. They even know or can discover how to load a washing machine or buy a bus ticket. They might cook. Or they might live on take-aways and food scrounged from friends. They won't starve.
But they do need somewhere to live. And hunting for that somewhere is what flamed my frustration. London - London! - is so impossibly expensive. The cost of student rooms in the capital is humbling. The majority are in the £350 to £450 per week bracket, but you could easily secure rooms at double that rate. Where are the students who afford these rents? There are either vast numbers of very wealthy students. Or vast numbers of empty rooms. Most halls tie you in to 51 week contracts - that's over £20,000 a year on accommodation. On top of that, the student must find money for food and clothes and occasional journeys home and insurance and health and laundry and booze and parties and stationery and text books and night clubs and phone contracts and occasional treats. Treats! - Hah! The accommodation hunt left me sad and angry. Angry that the graduation certificate will be weighed down and wallowing in a deep trench of debt.
So, to the saying 'If we love them we must let them go,' I add 'if we love them and they know we love them, they will come back.' They won't be able to afford anything else.
As September sets - hello autumn, goodbye summer; goodbye and good luck fledgelings everywhere.
We'll keep the nests warm.
Robert Frost wrote ' The only certain freedom's in departure.' True; you depart, you leave everything behind. It's up to you if you embrace the freedom totally. Or taste it and come back. You can return. You can always depart again. And repeat again. And again.
While recurring departures and arrivals occur every day and carry us on a roller-coaster of emotions through life - precipitating tears and laughter; elation and despair; love one minute and betrayal the next; and can-I-come-too and are-we-nearly-there-yet - forever my favourite source of pithy, heartfelt words, Winnie the Pooh, reminds me ' How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.'
Whenever I find myself saying goodbye to one of those somethings, especially if the something is one or more of my children, I (always in their case) mean goodbye in the sense of this being a good time to part and it only being for a while until we next meet; when at that precise point, I can hug the one or more of them again. I often refuse to actually say goodbye, instead opting for see you soon or see you tomorrow or see you next week as though by saying it, I can somehow ensure that seeing them again will happen.
I seldom say a final goodbye. That would be a goodbye in anger; more of a good-riddance. And I can't remember doing that. I'm sure I've thought it. Probably the last time someone was rude to me or barged in front of me in a queue for coffee and then bought the last chocolate brownie and cheerily turned to all behind him (it's almost always a perky porky him; very occasionally a pushy-but-round-butted her) to say 'bye. This is definitely not met with a flurry of good-byes; bad-byes or grumpy-byes or hope-you-choke-on-it-byes would make the un-chocolate-brownied feel better. But in Britain we don't do being rude in order to make ourselves feel better, do we? No, we grit our teeth and politely hiss good-bye.
September is a month particularly laden with goodbyes and departures. From the clammy unsure hand of the four year olds starting school and bravely saying goodbye to parents who are determined not to cry until the school door has shut, to the students leaving home and embarking on new paths; new beginnings. The newly independent fledgelings, freshly and finally finished school, flying from the nest and parental smothering and all the oddly faded, familiar family things to a world where they can re-invent, find and grow into themselves. Just themselves. Free, if they choose, to depart from life's expected path and (this bit scares parents) experiment with their idea of who they are and who they want to be? A growing-up adventure that is scary and exciting, all at the same time. Experimentation and self-discovery can be precarious. Things can go wrong. But the empty nest at home is seldom re-let. There is usually a vacancy for any wounded fledgeling in need of a rest, or a hug, or some food and a bath.
I don't know who it was who said of children 'if we love them we must let them go.' True - but it didn't stop me privately crying through much of last Monday.
Crying prematurely, before departure.
Crying many, many hours before we had to say goodbye.
The process of finding suitable accommodation had gone spectacularly wrong and then had got much much wronger (apologies for the grammatical errors. I was hearing the words inside my head and imagining the loaded emphasis one could put on much, much wronger). There had been a desperate need for somewhere to live and somewhere that looked superficially fine was found. The deposit was paid and the soon-to-be-a-student person had started packing. A life-fairy - one of those benevolent sprites who, if we are lucky, step in just before we make a mess of things - pressed the pause button on the packing activity and forced a search for reviews of the room that had been booked. Now, there are bad reviews - uncomfortable mattress and stained carpets that can be remedied and are to be expected. And spectacularly BAD reviews - broken sinks that don't drain; broken loos; no hot water; insect infestations; absence of the advertised free wifi; mice; regular disturbances and police presence at the entrance; mould and filthy ovens and dangerous cracked microwaves ... etc, etc. I am not exaggerating! There were accompanying photographs to banish any suspicion that the reviewers were purely malicious; they were very angry - well, wouldn't you be? - but not malicious. The gist of the many and recent reviews was that if they could have awarded nul points, they would have done so and that the one star rating was monumentally over-generous. Monday afternoon was a stressful afternoon. One punctuated by frustrated private tears. The soon-to-be-a-student was rescued by generous friends with space in their own empty nest and has since found private halls to move into in a couple of weeks. All calm. And all (including mother) happy and dry-eyed again.
Why the tears? It's not like I haven't done it before. This departure is the third and in a few years, there will be another, and it will be the last which will either make it the hardest to bear or by then being a veteran of students departing from home, the easiest. I think it was mostly frustration - we do everything for our children while they are living in our nest. As Garrison Keillor said, 'Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.'
It is only when they depart or prepare to depart, that we realise they can and will survive without us. Of course they will. We did our job fairly well. Hopefully. They know to brush their teeth; to eat their breakfast; to sleep ... occasionally. They even know or can discover how to load a washing machine or buy a bus ticket. They might cook. Or they might live on take-aways and food scrounged from friends. They won't starve.
But they do need somewhere to live. And hunting for that somewhere is what flamed my frustration. London - London! - is so impossibly expensive. The cost of student rooms in the capital is humbling. The majority are in the £350 to £450 per week bracket, but you could easily secure rooms at double that rate. Where are the students who afford these rents? There are either vast numbers of very wealthy students. Or vast numbers of empty rooms. Most halls tie you in to 51 week contracts - that's over £20,000 a year on accommodation. On top of that, the student must find money for food and clothes and occasional journeys home and insurance and health and laundry and booze and parties and stationery and text books and night clubs and phone contracts and occasional treats. Treats! - Hah! The accommodation hunt left me sad and angry. Angry that the graduation certificate will be weighed down and wallowing in a deep trench of debt.
So, to the saying 'If we love them we must let them go,' I add 'if we love them and they know we love them, they will come back.' They won't be able to afford anything else.
As September sets - hello autumn, goodbye summer; goodbye and good luck fledgelings everywhere.
We'll keep the nests warm.
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